The Bodyguard's Baby ✔

Ch: 1 🌻

Just a disclaimer, this story is a complete fiction, everything that happens in this story is the author's imagination, nothing is real and the author have no intention of hurting anyone.

The story involves male pregnancy, so if your not comfortable then do not read further, this is a boyxboy story meaning this is a same sex relationship story... The story also contains mature contents. Read at your own risk!

Hope you guys will enjoy reading this story...

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Gulf's POV

I finally have it, the perfect scheme to get him to notice me. There's no way that he'll be able to resist me now.

"Is that really your plan?" one of my friends asked, leaning over to whisper in my ear. My group became a giggly mess after I told them my plan to seduce the man that I had been pining after for at least four years now.

I mean, they had good reason. He was right there.

Mew Suppasit. Age twenty eight. From the neighborhood of Lincoln Park in Chicago, now living with me in a luxury apartment downtown. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly fit. He had fair skin, dark brown eyes, and short wavy hair.

What was there not to like?

There was only one little problem: Mew was my bodyguard.

"I don't see why it shouldn't work," I replied, setting my hair in a way that I hoped Mew would see.

Mild, my best friend, shot Mew a quick look and brought his finger up to his lips. "He's gonna come over here if you don't quiet down!" he said in a hushed voice.

Win, who was drinking a cool drink after having finished his lunch, nodded. "And then you'll never know if your brilliant plan will work because it'll be spoiled."

"Oh, come on, let him have his fun," Sam said, mudging Win in the shoulder. He glanced down at his watch. "Speaking of fun..." He groaned and showed us the time on the digital face. "We should probably set to class now."

"Oh, joy," Win said, "Another three hours of figure painting,"

"It's important for your portfolio." Mild tucked in his shirt behind her car. He was always the practical one about our classes. I don't think he had ever skipped a day in his life. Probably because he drank so much orange juice, so he never got sick.

"Oh, portfolios, don't remind me."

We were first-semester seniors at Columbia College of Arts in Chicago, which meant we had to think about what we wanted to do after graduation. Some of us were lucky enough to have gotten jobs from internships or have companies scouting us. Some of us, like me, didn't have to worry about money or connections.

My friends thought I was from a wealthy family, which was true, but they didn't know my father was a large part of the organized crime in Chicago. He tried to keep me out of that part of his life as much as he could, but it wasn't something that I could really get away from or forget. Especially when my bodyguard followed me everywhere, even to school.

I didn't want to rely on my father's wealth, though, or his connections in the art world to make me successful. I wanted to succeed because people liked my art and because it meant something to them, but I knew that would be near impossible without relying at least a little on my father and the resources he could provide me.

The four of us got to class on time and settled in to finish our seven-hour day of more figure painting. When you were doing something that took a long time, like figure painting, your classes had to be long. They were called studio classes because they resembled what a typical day in the studio might look like for a working artist. At least, that's where I assumed the name came from.