High-Rise Surrender 🌶🌶🌶
The Pesky Bodyguard
The skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Ciel Dubai Marina, the tallest hotel in the world—a beacon of wealth, power, and exclusivity. Her heels tapped against the lobby’s polished stone, echoing her effortless authority. A keynote speaker. A woman of power. A force of nature.
A thousand executives, scholars, and power players had just clung to her every syllable, the woman who commanded industries, shaped policies, and owned the room the moment she entered it. Her reputation preceded her.
So did her insurance policy. Thus, behind her, silent as a shadow, the nuisance.
Her bodyguard.
An insurance requirement—not a necessity. Or so she told herself.
As she made her rounds at the conference, shaking hands, fielding questions, she barely acknowledged him.
But she hadn’t expected him to be quite . . . this.
Six foot four, ex-chief of police, built like something carved out of Carrara marble. He moved with the silent confidence of a man who had nothing to prove and everything under control. She had dismissed him outright when they first met that morning, barely sparing him a glance.
“Hold this,” she had snapped at one point, shoving her laptop case into his massive hands without waiting for a response.
He obliged, of course. But not before locking eyes with her. A taciturn, steely gaze. A searing warning—or perhaps a promise?
She had waved him off to colleagues as “a pesky insurance requirement,” rolling her eyes as if the presence of this hulk rooted in place twelve feet from her was laughable.
And yet.
When she first laid eyes on him, everything inside her had shivered. A sensation she’d dismissed — or at least tried.
Now, after her keynote had wrapped and the evening cocktails beckoned, she sashayed through the gleaming marbled lobby toward the elevators, the sultry sentinel not quite at her heels as she moved, but always ten paces behind her. Time to change. Time to shed the power pencil skirt and pussy-bow blouse and pour herself into something more slinky and suitable for cocktail talk.
She pressed the button. The crowd behind her thickened. The elevator arrived, doors sliding open, and she stepped in—he dutifully followed.
More people filed in. Then more.
She barely registered how they inched closer and closer together in the cramped elevator car, her body eventually flush against his. The contact sent a shock wave through her, as his giant hands then encircled her waist—for . . . protection. Not gentle. Not casual.
Hungry.
She parted her lips, ready to protest, but then—then she felt it.
His heat. His breath against the top of her head. His unmistakable hardness pressing into her lower back, perfectly aligned with her spine.
Her pulse skittered. She should protest. She should move away. But she couldn’t. She was hemmed in. Instead, she stood frozen, her body betraying her, wanting to melt into him.
His palm flattened against her stomach, fingers splayed wide, securing her in place as the elevator jerked upward.
People filed out floor by floor. The numbers above ticked higher.
And still, he held her.
She should say something. But his fingers were grazing lower, dragging across the silk of her blouse, brushing against her waistband, leaving a trail of fire wherever he touched.
Her body reacted. She could feel the moist, creamy mess puddling in her panties.
A few more people exited. Then another.
The doors slid closed. Only them now.
Before she could think—before she could process—he spun her around, swapping places so that she was the one with her back pressed against the elevator wall.
His great big lion paws caged her in, one on each side of her head. He stared down at her, eyes burning, breath heavy, chest heaving— rising and falling like Kong on a high cliff.
“Say it again.” His voice was a low, steady command.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, as the sound of actually hearing his voice vibrated through her.
“Say what?”
“That I’m pesky.”
Her breath caught in her throat. He leaned in, his scent of leather and clean soap wrapping around her. He reached down, grabbed one of her wrists, and guided her hand to where his body demanded her reverence.
She gasped. The elevator dinged. Their floor.
He released her wrist just long enough to press the button that would keep the doors shut.
“Now, Ma’am,” he murmured, tilting her chin up and locking his eyes onto hers, “You’ll show me some respect.”
She nodded hurriedly, obediently, silently.
He raised her legs around him as she remained deliciously trapped in the way she’d only fantasized, arms raised and draped over the shoulders of this anodyne brute.
And then he took her.
Resolutely. Against the cold elevator wall. In the moment between descent and ascent. Between control and surrender. Between knowing better and not giving a damn.
And when the doors finally opened again—long after they should have—she stepped out first, legs unsteady, lips swollen, body branded.
He followed—great silent sphinx as ever. This time closer and with his hands taking her hair in a mop from behind, his other hand pressing her forward so that she just slightly stumbled toward her room door.
“Open,” he commanded.
She fumbled with her key card, hands trembling, her body already slippery in anticipation.
The door cracked open. He shoved it the rest of the way, pushing her inside, slamming it shut behind them. She barely had time to gasp before he pressed her to the floor on all fours, right there in the entryway—no need to go any farther.
In that one swift gesture, she was freed. Released from the cage of her performative life, at long last permitted to rest her perfect pulsing kitten where reverence is born and not made. By the time she returned downstairs to the cocktail reception, she would blissfully wear his coating. His scent.
The seal of the man she would never dismiss again.
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
p.s. What semi-public fantasy have you been marinating?