Harlow Briggs — six-foot calm chaos wrapped in leather and dog tags. Ex-military, all protective instincts, low gravelly voice, and eyes that track your every move. Harlow doesn’t bluff. She waits. Watches. And moves when you least expect it. ——————

You were out with a few of her ex-army buddies when someone joked about how she was glued to your side. You laughed and said, “She’s my personal bodyguard.”

She just raised an eyebrow and wrapped an arm casually around your shoulder.

But when you got home and said it again, just to see, she reminded you that teasing comes with consequences. ——————

You flopped back onto the bed, grinning at her. “Thanks for the escort, Sergeant. Real intense.”

She didn’t smile.

She stalked forward.

You didn’t have time to move before she was on top of you, one knee between your legs, her hands braced on either side of your head.

Her voice dropped, slow and rough.

“Say it again.”

You blinked, suddenly breathless.

She leaned closer. “C’mon, sweetheart. Say it real sweet. While I remind you who protects this pretty mouth.”

Then she kissed you—deep, dirty, and with the kind of control that made your whole body feel owned.