The Bodyguard: A Navy SEAL Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  I blink the exhaustion from my eyes, only now realizing I’ve been buried in my laptop for several hours. It seems like forever ago that I met with Emmaline for coffee, even though it was only last night. Today’s Tuesday, and I have to wait until the weekend to see her again. Fuck. I don’t know if I’ll last that long. Every time I close my eyes, I see the way goosebumps rippled across her perfectly round ass. I see the way the sharp red circle appeared after I paddled her. She loved it. It was her first time submitting to a man, I could tell, and she fucking loved every second of it. She was probably wet from the moment I confronted her.

  I shift, adjusting my hardening cock. I might not be able to wait until the weekend to see her again.

  There’s a soft knock at my door before Lacey sticks her head in my office. “Logan--”

  “Mr. Steel,” I correct.

  She clears her throat. “Of course. Sorry. Mr. Steel. Your sister is-”

  My tall, athletic sister shoulders her way past Lacey. Her brunette hair is pulled back and slightly dented from the visor she was likely wearing all day. Olivia played tennis through college on a scholarship and now she owns her own tennis academy. As usual, she’s wearing a tennis dress and smells like sunscreen. She flashes me a white-toothed smile, ignoring the look of offense on Lacey’s face. Olivia raises a large brown bag and sets it on my desk.

  “I brought you Chinese. My sister senses were tingling and I figured you could use a little nourishment.”

  I grin. “So you brought Chinese?”

  “I said my sister senses were tingling. I didn’t say I was a fucking nutritionist.”

  I chuckle, already feeling some of the stress this week has put on me lifting. “Thanks.” I reach inside the bag and find the crab rangoons I know she’ll have bought. Well, it’s more like imitation-crab rangoons, but there’s a unique satisfaction in eating filthy, processed food that no amount of money can ever completely overcome.

  Olivia tilts her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. “You met someone.”

  I nearly choke on the bite of rangoon in my mouth. “What?” I ask.

  She nods knowingly as she digs into some lo mein. “You’re glowing like a fucking pregnant woman.”

  “Well, you’re only half-right. I met someone, yes. But I’m not pregnant. I’m sorry, you still don’t get to be an aunt.” The joke rings hollow after it comes out just reminds me of the son I lost because of Lana’s bullshit. Thankfully, Olivia doesn’t know that part of the story. No one else does. No one else ever will.

  She snorts, all the hardness in her face vanishing as she laughs like it always does.

  “What about you?” I ask. “It’s been nearly a year since you even talked about going on a date. I know it’s not easy, but you can’t let what happened with Derek hang over you forever.” He helped her start the academy, but he turned out to be a pervert and cheated on her with a student of his who was barely eighteen.

  She takes a particularly aggressive bite of her lo mein, barely chewing before she swallows the whole mouthful. “Yeah, well you’re one to talk.”

  “Fair enough. But the point still stands.”

  “I’m fine. I have the academy. I have my students. And I have tennis. What else do I need?”

  I give her a level look, but say nothing. Olivia and I have had an unspoken agreement ever since we were kids. We’ll call each other on our bullshit, and we’ll pry, but we never press. It makes for a kind of comfort around her I have never quite found with anyone else in my family. I can talk about anything with her.

  “Can I at least get her name?” asks Olivia after a little time has passed and I’ve moved onto the teriyaki beef on sticks.

  “Emmaline,” I say, unable to stop the corner of my mouth from curling up in a grin as I say it.

  “She must be something. You say her name differently. Delicately, and you’re not exactly the delicate type.”

  I scowl at her. “New topic.”

  She laughs. “Fine. What’s going on with the company? I saw something in the papers about an insider leaking sensitive information about Mr. Steel. What’s going on?”

  “What paper?” I ask, heart suddenly pounding. “What paper did you see that in?”

  Olivia leans back a little at my intensity. “The Tribune, I think. I’m not sure.”

