She kisses him on the lift to Highrise, and he tastes like whiskey and smoke, things she's always being cautioned away from, things that are "not good" for her as a singer. He reciprocates enthusiastically, crossing that line between bodyguard and client, friend and lover, for the tenth, twentieth, thousandth time—if all his looks and words and gestures could be counted—and she welcomes it, welcomes him, casting off caution like an outgrown skin.
Oh, if only all those who are so concerned with what's "good" for her could see them now, kissing, groping, tipsy and laughing in the evening air, their proximity to privacy their only motivation for maintaining public decency!
They stumble into her apartment and shut the door, and then it's buttons popping, skirt bunching, hard flesh sliding into slick heat. He presses her against the wall and groans into her mouth; she rocks her hips and drags her fingernails down his back. Neither of them last long, and they sink to the floor, laughing, panting, foreheads touching.
"Damn, I love you," he whispers, and she answers him with another kiss.
He's everything that's not "good" for her.
Except he's the only thing that really is.