by Chloe Cox
He’d called her princess. Twice.
Here was the thing: she kind of was a princess, in reality if not in title, and she had been her whole life. Usually it was a huge barrier between her and other people. They treated her like she was simultaneously above them and below them — special, but having done nothing to earn her specialness. They wanted her attention, but they also wanted to take her down a peg or two. And nobody ever even acknowledged it, which both made Sierra laugh and drove her absolutely bonkers.
Except Conor Kelly said it. And he very clearly did not give a single fuck how famous she was, or who her father was. He even said it with a grin, like he thought it was a little funny. Just like she did.
Why was that a turn on?
“Hi Conor,” Tiff said, jumping up off the couch like she was standing to attention. “I’m going to the thing tonight too.”
Tiff looked at Sierra helplessly, fully aware she’d just said something idiotic, and apparently unable to do anything about it. Sierra found that extremely relatable at this particular moment in time, that was for sure.
“Not in our car, you’re not,” Conor said, walking all over Sierra’s apartment like he owned it, his eyes everywhere. “Nothing personal, Miss Halston, but you weren’t in the specs for tonight, and you’re not my client. Sierra’s safety is my only concern. And we will not deviate from security protocol for anyone or anything.”
He turned, and looked back at Sierra, as if to make a point about who, exactly, was calling the shots.
God, he was hot.
Her bodyguard was beyond hot.
What seemed like a fun idea was all of a sudden way out of control. This was going to be absolute torture. Fun torture, to be sure — Conor turned around again, inspecting the windows or something, and Sierra’s eyes automatically went right to his incredible ass — but still, you know, torture.
Tiff made eye contact, and mouthed “holy crap.”
Sierra’s eyes must have told the whole story, because Tiff just started laughing.
“Yeah, that’s no problem, Mr. Kelly,” Tiff said, putting an emphasis on the honorific. Then she eyed Conor for a long, silent second.
“I like you,” Tiff announced. “I wish Sierra would take this half as seriously, honestly. But as long as someone who looks like he could kick James Bond’s butt is looking out for her, I’m happy.”
What happened next was alarming. Sierra hadn’t realized how accustomed she was to men who simply didn’t get subtext, or didn’t see the many meaningful looks that women exchanged in that weird social undercurrent that existed everywhere, until she was confronted with a man who very much did get it. And saw it all.
Conor was looking at her with those eyes again. And he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“You won’t be pulling any stupid party stunts with me, Princess,” he said, quietly. “That clear?”
Tiff burst into laughter.
“Um, you do know who you’re talking to, right? That is literally her job: stupid party stunts.” She looked at Sierra. “Sorry, honey, but it’s true. Stunt, post it online, profit. You’re kind of a wizard at it.”
Her friend’s voice somehow pulled her back to reality. Sierra stood a little bit taller, remembering who she was, how far she’d come. The stalker thing scared her so much that sometimes the only way she’d leave her house is if she refused to take it seriously. Which sucked.
But that was just how it was. Sierra still had a job to do. And no one, not a stalker, and not a sexy as hell bodyguard, was going to stop her from earning her independence.
This time, when Conor looked at her, Sierra looked right back.
“Ok, well, my car is here,” Tiff announced into the silence. Then she looked up from her phone. “Your brother seems to think he’ll be giving both of us a ride, for some reason? And he keeps texting me because you won’t answer him—”
“I don’t like to be tied to my phone,” Sierra murmured. It was an automatic lie, where her brother was concerned. And since her eyes never left Conor’s, she knew he didn’t buy it.
“Ok, well, he’s creepy, so I’m going to tell him to stop,” Tiff said. She stood up, grabbed her clutch and looked between Conor and Sierra. “Soooo, I will get out of here and let you two decide who’s going to be on top.”
“Tiffany!”
“Byeeee,” Tiffany said over her shoulder. “See you at the snoozefest!”
Sierra stood, frozen with embarrassment, as Tiffany let the door slam behind her. Conor was staring at her cooly, only the hint of a grin on his very kissable lips.
“In case it wasn’t clear, Princess,” he said in that low, slow voice, “I’m always on top.”
Sierra let out a shocked laugh, then blinked up at him stupidly. Could he tell how turned on she was? Would closing her eyes help at all?
She took a long, deep breath.
“Ok,” she said, finally. “We don’t know each other, and I very much appreciate your expertise, and what you’re here to do. Believe me. But I was very clear with Mr. Lyons. I have a job to do, and this can’t get in the way of that. This dress, for instance? I’d wear it anyway, but I’m also contractually obligated to wear it. So I’m wearing it. Just so you know.”
“Well, if it’s contractually obligated,” he said, dryly. “I’ll fight off whoever I need to.”
Sierra narrowed her eyes. It was her turn to see things she wasn’t supposed to see.
Conor Kelly thought she was a silly, spoiled brat.
Which: she was used to that. Most people saw a young woman with her social media presence and just made assumptions, and, to be fair, she sort of encouraged that perception when it made her life easier. Which was more often than she wanted to admit. Because truthfully, there was something that felt sort of…safe, about hiding behind the fake bimbo mask.
