1 Chapter 1

Watch out, Madam!" I almost miss the step as he grabs me deftly by the waist, his strong arms rippling beneath my weight.

My face is an inch apart from his, nose to nose, and my heart jumps capriciously; quite unusual.

"I know you'll protect me so why should I?" I breathe my oh-I-lost-count of margarita shots I had tonight, barely holding my vision. The only thing I see is his ever serious face, smile-less, and the curly raven hair blocking the side of his forehead.

How hot!

Do I want to touch him? His hair? To tug it aside so I can see his eyes clearly? For fuck's sake, Mia, you can't succumb to the alcohol! You're a lady! I gulp.

"Let me help you to your room," he whispers, his firm Adam's apple bobbing as he sighs.

"Whatever." I clam my eyes and instantly I'm in the air, his grip so enticing. I hold his neck, hugging him tightly as my head rests in the hollow of his neck. "You smell wild," I blurt, unable to decipher his scent that I could recognize even from miles away.

Does he wear cologne? Nah, he's not the type. So what is it?

"You're drunk, Madam." His voice is gentle yet firm. He takes the long snaked staircase with ease, carrying me securely.

"Madam," I murmur. I could roll my eyes if I had any strength left. "I hate this name." I hug him tighter, relishing his warmth. I hope the stairs don't end. They shouldn't.

Not tonight when I feel like the world is crumbling to my feet.

In my unnecessarily big bedroom, he lays me down carefully. On the king-size plush with so many pillows, a white duvet covers me upon his will. I suck in a deep breath, watching his every move despite my blurred vision.

He softly raises my head, and then places a pillow beneath it. I feel comfortable enough. My drunken eyes battle to stay awake, to watch him, his ember eyes that reminds me of the blazing sun in the hot summer.

"Can I . . . take your shoes off?" he asks hesitantly. "Madam?" he adds steadfastly, his gaze on the bronze gladiator heels I'm wearing, a perfect match to my little black dress.

I shift with difficulty, unfolding my legs so he can easily access my feet. He sits on the bed, taking both of my feet on his lap. I gulp again, a strange wave of arousal filling my body.

What the heck, Mia! He's your employee, for crying out loud! Since when do you get to feel the shit about him? Or anyone who isn't Patrick Kingston? Oh, Patrick.

Mia Kingston, my fucked-up name, the legal wife of the prominent business Mogul in Portland. How do I dare forget about this title every woman in my cycle envies? I smirk, rued.

He takes my last shoe, gently, and slowly he rises up. His tall frame stands aside my bed, and as always he doesn't utter a syllable. He's busy making sure everything around me is in order.

The windows seem well shut; the AC is running to my liking, and other security details he affirms; only he understands. I just watch him as he does it all. But fuck, I need to get out of this dress. It's too tight.

"Damn," I mutter while sitting up. My head is heavy, wobbling. How will I make it to my dressing room? I try to get up, but the dizziness is real. "Ugh!" I growl.

"Madam!" He rushes back speedily. Once again I'm into his arms, his chest thumping high, and his breath quickens as my face collides with his.

I shudder at his grip. My body doesn't listen to his perilous breath. I'm scorched, and his lips harden as he scowls at me . . . Or whatever it is.

"I need to undress," I breathe. His gaze falters befuddled. "Can you help me?" I quiz haphazardly.

He's astonished, but his poker face stays unmoved. "Madam—"

"Just unzip my dress and I'll do the rest," I interject, and he looks appalled. "It's an order." I don't mean this, but it's my only option. I can't even move with my free will, let alone taking the zip off which is always a challenge.

"Yes, Madam," he croaks, and gently takes me to his chest, as though he's hugging me.

I can feel the acceleration of my heartbeat, and I pant mildly. He's only trying to secure my balance, I know this much, but why am I beguiled nonetheless? It's as though I'm yearning for something more.

Something I shouldn't do.

My face is closer to his chin. His small beard scratches my forehead as I stay still. I can feel his breath, and it drives me nuts, my carnal disturbed. What is this? I flex as his strong fingers clutch the zipper, grazing my soft skin.

I sharply gaze up at him, and our eyes meet. I'm panting soundly. His impetuous eyes remain firm, indescribable gleam settling in them. He slides the zipper smoothly, which goes down to my buttocks. He gulps once again as his hand stops right there.

"It's done," he tells me, his voice husky.

I don't move; neither does he. His lips part slightly, and mine seem to so badly want to mingle with his. Fuck! What's happening to me? What am I thinking? Or imagining? What the hell, Mia!

"Thank you," I whisper softly, my voice barely audible. My eyes refuse to leave his illusive face, so dark and mysterious. I see the bruise on his jaw and my heart shatters. "I-I am sorry for dragging you into trouble earlier," I whisper.

The last thing I want is anyone getting hurt at my expense; I hate the feeling left behind and I know it by heart.

"It's my job to protect you, Madam," he returns. More than a sense of accountability, it's the tone of his voice that turns me nuts. It's like he can die for me, and it's as exciting as the scary it is.

Sometimes when I'm down I become a trouble maker. I went to a club and we got attacked, once again. Not my fault though. I'm not sure who wants to harm me, but he took care of five guys by himself so as to protect me.

"Does it hurt?" I try to touch his face but he winces back.

"No, it doesn't." His voice is monotonous; not that I'm surprised.

Adamantly I hold his face with my palm. He doesn't move this time. Tentatively, my fingers reach for the bruise and touch it without putting pressure. He flexes a bit, but he shows no sign of pain.

Instead, he's transfixed as he stares down at me, as though thawing in my touch on his bruise. I gently tug the fallen bang from his forehead, freeing his one eye that always hides behind.

Oh God! His face is so arresting.

Am I drunk? Am I really drunk? Yes, I am drunk that's why I'm doing this. Or else what is this? I want to kiss him. Fuck, I so want to taste his sexy lips that hardly let out the words.

My lips are getting closer to his when I hear, "You need to rest, Madam." He pulls back, his breath heavy. He doesn't look me in the eyes, but he is highly affected.

I tug myself out of his grip, my feet jelly. "Go," I say, deadpan.

"Good night." He walks toward the door and my dress falls down after I peel it off swiftly.

He holds his stance, hesitant to move upon hearing the fall of my dress. He knows I'm naked; wearing nothing but a pair of fine black lingerie, my light brown skin glowing resplendently. I'm sure of it.

I mean no temptation to him, however; I just feel out of my damn mind. I fall into bed unceremoniously, and he nearly turns around, but stops midway. I pull the covers to my neck and shut my eyes.

I hear the door closing, and he's out of my room.