For His Own Protection

Shae Coon

Description

Lizzy Marron was only three years old when her mother was taken.


Her family thinks she doesn't remember anything, but little do they know, Lizzy remembers everything. Now grown, Lizzy is a blonde bombshell, with a smart-ass mouth and a take no prisoner’s attitude. After being hired as a personal security agent at Marron House Security, Lizzy is assigned to the seemingly spoiled, rich, and very cocky Ethan Kendry.


Night club owner and all-around playboy, Ethan lives for the thrill of fast cars, women, and money. He lives his life on the edge. So after a failed attempt on his life, Ethan fights his mother tooth and nail when she insists he hires personal security. Expecting them to send him a large, thick-necked brute as his protection detail, Ethan is blown away when a gorgeous brown-eyed, leggy blonde walks through his doors and introduces herself as his personal security.


As they fight like cats and dogs, Ethan and Lizzy can't deny the carnal pull between them.
After a night gone wrong, they both give in to the danger and passion that is their desire. It's only supposed to be one night, but can the two of them keep it that way?

Sujets

• Romance
• Romance érotique
• BD Erotique
• BDSM
• Erotica
• Bondage et discipline, domination et soumission et sado-masochisme
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
• Date de parution: 15 septembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781644502761
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Table o f Contents
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Epilogue
The End
Sneak Peek
Her Bro ken Pieces
Shae Coon




For His Own Pr otection
Copyright © 2021 Shae Coon. All rights r eserved.

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This is book is meant as a reference guide. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All brands, quotes, and cited work respectfully belongs to the original rights holders and bear no affiliation to the authors or pu blisher.
Library of Congress Control Number: 20 21941799
Print ISBN: 978-1-644 50-277-8
Audio ISBN: 978-1-644 50-278-5
E-book ISBN: 978-1-6445 0-276-1





Dedication
To my family, who stood by me t hrough the
doubt and write r’s block.