Of course, it was also kinda lonely back there. But whatever. Lonely was better than exposed.
Well, certain kinds of “exposed,” anyway. Not all kinds. Definitely not all kinds. As Conor Kelly was demonstrating with the second expression on his face.
Sierra had just been standing there, gobsmacked into silence — a silence which didn’t seem to bother him at all — and now she watched his eyes drift down over her body, in a look of appraisal and—appreciation?
No. Not appreciation.
Hunger.
Like for a moment he was entertaining the idea of ripping the dress off, throwing her on the carpet, grabbing her by the hair, and mounting her like an animal right there in her own living room.
Like he knew that he actually could do exactly that. Like he knew she’d beg for it, if he told her to. Like he knew she knew it, too.
Like he knew he could have her at a word, but he wasn’t saying anything at all.
Oh God. For the second time in about five minutes, Conor Kelly had left her at a loss for words. And then, just as suddenly as it was there, it was gone.
Conor’s eyes met hers, and this time they were carefully blank, his face neutral. Maybe a little bit bored looking, even.
This is not fair.
Suddenly he sat down on her couch, grabbed an apple from the bowl on her coffee table, and bit into it with a loud, fleshy crunch.
“Now, as to whether this gets in the way of your job,” Conor said, his eyes still glittering at her. “That’s up to you.”
“Is it?” she said, weakly.
He put one ankle over a knee, his arms spreading the entire length of the back of the thing. Normal furniture wasn’t made for Conor Kelly, and he didn’t seem to care about that either.
This was the most confusing man she’d ever met in her entire life, and it had only been…yeah, still five minutes.
He said, “From what I’ve seen your job involves a lot of improvisation.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, just obey my orders,” he said, “and we won’t have any problems.”
Obey.
He’d said obey. Not “follow.” Obey.
Sierra couldn’t suppress the little shiver that originated between her legs, radiating through her whole body. Goddammit. This was bad. This was risky.
“Did you do any research on me?” she said.
“More than you know, princess.”
“Then you know that obedience in general isn’t exactly on brand for me.”
Conor’s smile dropped, his eyes flashing serious. He stood up in one smooth motion, too quickly for Sierra to even react. In a heartbeat he was standing right in front of her, towering over her.
“Understand something: your life is my job, Princess,” he said. “Not your brand, or your parties, or your stupid stunts. I don’t give a shit about any of that, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if you don’t like it.”
For a second, she couldn’t speak.
The longest second of her life.
He was so close. She could smell him, some mix of soap and man. Something woodsy and smokey and raw. She could feel his breath, close enough to hit her bare chest where her dress left very little to the imagination. The pressure between her legs grew to a warm, incessant pulse, and for a second…
For a second…
No.
She might want to provoke him just to see what he would do. But she was a professional, sort of. And he clearly didn’t think her job mattered, but it mattered to her, even if he didn’t get, or respect it, just like literally everyone else on the planet. Well, fine. He could think she was a dumb bimbo, and she could think he was a hot jerk. She still had work to do.
“Noted,” she heard herself say. She forced herself to make eye contact, even though it made her feel weak in the everything, and held her head high. “Let’s go, Caveman.”
Sierra heard him laugh behind her, and the sound tickled her in places no one had touched in years.
This was going to be a long, long night.
Four
Conor didn’t know how bodyguards who weren’t also Doms did it, but he bet they didn’t do it well. His whole body was attuned to Sierra’s as he briefed her on the protocol for the night, the armored car he’d be driving her in, the procedures he expected her to follow. Every gesture, every flit of her eyes, every breath she took. He saw.
All the time he was explaining, he was aware of it. The way she responded when he looked at her, her nipples hardening, her breath hitching. The way his cock jumped when he caught her scent. He’d only ever felt like this before in a scene. Deep in a scene. That time and place where you forgot about the outside world, living the rhythm, the connection, the sensation of bodies communicating.
They were in a fucking elevator.
He took a deep breath and smiled. He liked a challenge. It actually reminded him of Special Forces training, which was hilarious. But there was no better way to feel alive. No better way to keep your senses on high alert. The invisible goddamn man couldn’t get past him in this state. Sierra Fiore was the safest she’d ever been, and she didn’t even know it.
There was only one complication. Already Conor could tell Sierra wasn’t the dummy she pretended to be for the cameras. Which meant she played dumb on purpose. Not something he usually had patience for, but for some reason, Sierra got under his skin.
Whatever it was, the chemistry between them could have powered all of Somerville. So Conor sure as hell felt it when it stopped.
They were in the car, driving the short route he’d scouted out to the fundraiser. He’d been watching her in the rearview mirror, in between clocking the street, the environment. About fifteen minutes to go, given traffic, and her face just dropped.
Conor stayed quiet. Watched.
He’d seen this before.
His Special Forces comparison wasn’t so ridiculous after all. Because he’d seen this before in fucking Afghanistan. Guys had to put their face on, psych themselves up for some missions. Some of them went somewhere far away in their heads when they did it, some got loud. Everyone had their own way. Sierra was doing the same thing: putting her game face on. Preparing. Steeling herself.
