AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m going to try to put this into words you understand, since your family seems to love ownership.” His warm breath rolls over mine. “I own you, and your body, for the next thirteen days. I’ll keep anyone and everyone from touching you. Including yourself, since you want to be so damn mouthy.”
“You can’t do that.” I choke out a laugh. “It’s my body. I can do what I want with it.” Lie.
“No. You can’t do anything with your body without your father’s permission.”
Is he referring to himself?
The stranger in the club called him my dad, and he’s old enough to be my father. Salt-and-pepper strands run through the dark, unruly hair on his head.
He carries himself differently than my father ever would, though. He doesn’t behave in a way anyone in our business would. He doesn’t carry himself with dignity, grace, or power. He carries himself like a murderer. Like a criminal.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. Even his wide stance and the way his white t-shirt hugs his muscles makes him look dangerous, menacing. And the stern look he’s giving me right now makes me understand exactly why my father hired him. He’s a predator, trained to be deadly.
But I’m not afraid of him.
I scoff. “Yes, daddy,” I mock, throwing him a two-finger salute.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
He offers a smirk that sends a flush through my chest. Then he pats my head.
Fucking. Pats. My. Head.
That smirk becomes an afterthought, and I just about want to rip his nuts off and shove them into his stupid, condescending mouth.
Thirteen days. Only thirteen more days. And then the real fun begins. My shitty arranged marriage to Antonio Vendetti.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vance
Isabella loves to stir up trouble, that much is clear. She’s sitting with some young bag of muscles who’s eyeing her from across the table with a hunger that looks pathetic from where I sit.
She leans over, accentuating her chest beneath the low-cut black dress, and reaches for her glass of red wine. He says something and she laughs, and it sounds fucking fake. Not that he seems like he’d be able to tell. This is probably entirely normal behavior around him. Fucking rich people.
She knows I’m watching. I can tell by the way she flips her dark hair, big curls draping down her back, or the way she crosses and uncrosses her legs. All of it has a hidden meaning. And even that has hidden meanings, because it’s not like she likes me.
Quite the contrary.
Her fingers curl and drag up her thigh, spreading the long slit in her dress and exposing her tan thigh for my viewing. Not for the bag of shit in front of her, but for me. I have to talk down my dick because the twinge of excitement I feel is completely inappropriate.
I do not fuck clients. I never have, even when they threw their naked bodies onto my lap. Hard no.
There’s not some kind of ethics board for bodyguards, but if I get blacklisted by people like my boss, I’ll never work again. Not above the dark asshole of a strip club, at least, and that’s a problem. I like consistent income more than I like pussy.
When the job is finished, it’s a different story. I have fucked women after I watched over them. Usually we ended up accidentally running into each other somewhere, and a quick fuck was an A-OK bonus for me.
“Vance? Is that you?” says a voice behind me.
I close my eyes and silently curse the irony. I turn my head and see one of my past clients. Someone I worked for before my current boss, but after the strip club. A weird middle place where I was doing small gigs for men I would never meet in person. I like the intimacy of having one boss who knows just how to ruin my day with a single phone call.
“It is you!” she squeals as she shuffles her high heels to the table and sits in the vacant seat across from me. She pushes the plate and silverware aside and puts her elbows on the placemat.
“Hi, Theodora,” I say with a pleasant smile. I guess Isabella and her meat bag aren’t the only fake ones.
“What are you doing here? This place seems too?—”
“Classy?”