  “Fuck. It could be Lana. No, it must be her. She’s either trying to ramp the pressure up on me or she’s just going to go through with it. Maybe she thinks she’ll get more money if she leaks her fabricated story to one of my competitors.”

  “I mean, other than embarrassment, what’s the big deal? So you’re a kinky fucker who likes to play with leather masks and dildos, what does that have to do with your ability to run a company?”

  I laugh, despite my annoyance. “You think I play with dildos?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I never put much thought into it.” She holds up a hand to stop me from saying more. “And I don’t plan to. No dildos. Got it.”

  “To answer your question,” I say, “the big deal is even though the company isn’t public, I rely on investors to continue to grow the business. I’m in the middle of a ten year plan for growth, and if that growth stops, it could be catastrophic.”

  “So if your investors think you play with dildos they might be less willing to give you the fifty quadrillion you need to build another skyscraper, and then you end up penniless and sleeping on my couch?”

  I sigh. “Sure. If that makes sense to you.”

  Olivia and I finish our meal without touching on any other topics more serious than the new way she found to add extra kick on her serve or the two students she caught hooking up in the equipment shed. After she leaves and Lacey leaves for the night, my mind immediately returns to Emmaline. My kitten. I love the quiet dignity to her that barely masks her playfulness. I can’t stop thinking about how, like a kitten, I know one wrong word or move could scare her off for good, but if I treat her right, she will never leave my side.

  It doesn’t seem to matter how much is going on with the business right now. I’ll figure that out, I always have. Maybe Lana wants to leak shit about me to the public. It will be a fucking headache and a lot of time in court, but I’ll handle that. Right now, all I really care about is Emmaline, and making it to the next time I get to see her again.

  The excitement and anticipation that comes from thinking about her is mingled with an old dread that comes from deep in my chest. There’s a sense of foreboding, of a road better left untraveled. And there’s the memory of the silent vow I made to never let myself get close to another woman again. I trusted Lana with too much, and she showed me what a fool I was for that. What frightens me is after only three encounters with Emmaline, I can already feel myself becoming consumed by her. I feel the danger of wanting more than just her submission in the bedroom. Hearing her laughter in the morning from the kitchen or taking her somewhere on my arm so everyone can see she’s mine… those thoughts feel far, far too good.

  Letting the relationship develop outside the bedroom would be dangerous. I’d be giving another woman the keys to my life and trusting her not to fuck me over.

  The sex will have to be enough, whether I like it or not. Too much rides on me keeping the company together. Thousands of people have jobs because of my business. Tens of thousands benefit from the work we do throughout every branch of the company. I huff a humorless laugh. Look at me pretending my real concern is the wellbeing of everyone else. The heart of it is that I don’t want to fail. I can’t stand the fucking thought of failure. I’ve built my identity around success for so long, anything else is unacceptable.

  But wouldn’t letting Emmaline slip away be a failure too?

  53

  Emmaline

  I’m on the porch of my mom’s trailer, clutching the envelope in my hand. Six hundred dollars. Cash. It feels so thin, but I know the six bills are in there because I put them in and took them out so many times. I looked online and saw there are cruises she and Ron
nie could afford for that much, even if they weren’t the nicest. I had to go to one of those scammy quick loan buildings to get the money. I already got my five thousand from the club, but it went straight to paying the most important bills and to make sure I have something to eat for the week. I think I’m paying thirty percent interest on this loan, but it’ll be worth it just to get the added stress of my mom out of my life. I raise my hand to knock on her door and pull it back, sucking in a breath.

  Six hundred dollars. I’m going to get paid five grand a week if I keep up my weekends at Club Crave. I just have to keep it up. My money problems will be behind me, and I’ll just have to keep my nerve and hold down the job long enough to pay back all the money I owe. That won’t be hard, I think with a tinge of guilt. There have hardly been five minutes that have passed since last weekend where I haven’t replayed the images of my time at the club. The thrum of the sensual music. The diffused sconce lighting. The deep reds and blacks of the decor.

  And him.