Interesting. Not twenty minutes ago he would have called bullshit. Now he’d met her. She wasn’t dumb, and she wasn’t fragile. And something about all this still had her feeling like she had to armor herself.
Maybe more than one thing. He figured out one of them as soon as they pulled up.
Beacon Street wasn’t meant for red carpets. It was big and beautiful and wide, with mansions on every side, half of them belonging to Boston University or fraternities, the other half to just regular rich people. It wasn’t the part of Boston Conor knew. But this? What he saw outside? No one in Boston knew this.
There were photographers hanging outside on the sidewalk, crowding a couple of anxious looking valets. And there were other people out there, people dressed up. Everyone pretending to do something else while they sat in wait. All of them turned when he pulled up, heads swiveling on necks like a bunch of velociraptors.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Stay in the car.”
Sierra didn’t say anything.
He got out. People backed off. Looking intimidating did that. He gave instructions to the valet, and then—opened the door.
It was like a starter’s pistol going off.
In a wave, everyone’s phone came up, flashes went off. The world became an assault of light and people wanting attention, wanting fame. Lunging for her, hungry. Predatory. All of them acting just like a crazed stalker might. None of it distinguishable, on first glance, from a genuine threat.
Conor looked at Sierra.
He’d seen her prepping for this, in the car. Seen her steeling herself. She’d been scared, and here she was, standing up, walking right into the thing that scared her.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, came the first actual threat.
Sierra had it down to a routine.
Before every public event now, she needed a few minutes to get her head right. To prepare herself, so she could step out into it and still be herself. Or at least the version of herself she needed to be for her job. She had mantras, she had visualizations, she had everything. She’d just never talked about it to anyone, because she figured they’d think she was being overdramatic, and because it would be, just…too vulnerable. Which was fine, because it wasn’t like anyone noticed anyway.
So of course Conor Kelly had noticed, his ice blue eyes on her in the rearview mirror the whole time. That was new.
Almost as new as the fear she felt coiling in her belly. When she’d first started this crazy part of her life, the whole being famous for having money thing, she’d hated it. She’d left her family behind to go to college in a foreign country, and she thought that she’d be able to leave behind all the masks she had to wear, too, only to trade them in for a new party girl persona. She’d felt like a fraud all over again, like she was supposed to be out there pretending to be someone else, and making other people feel like they weren’t enough — like they weren’t having as much fun, like they weren’t as good as the Cool People.
And then one day she’d basically said “screw this,” and she’d decided to have as much fun as possible. Almost immediately Sierra had realized that her true talent lay in making people feel like they were part of the fun. Because they were! Because even though she was just playing a version of herself, she really liked connecting with people, making them happy. She wanted everyone to feel they belonged, she wanted every night to be the night people went home and told their friends about. And for like a hot minute, it had been kind of great. It had been the silver lining to the whole “pretend to be a different person your whole life” thing.
And then the letters started.
Death threats—and worse. Detailed descriptions of how she, Sierra Fiore, was going to die. The last one had actually been written in what looked like blood.
Kind of a mood killer, no?
So that was what the stalker had taken from her so far: the ability to go out there and feel free, and open, and able to connect w
ith the people around her. She had to be afraid and vigilant, instead. And it freaking sucked.
But she could handle it. She was just used to handling it all on her own.
And then Conor Kelly opened the door to her brand new armored car, and looked at her like…
Like he saw her.
She actually forgot he’d looked at her like she was an idiot only twenty minutes earlier.
So for the first time in a long time, Sierra stepped out, her head held high, and when those cameras started going, she smiled her freaking heart out.
Which was right when it happened.
It was a blur, all of it too fast for Sierra to tell what was happening. There was something coming out of the corner of her eye, and the fear came right back, a tightness in her chest, a paralysis in her legs as the world swirled chaotically around her, a haze and a blur of danger that moved too fast for her to react. And then suddenly Conor was moving, his body close to hers, one arm shooting out to the side, the other wrapping around her, holding her close.
The moment he touched her, everything slowed to a crawl.
She could feel the heat of him, against her. The sheer solid strength of his big body next to hers, the muscles sliding under that suit jacket, the animal grace of how he moved. The gravity of him.
And then she saw it. A man, coming towards her. Or he had been. For a moment the man looked like just a drunk bro with his phone out, and then the next he looked like a tiny blur moving away from her very quickly as Conor’s arm flung him backwards at great speed.
And then, just as fast, she was inside, the chaos of the scene outside blocked by a rapidly closing door and Conor’s giant frame.
Sierra blinked. Looked down. Remembered to rearrange her dress so nothing vital fell out, even as her brain was trying to catch up. Apparently Conor could teleport? No—he’d just basically lifted her with one arm and hustled her inside faster than she could even register what was happening. She was lucky she still had her shoes on.
“You all right?”
She looked up. His pale blue eyes weren’t playful anymore, they weren’t looking her up and down. They were just concerned.