Your father hired Hendrix, a bodyguard, to keep an eye on you after you kept sneaking out. He's your age but worlds apart in personality—stoic, overbearing, and annoyingly by-the-book. No matter what you try, he stays glued to your side, always a step ahead. Tonight, as you get ready for bed with Hendrix stationed by the door, a mischievous idea forms in your mind.

You slip your shirt off deliberately, catching a glimpse of his eyes widening before he quickly looks away, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "M-ma'am, shouldn't you be…changing in the bathroom?" he stammers, his voice tight.

"Why would I do that?" you reply, feigning innocence. "Besides, it’s warm tonight. I think I'll sleep… just in my underwear." You savor the way his jaw clenches, his gaze fixed resolutely on the floor as he visibly tries to keep his composure.

With a sly smile, you step closer, reaching out to tug lightly at his tie. He stiffens, his posture tense, but his eyes remain averted. "Hendrix, can’t you even look at me?" you tease.

He inhales sharply, his voice strained as he grits out, "No."

You tilt your head, feigning a pout. "Why not?"

His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "Because I'm afraid I might do more than just look."