Prologue
Lizzy
T here are times in your life when you just want to look at the person in front of you and tell them to go fuck themselves because they are just a bag of was ted flesh.
I am currently at that point in time. Captain Davey is bitching me out for what feels like the millionth time about my “aggressive” takedown of a perp.
As a cop for the Dallas P.D for a little over two years now, I’ve made quite a name for myself— granted, not all the names are flattering. Bitch, pain-in-the-ass, and ballbuster, to name a few, but I take every term with a grai n of salt.
I have the highest arrest record in the precinct, and the old codgers that sit on their asses waiting to collect their pensions don’t like that I have shown them up within months of starting on the streets. So, I keep doing what I am doing. But every now and again—like now—I have a perp that will cry like a little bitch about how I mistre ated them.
“I feel like I’m talking to one of my damn kids,” Captain Davey spits, and by the vein bulging from his forehead, I think he may keel over any m oment now.
“Which one? The thirty-year-old one that still lives at home or the one photographed pissing in the alleyway of a strip club?” I taunt. “Because personally, I prefer the latter. At least he’s having some fun.”
“Shut the fuck up , Marron!”
I mash my lips together to keep silent, but I can’t keep my grin from stretchin g my lips.
Davey plops into his well-used, standard-issue precinct chair and rubs large, sausage-like fingers over his white beard. The whole time he’s trying to hold back his own smirk. “Look, Liz, you know I think you are a hell of a cop. Shit, you’re the best we’ve ever had, and I don’t mind telling every swinging dick in this place that fact.” I can feel there’s a but coming, so I stay quiet. “But you. Can. Not. Taser a man in the balls!” h e bellows.
I shrug—not fazed by his outburst. “I was aiming for his stomach. I missed.”
And before he speaks, I know what he’s going to say. “Bullshit! You’re a killer shot. Some of the guys I served with aren’t even as goo d as you.”
“Captain, come on. The guy was beating on his wife when we showed up. Then, he wouldn’t comply when he was told to get on his knees multiple times. So, I took him to his knees. What’s the big deal?” I throw my hands up i n the air.
“The big deal is that I have the commissioner up my ass because the department is being threatened with lawsuits!”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I jump to my feet and plant my palms on his desk. “The commissioner is scared of some punk-ass criminal sullying his good name? That’s why all my hard work—all the shit I do to make his name look good—is being push ed aside?”
“Marron, don’t play stupid. You know that the bad shit is what everyone looks at during an election year.” I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand, halting my rant. “I’m not saying I agree, but it’s just the reality of the s ituation.”
“Fine. So, what now? I’m on desk duty for another week?” I cross my arms over my kevlar-covered chest. When he looks away and knocks his knuckles against his desk, I know this time my punishment won’t be a simple slap on the wrist. “Spit it out, Captain.”
He looks back at me. “You’re suspended with pay for o ne month.”
My blood boils, and my fists clench when the length of my punishment has me putting the puzzle piece together. “One month. Just enough time to seal his re-election. He’s going to use my punishment as a platform to firm up last-minute votes.” I let out a humorless chuckle. “I’m about to be used as his election whore, and you’re letting him do it.” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Don’t do that, Marron. Don’t make me out to be a bad guy. You only have yourself to blame.” With those words, I remove my standard-issued nine-millimeter and place it on his desk. Then without hesitation, I remove my badge and lay it next to t he weapon.
“You and the commissioner have fun sucking each other off. I quit.” I turn and walk out the door—the captain’s angry shouting and cursing fading in the distance.
1
Lizzy
One year later
T he heavy bag swings to the side with the power behind my side kick, then back and forth on my follow-up push kick. My fists meet the leather, and if it weren’t for my wraps, my knuckles would be split right now. My temper is on a slow burn— which isn’t good for anyone in the vicinity.
The reason for my anger? I have worked for Marron House Security for a year now, and I still haven’t been given a client.
When I first interviewed for Jax Townsend—my pain in the ass brother’s best friend and M.H.S. partner—he had worked me over hard. He put me through scenario after scenario where he would attack from different angles, different speeds, and even in the pitch black of night. I had come through it all with nothing more than a sore ass when he managed to tackle me—once. One time is all he got, but he made sure to lecture me about it being one too many. I was able to subdue the mountain of a man with each attack or at least get away long enough to take my client—an M.M.A. dummy named Cliff— to safety.
I was pumped when he hired me as a personal security agent and ready to take on the world, but apparently, my brother—the famed tech genius and all-around ass-munch Caleb Marron—and Jax had other plans. I have been stuck with surveillance duty, interviewing potential clients, and a lot of bullshit administrative work. I know what my brother is doing. He is being his usual overbearing, overly protective, controlling self, and though I understand why, I am s ick of it.
She is my mother too. I was only three when she was taken, and I know people think I don’t remember, but I do.
I remember every detail. I remember my father crying at night when he thought I was sleeping. I remember the bruises on his knuckles that weren’t there the night before. I remember him talking to my uncle Kyle about how they were going to extract her. I remember the bruises on my mother’s face when she finally came back home. But of all the memories, the ones of my mother blaming herself for mine and Caleb’s nightmares were the worst. Her cries could be heard through their bedroom doors, and her tears wrecked my yo ung heart.
That’s why when I was diagnosed with a Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory— or hyperthymesia—at the age of twenty-one, I never told a soul. I never tell anyone how I can recall a memory like it was yesterday. That I will get so lost in a memory that I haven’t realized hours have passed and that it causes me to have compulsive behaviors—such as organizing and reorganizing my hidden collection of Wonder Woman comic books. Or the compulsive need to punch my brother in the face repeatedly right now.
I’m so deep in thought that I never hear said brother come up behind me. But I don’t need to hear or see the person to know that h e’s there.
With the slightest change in the temperature around me, I turn quickly with a roundhouse kick, and like I knew he would, Caleb catches my leg then pushes it away. I use the momentum to swing around with a back fist, but again the move i s blocked.
“Liz, stop,” Caleb commands in a bored tone, and it pisses me of f further.
I square up and throw jab after jab, and he bobs and weaves—never breaking a sweat. “What’s wrong, big bro? Don’t want to spar with your little sister? Afraid you’ll get your ass handed to you?” I keep throwing kicks and punches, but after two hours of a heavy workout, I’m beginning to lose momentum, and Caleb takes advantage.
He catches my wrist, squeezes in just the right place, and a painful bolt of electricity shoots up my arm. He twists my arm around to my back, then gets me in a triangle hold, and though I could get out of the move easily, it would require causing my brother actual harm. And I may be pissed at him, but I don’t really want to hur t the guy.
I tap his forearm as my vision goes fuzzy, and he immediately lets me go. “Okay, Liz, what did I do now?”
I walk over to my water bottle with a gru