Forbidden Desires

Our Celebrity

Isabella Monroe didn't do bodyguards who looked like *that.*

Darius Kane was six-foot-six of ex-Special Forces muscle, his skin the colour of dark chocolate, his eyes sharper than the knife he carried. The agency had sent him after the third death threat — the one with the polaroid of her asleep in her own bed. He was supposed to be a *deterrent.* A wall between her and the madness of fame.

He wasn't supposed to be a temptation.

But he was.

---

The first week, he was all business.

Silent. Watchful. A shadow that moved with her through premieres and press junkets, his hand always at the small of her back when they walked through crowds, his body a shield between her and the flashing cameras. He checked her for weapons before every event — his hands professional, impersonal, sliding over her arms, her waist, her thighs. *Just doing my job.*

She should have been used to it. Should have been immune. She'd had bodyguards before. But none of them had hands like *his.* None of them had made her skin burn where they touched.

And none of them had looked at her the way Darius did when he thought she wasn't watching — like she was a problem he wanted to *solve* with his mouth.

---

The first crack came in the limo after the Met Gala.

She was drunk. Not sloppy — just loose, warm, her inhibitions softened by champagne and the adrenaline of the crowd. She kicked off her heels, her dress riding up her thighs, and caught him watching her in the rearview mirror.

"See something you like, Darius?" she asked, her voice a purr.

His jaw tightened. "Just making sure you're safe, Ms. Monroe."

"Safe," she repeated, her lips curling. "Or *satisfied*?"

His eyes flicked to the mirror. Held hers. "Both."

Her breath hitched.

---

The second crack came in her penthouse.

She was in the kitchen at 2 a.m., barefoot, in one of his old t-shirts she'd stolen from his bag — it swallowed her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She was making tea. He was on the sofa, cleaning his gun.

"You don't have to stay up," she said, leaning against the counter, watching him.

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because someone has to make sure you don't burn the place down trying to make tea at two in the morning."

She laughed. Threw a tea bag at him. He caught it. Their fingers brushed.

And the air between them *crackled.*

---

The breaking point came on a Friday.

A fan had gotten past security at her hotel. Darius had taken him down — hard. The man had a knife. There was blood. Not Darius's. The fan had a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder. Isabella had watched the whole thing from the doorway of her suite, her heart in her throat, her body shaking.

Darius had come back to her, his knuckles split, his breathing ragged. "You okay?"

She didn't answer. Just grabbed his face and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It was *desperate.* A thank you. A *need.* Her lips crashed onto his, her tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting him, *claiming* him. He groaned, his hands going to her waist, pulling her against him, and she could feel *everything* — the hard ridges of his muscles, the heat of his skin, the thick, insistent press of his c**k against her stomach.

"f**k, Isabella," he growled against her mouth. "We can't—"

"We can," she whispered. "And we *will.*"

---

He should have stopped her.

Should have remembered his job. His contract. The fact that she was *paying* him to keep her safe, not to *f**k* her.

But he didn't.

Because she pushed him back against the wall, her hands working at his belt, his zipper. His c**k sprang free, thick and hard and *desperate* for her. She wrapped her fingers around him, her thumb swiping the pre-c*m from his tip.

"You're big," she murmured, her eyes dark with hunger. "I like that."

And then she was on her knees in front of him, her lips parting, her tongue sliding out to taste him.

---

Her mouth was *perfection.*

Hot. Wet. *Relentless.* She took him deep on the first try, her throat opening for him, her hands gripping his thighs. She hollowed her cheeks, her tongue swirling around his c**k, and he *shuddered*, his fingers tangling in her hair, his hips thrusting forward.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take *all* of it, Isabella."

She did. She took him to the back of her throat, her nose pressing against his skin, her eyes watering but never leaving his. And when he tried to pull back, she *grabbed* his hips, held him there, her nails digging in, and *swallowed* around him.

He came with a groan, his body shuddering, his release spilling down her throat. And she didn't stop. Didn't pull away. She licked him clean, her tongue slow, deliberate, like she was savouring every last drop.

When she finally stood, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark with satisfaction. And she had a plan.

"Lie down," she said, her voice a command.

He raised an eyebrow. "Bossy."

"You like it." She pushed him onto the sofa. "Now shut up and let me f**k you."

---

She moved with purpose.

Her hands went to the hem of his t-shirt — *her* t-shirt, the one she'd stolen — and yanked it over his head. His chest was a work of art — carved, defined, the faint scars of his past marking his skin. She traced them with her tongue, her teeth grazing his n*****s, and he groaned, his hands fisting in her hair.

