Miss Czernin's Bodyguard
Anya W. Vossand
We all have our secrets.
I never expected to be anything but a hired hand in Minnesota, wrangling cattle and living rough, disguised as a man. But then I ran into Miss Catherine Czernin one day, and she did the very last thing I ever expected. She changed everything.
ADVISORY: This short story contains adult themes such as Lesbian Sex, Dominance / Submission, BDSM, Sadomasochism, and Crossdressing . It is only meant for readers 18+.
Excerpt:
The angle, of course, gives the woman a perfect view of the damage done to my face, and when I turn back towards her I can see that she's riveted by it. My brows lift, and she realizes she's been caught. There's a slight hint of a blush on her cheeks, and she slides her hands down to her lap demurely. “That looks most uncomfortable, Sir.”
That's not the expression she was wearing – she's not feeling sympathetic. Not with how she was staring, nor with how her lips, so full and beautiful, were slightly parted. I think the marks are intriguing to her, and I grin, purposefully pushing at the aching area and making it bunch. “I've been through worse, Ma'am. A little ice, some rest, and I'll be good as new.”
“I'm a nurse, you know” she offers, her tone hopeful. “I might offer some suggestions, if you would allow me to examine your cheek.”
Again my brow lifts, but I just nod, sitting still as she shifts around the U-shaped bench from her side to mine. The sound of her velvets sliding against the tufted leather of the seating is beautiful, her movements graceful, despite the awkward nature of the adjustment. Soon she's sitting next to me, tilting my head just so, her gloved fingertips warm against my skin. I can't help when my eyes nearly close at the sensation, though I force myself to focus, sucking in a slow breath.
I consider myself lucky that she's turned my head away, if only so that I'm not forced to choose between the sight of her lovely chest and her lovelier face. The sensation of velvet is replaced by the sensation of bare fingers against my jaw, her touch gentle as she examines the swelling and the scrapes.
“Will I make it through the night, Ma'am?” I ask softly, meaning it as a joke.
A touch, which I can only imagine was deliberate, makes me tense. Her thumb caresses across the sorest spot, and I can hear her gasp at my reaction. I can feel her grip on my jaw relax, and I turn to look at her from the corner of my eyes, smiling gently, and she looks up at me, caught again. “You'll live, Sir” the woman offers politely, having admirably collected herself.
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