He could always use the muscle

The elevator dinged at her floor. The doors parted onto an empty hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead.

Sigríður didn’t step out. Instead, she reached past Simon, slowly and deliberately to press the hold button. The doors stayed open.

She turned to face him fully, towering in the confined space. Heat rolled off her skin in waves, carrying the faint residue of chalk and iron from her workout. One massive hand settled against the wall beside his head, not trapping him, but narrowing the world to just the two of them.

“Tell me what you want, Simon,” she said. Her voice had dropped low, roughened by something raw need edged with reverence. “I’ll do it.”

Simon studied the shift in her expression. The hard lines of her face had softened fractionally, muscle still rippling beneath every inch of tanned skin, power coiled tight and waiting. But the pale blue eyes locked on his held only focused hunger now.

It made sense, at least to him, to take her along. For the novelty, if nothing else. A quick glance confirmed her current outfit—black tank, compression shorts, gym bag slung over one shoulder—wasn’t suited to where he planned to go. That was an easy fix.

He stepped out into the hallway. Gestured once for her to follow. She did, without hesitation.

“I’m heading out,” he said as they walked. “But I need you in professional attire.”

“I can do that,” she answered, voice eager.

“Lead me to your apartment. Inside, you’ll find a white shirt, black pants, black shoes, and a belt—all in your size. Shower to freshen up, do your makeup so it looks professional, then dress. You may accompany me today as my personal bodyguard.”

Sigríður led him down the corridor without a word, key already in hand. She unlocked the door and stepped aside to let him enter first.

The apartment was sparse, functional—weight plates stacked neatly in one corner, a pull-up bar mounted in the doorway, protein shaker bottles lined up on the counter like soldiers. No clutter. No sentiment.

She closed the door behind them. Without shame or pause, she peeled off the tank top, then the shorts, stepping out of her sneakers and socks in one economical motion. Naked now, every slab of muscle defined under the overhead light, she gathered the sweaty clothes and dropped them into a laundry bin by the hall. Then she crossed to the bathroom, hips rolling with the same coiled power she carried everywhere.

Simon heard the shower start—water running for thirty seconds—then stop. The soft sound of lathering followed, methodical, efficient, lasting maybe ninety seconds. Water hissed on again for another minute before cutting off completely.

Five minutes later she emerged.

The white dress shirt fit her perfectly, sleeves rolled once to mid-forearm, the fabric stretched taut across shoulders and chest without a single wrinkle. Black tailored pants hugged powerful thighs and tapered to polished black shoes. A slim black belt cinched the waist. Her short blonde hair was still damp but neatly combed, makeup understated and sharp—subtle liner accentuating those pale blue eyes, lips a neutral tone that looked businesslike rather than inviting. She looked every inch the professional: imposing, capable, expensive.

“I don’t have any experience or license to be a bodyguard,” she said, voice level.

Simon met her gaze. “In your jacket’s inner pocket, you’ll find a fully accredited and legal security license. Security guard certification, cash-in-transit, close personal protection, firearms, defensive tactics, batons, handcuffs, crowd control—all current and valid.”

Reaching into the pocket of the black suit jacket she was wearing, Sigríður pulled out a slim leather wallet. She flipped it open, brows arching slightly as she inspected the laminated cards and holographic details inside.

“I don’t know much if anything at all or anything about most of these,” Sigríður admitted.

Simon allowed himself a small smirk. “Come here and kiss me. As you do, from the kiss you’ll learn everything there is to know—not just in your mind, but in your body.”

It only took two powerful strides, for Sigríður to reach him. Her massive frame moving with a grace that belied her size. Eagerness burned in her pale blue eyes, the desire he had planted, devotion he had rewritten, every reason layered on top of the last until the only thing that mattered was him. Her hands rose slowly, palms rough from years of chalk and iron yet impossibly gentle as they cradled his face. Thick fingers framed his jaw with care, thumbs brushing the line of his cheekbones like she was handling something fragile and priceless.

She leaned down, closing the last inches between them. Her lips met his softly at first, a warm, deliberate press that lingered, testing, savouring. Then she deepened it. Her mouth opened against his with slow, hungry intent, tongue slipping past his lips in a smooth glide. She tasted faintly of mint and the clean salt of her post-shower skin, but underneath ran something primal, heated, all muscle and restrained power finally unleashed.

The kiss unfolded with deliberate care. Her tongue explored his in long, languid strokes, circling, teasing the roof of his mouth, then sliding along the length of his own in a slow, wet drag that sent heat curling straight down his spine. She tilted her head slightly, angling deeper, giving herself more room to claim every corner. A soft, throaty hum vibrated from her chest into his, the sound raw and needy, vibrating through their joined mouths like a promise.

She poured everything into it. The way her fingers tightened just a fraction against his face, holding him steady as if afraid he might vanish. The subtle press of her body forward, her large breasts heavy against his chest through the crisp white shirt, hips brushing his in **** rhythm. Her breathing grew ragged through her nose, warm exhales fanning across his cheeks each time she pulled back only to dive in again, deeper, slower, more insistent. Tongue curling around his in a slick, sensual twist that drew a low sound from the back of his throat before he could stop it.

Thirty seconds stretched into something timeless. She didn’t rush, didn’t devour, she worshipped. Every flick, every glide, every gentle suck on his lower lip carried reverence and raw want in equal measure. Pleasure built in layers: the velvet heat of her mouth, the faint tremor in her hands that betrayed how badly she needed this, the way her powerful thighs shifted closer as if trying to press every inch of herself against him without breaking contact.

When she finally eased back, it was ****. Her lips clung for one last soft pull before parting with a faint, wet sound. She stayed close, forehead resting lightly against his, pupils blown wide and dark, breath coming in deep, measured pulls that lifted her broad shoulders. A faint flush had climbed her neck, staining the tanned skin pink.

“That’s amazing, Simon,” she whispered, voice roughened and low, almost reverent. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Her thumbs stroked once more along his jawline before her hands fell away, but she didn’t step back. She simply stood there, towering and attentive, waiting for whatever he asked next, lips still parted, glistening, ready to give him more the instant he wanted it.

He gave a short nod, already turning toward the door. She followed without being asked.

They rode the elevator down in silence, her presence filling the car more than her size alone. At the third level of the parking garage Simon headed toward his sedan. Sigríður’s long strides kept pace easily.

“Should I drive for you?” she asked.

Simon paused beside the driver’s door, keys in hand, and considered it.