My Body Guard
995 Words
Seraphina
I was one of those women who knew they were beautiful
I’ve always known that my beauty is a weapon. It’s the kind of looks that stop traffic, the kind that makes powerful men stammer and forget their own names. My husband, Arthur, bought that beauty fair and square in an arranged marriage that looked great on paper and even better in society magazines.
Arthur is a good man. He’s kind, he’s a billionaire, and he’s emotionally present. He calls me three times a day from Tokyo or London to ask if I’ve eaten. Even the s*x is... fine. It’s polite. It’s "good." But it’s missing the one thing I crave: a spark that actually burns.
Then came Cassian.
My husband hired him six months ago after a minor kidnapping scare. "The best of the best, Sera," Arthur had told me over a glass of vintage scotch. "Ex-military, Special Forces. He’ll keep you safe and teach you how to handle yourself."
What Arthur didn't realize was that he hadn't just hired a guard; he had hired a god carved out of granite.
Cassian was taller than any man I’d ever dated, with shoulders so broad they seemed to swallow the light in the room. He had a jawline that could cut glass and golden brown eyes that were utterly unreadable.
But the most frustrating thing about Cassian? He didn’t care that I was beautiful.
Every other man in my life, from the gardener to my husband’s business partners fell to their knees the moment I walked into a room. Not Cassian. To him, I was a "package" to be protected. Just an assignment
Today was our scheduled self-defense training in the mansion’s private gym. I had spent forty-five minutes picking out my outfit: a pair of skin-tight, charcoal yoga pants that hugged every curve of my hips and a matching sports bra that left very little to the imagination. I wanted him to look. I wanted him to break.
I was already on the mats, stretching, when the heavy gym doors swung open. Cassian walked in wearing a simple black t-shirt and tactical trousers. The sleeves were stretched tight against biceps that were thick with veins and old scars.
He didn't greet me with a smile. He didn't even look at my chest. He checked his watch.
"You’re two minutes early, Mrs. Sterling," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that sent a shameful shiver straight to my core. "Good. Let's start with the basics of a wrist-lock release."
I stood up, moving with a deliberate, slow grace, making sure my hips swayed. I stepped into his personal space, so close I could smell him.
"You know, Cassian," I purred, looking up at him through my lashes, "most men would have complimented my form by now."
He didn't blink. He reached out and grabbed my wrists, his touch firm and calloused. He moved my arms as if I were a mannequin.
"Most men aren't paid to make sure you don't get killed because you were too busy flirting to notice a threat," he replied coolly. "Now, when I apply pressure here, I want you to rotate your thumb toward the gap in my grip. Do it."
I tried to focus, but the feeling of his hands on me was making my head swim. His grip was effortless, yet I felt like I was being held by iron bands. Every time his chest brushed against mine during a demonstration, my breath hitched.
"Like this?" I asked, intentionally leaning my body weight against his, my breasts brushing his forearm.
Cassian stepped back immediately. The movement was so fast I almost stumbled. For a split second, I saw a flash of something in his grey eyes—a spark of irritation? Or was it hunger?
"No," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low. "Like a professional. If you want to play games, wait for your husband to get back from Dubai. If you want to learn how to survive, pay attention."
The rejection stung, but it only made the heat between my legs throb harder. I had everything I ever wanted, except for the one man who looked at me like I was a nuisance rather than a prize.
"Is that a challenge, Cassian?" I stepped toward him again, my voice a low whisper. "Are you telling me you’re completely immune to me?"
He stood perfectly still, a wall of muscle and stoicism. "I’m telling you that my job is to protect your life, Mrs. Sterling. Not to entertain your boredom."
He turned away to grab a pair of striking pads, his back muscles rippling under his shirt. He was so composed, so disciplined. He thought he was in control. He thought he could keep me at arm's length forever.
But I saw the way his jaw clenched when I got too close. I saw the way his veins popped in his neck when I whispered his name. He wasn't immune; he was just a very good liar.
As the session ended and he turned to leave, I watched him go, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my lips.
“We’re going to the heritage gala tomorrow. I’ll leave you to practice and I’ll be right outside.” He said and headed towards the door
I sat down on the mat, my heart racing. Arthur was going to be gone for another two weeks. Two weeks of private lessons. Two weeks of being trapped in this house with a man who refused to fall.
I pulled my phone out and sent a quick text to my personal assistant.
“Cancel all my luncheons and spa appointments for the next ten days. I’m going to be very busy in the gym. And call the boutique, I need new dresses delivered by tonight
The plan was simple: If he wouldn't fall to his knees for my beauty, I would make him crawl for my touch.
- Writer