  I feel a chill run through me. It’s strange thinking of the three sides to Logan I’ve already seen. I saw him half-naked in his towel; raw and exposed, rough around the edges and hard. I saw him for coffee; charming, polite, and kind. And then there was the Logan from the club: masked, dangerous, strict, and absolutely dominant. My core clenches around nothing just at the memory of him.

  I’ve been with beautiful men before. I’ve been with kind and charming men. Some of them have made attempts at dominance, but I can see it now for what it was. False bravado. Nothing more. When I was within Logan’s power at the club, it was complete. I hung on his every word and breath, waiting to be commanded, craving his orders. Even though I had just met him, I felt completely safe in his control.

  I haven’t been able to put my finger on exactly what has me so drawn to the experience, but maybe that’s it. I was able to give myself over to someone and felt complete trust in the submission. The freedom of knowing he was ready to explore my limits and boundaries. The experience was thrilling, but beneath the thrill and apprehension was a deeper sense of trust and acceptance. Maybe I’m imagining it all after the fact. I feel silly putting so much stock in a five minute encounter, but stupid or not, I can’t change the way I feel.

  It could be that a lifetime of the people I care most about betraying my trust slowly poisoned me. It made me numb. But this new kind of relationship Logan has introduced me to isn’t just about pain and domination. The deep, all-encompassing kind of trust required to submit so completely is like a release for me. It’s too soon to know why or how, but I think being with Logan could be good for me. It could be exactly what I’ve been needing.

  I feel sexually awake for the first time in my life. I feel ready to be taken, dominated, and used. I don’t even care how dirty that is, or how much it makes me sound like a whore. I have suffered through enough traditional relationships and enough traditional sex to earn the right to try something new.

  I realize I’m still standing, hand poised to knock. I suck a breath through my teeth and get it over with, rapping my knuckles against the door two times. I wait, hearing the rattle of empty cans and plastic bags rustle from inside the small trailer.

  Ronnie swings the door open. He’s tall, but not as tall as Logan, and not nearly as built. He’s lanky except for the beer belly pressing through his stained wife-beater. The smell of beer and stale sweat emanates from him, making me want to plug my nose. Like my mom, he has the look of a former high school star who peaked early and has only gone downhill since. He still has strong features, but his once powerful jaw line sags and his hair is creeping back from his forehead. He wears a dark expression until he sees its me.

  “Emmaline,” he says, smiling wide “Come in.” He kicks a ripped trash bag that’s leaking liquid out of the way and gestures for me to step inside.

  “Actually, I’m in a little bit of a hurry. Is my mom home?”

  “Who’s that Ronnie?” asks my mom from inside.

  “Get your ass out here!” Ronnie yells, voice full of sudden anger and annoyance. I hate the way he talks to her. My dad was always timid with her, and Ronnie couldn’t be any more different. He treats her like one of the trash bags littering the floor of their trailer, and she lets him. Maybe it was her misguided way of getting back at my dad for leaving. Maybe she thought the more miserable she made herself, the more guilty he would feel for leaving. She should have guessed he wouldn’t care.

  My dad was indifferent to anything but his own best interests. Most men quickly learn to put themselves second when they start a family. Mom always said that part of my dad’s DNA was missing. I still remember when he stole the six dollars Mark had spent weeks saving up. Mark wanted to buy some stupid pack of cards because all his friends were into that. But dad used the money to buy beer. Or how he spent years promising me a car for my sixteenth birthday and I learned he ended up using the money to get himself a motorcycle instead, which he crashed a month later. If I had known there was a way for him to get his hands on my trust fund, I would’ve guessed he’d steal it a long time ago. I was dumb enough to let a few quick Google searches answer the question about whether he would have access.

  My mom emerges, hair in disarray. She quickly ties the robe she’s wearing, even though it’s four in the afternoon. Her eyes go straight to the envelope in my hand. She lights a cigarette and clamps it between her wrinkling lips, reaching to grab the envelope from me.

