Page 10 of His to Watch
The possessiveness in his voice, the absolute certainty, should terrify me. Instead, it makes something warm and liquid pool in my belly again, a need I didn't know I had finally being addressed.
"Yours," I whisper, testing the word, finding I like how it feels in my mouth.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he leans in to claim another kiss, this one gentler than before but no less possessive.
A loud crash from somewhere in the building breaks the moment. We both freeze, his body instantly tensing as he pulls back, head turning toward the door.
"What was that?" I whisper, clutching his shirt around me.
"Stay here," he orders, all tenderness gone, replaced by a predatory alertness that transforms him completely. He stands, muscles coiled like a panther ready to spring, grabbing his utility belt with its flashlight and baton.
"Wait," I scramble to my feet, wincing at the soreness between my thighs. "You can't go alone?—"
"I said stay here." His voice is iron now, leaving no room for argument. "Lock the door behind me."
"But—"
“Goddammit, Tatianna, listen to me,” he growls, and the possessive fury in his eyes should frighten me. It doesn't. It makes me feel…protected. Valued. "Anyone else in this building is a threat, Tatianna. A threat I'll eliminate."
The primitive declaration sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. I've never had anyone willing to protect me this way—as if I'm precious, essential.
"Be careful," I whisper, clutching his shirt tighter around me.
He cups my face with one hand, the gentleness at odds with the deadly focus in his eyes. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me." He presses a hard, quick kiss to my lips. “I’ll always protect you, baby.”
I nod, following him to the door, watching his broad back as he steps into the darkened hallway. I close the door behind him and turn the lock, as instructed. The click seems to echo in the sudden silence.
Alone, wrapped in his too-large shirt with his scent surrounding me and his seed still warm inside me, I press my forehead against the door. What is happening to me? In the space of a few hours, I've given my virginity to a man I barely know, responded to possessive language that should offend me, and now I'm standing here genuinely worried for his safety rather than my own.
I press my thighs together, feeling the delicious ache he left there, the evidence of his possession still wet against my skin. Whatever's making that noise in the museum, whatever happens when morning comes and the doors unlock, one thing has become undeniably clear:
I don't want this night to end.
seven
. . .
Jerald
The "threat"was nothing—just a goddamn plaster reproduction that fell from a hook in the Renaissance wing. Should've been secured better. I'll report it to maintenance when we get out of this lockdown. But the rush of protective rage that hit me when I thought someone might hurt her…Christ. I've never felt anything like it. The thought of another man even looking at Tatianna now that I've claimed her makes me want to tear throats out with my bare hands. I stalk back to the break room, knocking our code—two quick taps, pause, one more—so she knows it's me. When the door opens and I see her standing there in nothing but my uniform shirt that hangs to her knees, hair mussed from my hands, lips swollen from my kisses, I know I need to have her again. Right fucking now.
"Everything okay?" she asks, those big innocent eyes searching my face.
"Just a fallen display," I tell her, stepping inside and locking the door behind me. "Nothing to worry about."
Relief washes over her features, quickly replaced by shyness as she notices my heated gaze. She tugs at the hem of my shirt,trying to pull it lower on her thighs, as if I haven't already seen, touched, and tasted every inch of her.
"Come here," I command softly.
She hesitates only a moment before moving toward me, her bare feet silent on the break room floor. When she's close enough, I reach out, running my hands down her sides, feeling her delicate curves beneath the fabric of my shirt.
"Mine," I murmur, more to myself than to her.
"Yours," she agrees softly, sending a fresh surge of possessiveness through me.
Without warning, I bend and scoop her into my arms. She lets out a startled squeak, arms automatically wrapping around my neck for balance.
"What are you doing?" she asks as I carry her toward the door.
