All Chapters of Forbidden: My Bodyguard's Obsession: Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

NANCY'S POV“Yes, you can.” He shifted my leg higher on his arm and drove back in. “This pussy isn’t done. I can still feel how wet you are. I can still feel you grabbing me. You’re going to come again.”I moaned. The oversensitivity made every stroke sharper. Better. Almost too much. He kept fucking me hard and deep, the same brutal rhythm, and my body started climbing again whether I thought I could or not.“Oh my god.”“There she is.” His forehead dropped to mine. “You feel that? You’re getting tighter again. You want another one.”“Yes.” It came out like a sob. “Yes. Fuck me. Don’t stop. Please.”“I wasn’t going to.” He snapped his hips in harder. “You asked me to fuck you. This is me fucking you. This is me taking this needy little cunt until it comes twice.”The second orgasm built slower and then broke all at once. I came with his name in my mouth, thighs shaking, nails in his back, my pussy squeezing his cock in helpless waves. He groaned like it hurt him in the best way and k

NANCY'S POVHis jaw tightened. For a second I thought I had reached him.“I am not staying because I am proud,” he said. “I am staying because if I leave, he walks into an empty apartment and decides I ran because I am guilty of something worse. I am staying because you are shaking. I am staying because I told you I would not leave you alone with this.”“He said you are dangerous.”Zade was quiet for a second. His thumb moved once over the small curve of my stomach.“I was,” he said. “To the wrong people. Not to you. Not anymore. He does not have to believe that tonight. He only has to not shoot me before I can say it.”A sound left me that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. He pulled me down onto the bed, into his chest, one arm around my back, the other hand in my hair.“Breathe,” he said against the top of my head. “He is on a plane. He is not at the door. We have hours.”“Hours is not enough.”“It is what we have.” His hand moved slow over my back. “You tried to lie to him.”“He

NANCY'S POVI did not move fast enough.His hand went into his coat. When it came back out, there was a gun in it, pointed at Zade. The room went small. The breakfast plates were still on the table. The tea had gone cold. None of that mattered. Zade did not lift his hands. He did not move. He just stood there.“Dad.” My voice came out thin. “Put that down. Please. Let me talk.”“Get behind me,” my father said. He did not look at me. “Now.”“He is not here to hurt me.” I took one step and stopped when the gun did not lower. “He has been here for weeks. He has been taking care of me. If you shoot him, you are not saving me from anything.”“He is the reason you are in this country,” my father said. His voice stayed low, but the anger was right under it. “He lied to me. He lied to you. I heard him say he would kill you. And I walk in and find him standing in your kitchen. Do not ask me to pretend that is fine.”“I am asking you to look at me.”“I am looking at the man I trusted with you.”

NANCY'S POVMy father’s jaw worked. The anger was still there. So was the fear. So was the love, which was the part that made this hurt.“Then tell me what you need,” he said.I did not have a clean answer. I needed the baby safe. I needed Zade alive. I needed my father to look at me and see a woman, not a child he had failed to protect. I needed one hour where no one decided my life because they loved me too hard.The room felt too small. The gun was still on the table by the door. The breakfast plates were still out. My stomach was unsettled again, not from the baby this time, from the weight of both of them waiting for me to choose a side.“I need you to be patient with me,” I said. My voice shook, but I kept going. “I need you to stop talking about planes and bags for one hour. I need you to sit in this room and hear that I am not broken just because he is here. I am tired. I am pregnant. I am scared of what you will do. That is not the same as needing to be taken home.”My father

Zade’s POVNancy’s father stayed in Paris for a week.He did not stay in the apartment. He took a hotel three streets away and came every morning like the place belonged to him anyway. He brought food she could keep down. Soup. Bread. Fruit she ate in small pieces at the table while he watched her hands. He walked her to the doctor and stood in the waiting room with his coat still buttoned, eyes on the door. He asked the nurse questions I would have asked if he had let me. I kept to the edges of those days. I made the tea. I checked the lock twice. I did not sit until she asked me to. His hatred was still in the room every time he looked at me. It had just learned how to be quiet. At least he had not shot me. That was the bar we were living under, and I was grateful for it in a way I did not say out loud.On the last afternoon they were in her bedroom, talking. I stayed in the living room. I could hear the low shape of their voices through the door, not the words. Hers was tired. His