  It’s hard to see her now. It wasn’t that long ago when we were all together. It was never perfect. It wasn’t even close, but the years have not been kind to my mother, the former homecoming queen. Now her once smooth skin is speckled with spots and fine lines. Her fingers are almost skeletal, stained yellow between forefinger and middle finger from the cigarette that’s always jammed there. If she stopped smoking for two weeks, she could probably afford the vacation on her own. It’s an ugly thought and I push it down.

  My mom doesn’t deserve any kindness from me. I know that. I don’t do it out of weakness. I’m doing it for myself, to prove I’ve risen above the path she laid out for me. If my mom gets her way and thinks she pulled one over on me, so be it. I can be above that. I can let it not matter to me. She tucks a strand of her straw-dry blonde hair behind her ear, licking her lips.

  She and Ronnie both lean over it, tearing it open like kids on Christmas. My mom’s eyes light up when she sees the bills, but she pulls them out and counts through them twice, forehead creasing.

  “Six hundred? That’s all?” she asks.

  The show of good humor on Ronnie’s face fades as he rounds on me. “That’s all family is worth to you, Emmaline?”

  I take a deep, slow breath, pushing down the first words that threaten to spill out. Ungrateful. Bitch. Bastard. I focus on the decision that led me to do this. This is for me. It doesn’t matter how they respond to it. “There’s a cruise to the Bahamas leaving in a month. If you book it this week, it’s only five hundred and seventy dollars. With tax. You’d have some extra money there to get a few drinks on board.”

  My mom’s face says it all. It’s not enough. It’s not what she wanted, and she’s disappointed. As much as my intentions were set on doing this for me, the look on her face breaks through my resolve. I feel a swell of emotion rising up. Sadness. Anger. It would be one thing if she had bent over backwards to take care of me my whole life. Instead, she and my dad both took turns screwing my brother and I over to get themselves a step ahead. I can thank her for keeping me alive, but even that feels like a stretch when it seems like her sole motivation was the hope that I’d be a lifeline she could cling to.

  Something inside me snaps. All my good intentions evaporate in an instant. I reach out and grab the money from her. “Fine. If you don’t want it--”

  My vision goes blinding white as something hard collides with my face. I blink through the confusion and feel a pulsing pain explode in my cheek and my head. I’m lying on the filthy carpet, sideways. Ronnie stands over me, hand still
across his body from backhanding me. My mom kneels beside me protectively, glaring up at him.

  “You fucking touch my daughter again and I’ll kill you!” she shouts.

  “Watch. Your. Fucking. Mouth,” he says to her, finger stabbing periods between each word in the air as he advances on her.

  “Mom. Come on,” I say, struggling to get back to my feet and pulling at her.

  She stands, shoving me out the door and locking it behind me. It was all a blur. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds. I’m outside, the chilly air biting at my skin. She’s in there with him. I tug on the doorknob as I hear the two of them shouting at the top of their lungs and plates breaking.

  It’s not the first case of domestic abuse I’ve witnessed, not by a long shot, but it’s the first time Ronnie has actually put his hands on me. I walk to my car slowly, stunned and hurt. My whole face is throbbing painfully, and I can’t stop the tears that stream silently down my cheeks. I’m still shaking with rage when I get in my car and dial the police to let them know they need to come out to the trailer park. I wish it was the first time I had made that call. I speak in low, flat tones and hang up when the operator tells me to wait on the scene.

  I know Scarlett will be at the office working on the design for a new series of milestone onesies we’re planning, so I drive straight there. It’s a short drive from the trailer park, but I spend the entire drive buried in thought, face still throbbing from where he hit me. I avoid looking in the rearview to assess the damage.

  Am I so sexually fucked up because I’ve only ever watched my mom be a doormat with men? First she stood by while my dad gambled, drank, and wasted all our money. Now this. My stomach clenches when I realize how turned on the thought of Logan dominating me makes me. Why do I want something so close to the shit I see my mom getting put through? It makes me sick to see Ronnie mistreating her, and yet the thought of going back to Club Crave has had me giddy all week. It still does.