Upgrading his Security

Simon studied Sigríður for several long moments while she remained on her knees before him, still trembling faintly from the untouched orgasm his words had **** through her. Her broad chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths; the soaked white shirt clung transparently to the heavy curves of her breasts, every inhale making the fabric pull tighter across stiff, prominent nipples. Drool and the faint sheen of his release still glistened on her chin and throat. Pale blue eyes stayed locked on his face, glassy with devotion, waiting.

The thought crossed his mind again, whether he should bend her over the arm of the sofa right now, bury himself deep, and plant another child inside her the same way he had with Muriel and Sharon. The symmetry appealed, another woman carrying his seed, bound tighter by biology and command.

But not now. She was working. Later, when she was off duty.

Speaking of duty: even with his power, in the grand scheme he remained a relatively small fry. Even the most capable bodyguard couldn’t eliminate all vulnerabilities; effective protection required at least two additional people to cover the front, back, and both sides. Redundancy mattered. Seventeen years in security had taught him that much.

“Sigríður,” he said.

She blinked slowly, still struggling to rise. Thick thighs quivered as she pushed herself upright on unsteady legs, knees wobbling from the intensity of the climax his words had **** through her. She managed to stand, towering once more, though her balance wavered for a heartbeat before she steadied herself with one hand braced on the arm of the sofa.

“Be honest with me,” Simon instructed, voice calm and level. “Do you think you alone are enough to serve as my sole bodyguard?”

A complicated look passed over Sigríður’s features. Her brows drew together; the hard line of her jaw tightened as she scowled in thought. After a long beat she exhaled through her nose.

“No,” she admitted. “I would need at least two more to properly protect you. One person can’t cover every angle, every blind spot. Not against determined threats.”

Nodding once in a measured way, Simon showed no surprise on his face. He allowed the silence to linger between them, heavy and deliberate, until anticipation sharpened in Sigríður’s pale blue eyes. “Name two friends,” he said quietly. “Taller than you. With more muscle and bulk, the full stack.”

Sigríður’s gaze slid sideways for a moment, unfocused while the names rose slowly from memory. She let out a breath through her nose, the sound low and thoughtful, almost ****.

When she spoke her voice stayed level, but the old edge crept in at the corners, sharpening into something closer to disdain. “Sofia Cunningham,” she answered first. “Martha Burke right after. Both push past six-three to six-four when they’re laced up for heavy lifts. They run cycles heavier than anything I ever touched. Higher weekly totals, more aggressive blasts. Their raw mass is brutal: broader frames, thicker in every way. They carry more dense muscle than I do, even at my peak.

After this Sigríður’s lips curved in the faintest, bitter twist. She raised both arms slowly, deliberately, into a double-bicep flex that made the damp white shirt sleeves creak against the sudden swell of muscle. Veins stood out along her forearms like cords as the peaks rose sharp and hard, biceps and triceps ballooning into tight, symmetrical rounds that pushed the fabric to its limit. She held the pose without strain, shoulders rolling forward just enough to cap the delts higher, traps lifting into small ridges beside her neck, every inch of the display radiating quiet, self-satisfied pride.

“All that gear pumping through them,” she murmured, voice low and edged with contempt, “synthetic testosterone, orals, the whole cocktail, just to chase bigger numbers on the platform. Borrowed size. Temporary. Fragile. One missed injection and the whole thing starts to sag.” She gave her biceps an extra, controlled squeeze; the muscle jumped visibly under the skin, veins thickening as fresh blood rushed in. “Meanwhile I built what you see naturally. Clean eating. Consistent training. No shortcuts. Every inch earned through sweat and discipline.”

Simon watched the flex without reaction, although the irony settled cool and heavy in his chest. The dense, vascular, perfectly proportioned muscle she now displayed so proudly and presented as proof of natural superiority was his work.

It had been Simon’s words and power had stripped the synthetic hormones, flushed the artificial edges, reshaped her frame into this cleaner, healthier version that still carried every ounce of power she’d built, but without the chemical scaffolding. The size, the hardness, the vascularity she claimed as the result of “no shortcuts” existed because he had spoken the words that made it so.

Lowering her arms slowly, Sigríður’s shirt settling back against sweat-damp skin, still clinging in places. Her pale blue eyes met his again, the criticism hanging plain between them.

“That’s the difference,” she finished.

Simon tilted his head the smallest fraction, watching the faint tension settle along her jaw as she finished. “If I said I wanted them working for me,” he continued, “what would hold them back?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Sigríður’s pale eyes flicked away for a moment, quick and involuntary, before returning to lock on his face. A muscle ticked once along the hard ridge of her jaw. “They wouldn’t,” she said quietly. “Not willingly.”

The words landed plain and unvarnished. Simon waited, letting the silence pull at her until she spoke again.

“Preferences,” she said after a beat, the word coming out clipped and ****. “Prejudices. The same ones I’ve always carried.” A familiar bitterness seeped into Sigríður’s otherwise steady voice, it was faint, almost nostalgic. She paused, nostrils flaring on a slow breathe. “They don’t trust men. Don’t respect them. Won’t take orders from them.”

Sigríður’s jaw tightened, lips thinning into a sharp line as distaste flashed raw across her features. “Especially not from someone they’d dismiss as ordinary. Small. Unremarkable.” The mere thought made her shoulders twitch with discomfort, a small, involuntary roll that betrayed how deeply the idea grated.

Lifting her gaze to meet his, she let the old venom spill outward, now directed at Sigríður’s former peers with unmistakable heat. “The idea of them looking down on you like that… it turns my stomach.”

“That’s why they’d never work for you willingly.”

The corner of Simon’s mouth lifted, just the smallest curve. He leaned back fully against the cushions, arms draped loose along the back of the sofa, gaze settling on the towering woman who had swallowed every drop he’d given her like sacrament.