"You taste like sin," she murmured against his skin. "And I *love* it."

She dropped lower. Her teeth scraped down his abdomen, her tongue dipping into his navel. And then she was at his belt again, pulling his trousers down, freeing him. She straddled him in one fluid motion, her thighs pressing against his, her body lowering onto his c**k with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips.

He was *huge.* Thick. Long. And she was *tight.* So tight. She gasped as she took him, inch by inch, her body stretching around him, her walls clenching as she adjusted to his size.

"f**k, Darius," she groaned, her nails digging into his shoulders. "You feel *amazing.*"

He gripped her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her ass, guiding her movements. "Ride me," he growled. "f**k me like you mean it."

She didn't need to be told twice.

She set a pace that had them both gasping — deep, rolling thrusts that let her control the depth, the angle, the *pleasure.* She leaned back, her hands on his knees, her breasts swaying with the movement, and he watched, his eyes dark with hunger, his c**k disappearing inside her again and again.

"You like that?" he groaned, his hand sliding between them to find her c**t, his fingers circling, pressing. "You like riding my c**k, Isabella?"

"Yes — *yes* —" she gasped, her body moving with his, her hips rising and falling. "Harder. *f**k me harder, soldier.*"

He growled, his rhythm matching hers, his hips snapping up to meet her thrusts, his c**k driving deep inside her. The sound of their bodies filled the penthouse — wet, rhythmic, the creak of the sofa, their ragged breaths.

She came first, her body clenching around him, her back arching, a cry tearing from her throat. And he followed her over the edge with a groan, his body shuddering, his release spilling into her in hot, thick pulses.

---

He flipped her onto her back on the sofa before she could catch her breath, her legs splayed wide. And then he was between her thighs, his mouth hot and hungry on her, his tongue sliding through her folds, his lips sealing around her c**t.

"Darius — *oh God* —" she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth.

He didn't let up. He licked and sucked and teased, his fingers sliding inside her, curling against that spot that made her see stars. And when she came again, it was with a broken cry, her body clenching around his fingers, her back arching off the sofa.

He stood, his c**k already hard again, and then he was pushing into her, filling her, *stretching* her. And this time, he didn't go slow. He *pounded* into her, his hips snapping forward, his c**k driving into her again and again, the sound of their bodies echoing through the penthouse.

"You're *mine*," he growled, his mouth at her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasped. "*Yours, Darius.*"

"Again."

"*Yours. Only yours.*"

He came with a groan, his body shuddering, his release spilling into her. And she followed him over the edge, her body clenching around him, her walls milking him, her nails scoring his back.

---

They lay there for a long moment. Breathless. Boneless. *Ruined.*

The city lights glittered through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The air smelled like s*x and sweat and something darker — something *forbidden.*

Isabella traced the scar on his shoulder, her fingers light. "What happens now?"

Darius caught her hand. Pressed a kiss to her palm. "Now I finish my job."

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

He stood, pulling his trousers on, his movements efficient. "It means I protect you. From everyone." He buckled his belt. "Including myself."

Her stomach dropped. "You're leaving?"

"I'm doing my job." He grabbed his shirt from the floor, pulled it on. "And my job doesn't include f*****g my client."

She sat up, pulling the sheet around her, her heart pounding. "So that's it?"

"That's it." He checked his gun, slid it into its holster. "I'll have the agency send someone else in the morning."

She should have been relieved. Should have been *grateful.*

But the look on his face — the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes were dark with something like *regret* — it made her chest ache.

"Darius—"

He was at the door. His hand on the handle. "Lock up after me."

And then he was gone.

---

She didn't sleep that night.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of his footsteps in the hall. But the penthouse was silent. Empty.

At dawn, she got up. Made coffee. Stood at the window, watching the sun rise over the city.

And then she heard it — the *click* of the lock. The *creak* of the door.

Her heart leapt.

But it wasn't Darius.

It was the new guard. Some guy named Cole. Tall. Blonde. *Not him.*

"Ms. Monroe?" Cole said, his voice professional. "Mr. Kane sent me. Said you'd need protection."

She forced a smile. Nodded. "Of course. Thank you."

Cole nodded. Started his sweep of the penthouse.

And Isabella stood there, her coffee cooling in her hands, her body still aching from Darius's touch, and knew one thing for certain:

She'd just fired the only man who'd ever made her feel *safe.*