Charlie/Astoria (bodyguard)
He has to keep an eye on her but that doesn’t mean he has to watch. He does though.
Can’t look away.
He would if he thought she wanted him to – probably he would – but he’s tracked her around the world for long enough to know her body language and right now, it’s screaming for him to keep his eyes exactly where she’s drawing them.
Up the length of her neck, painted nails a perfect match to her lips, something he confirms when she slides one past them, cheeks hollowing on a suck around the length of her forefinger.
Astoria Greengrass is his responsibility. What she does with her body, even in front of him, is not.
He grits his teeth, his back against the wall of her suite as she slowly leans on her bent arm, body draped elegantly over the bed to his right, her damp finger making a return journey down her skin and between her breasts, covered – barely – by the dress she wore to dinner where he stood against a different wall but watched her still.
“What about this?” she questions. Her voice is light but deceptively so; he knows she can cut with it just as easily as he can with his concealed knife. “Would this do it?”
The swells tempt him, lush and glowing from the lotion she’d made him watch her apply, the scent of it lingering in his nostrils like a constant torment, the way the scent of cooking only made him hungrier for the meal.
He flexes his jaw in response, eyes drifting slowly down the length of her body and then carrying on across the wood floor, snagging on the rug and following the edge of it upward to the window straight ahead.
It’s night. He has hours yet until he’s off duty.
She scoffs, amusement tinged with just the barest hint of frustration.
“This isn’t over,” she tells him. “I’ll figure you out, C. You’ll break for me soon enough.”