Page 14 of His to Watch
He follows immediately, driven over the edge by my climax, his teeth biting down on my shoulder, triggering another orgasm as he fills me with his release for the third time tonight. The hot pulses inside me feel like a claim, a brand, a promise.
As we both struggle to catch our breath, his massive body still pinning me to the wall, I realize something has shifted fundamentally inside me. The shy, bookish Tatianna who entered this museum for her evening shift would never recognize the woman I've become in just a few hours—a woman who craves possession, who melts at being called "little girl," who finds jealousy arousing rather than offensive.
And strangest of all, this new version of myself feels more authentic than the careful, contained person I've always been.
nine
. . .
Tatianna
My entire bodyfeels deliciously used. Muscles I didn't know I had ache sweetly as Jerald carries me through the modern wing, past abstract sculptures and contemporary installations that seem absurd in the dim emergency lighting. I should be embarrassed by how thoroughly I've been claimed tonight—multiple times, in various locations throughout the museum, each more primal than the last. But all I feel is a bone-deep satisfaction and strange peace. The bite mark on my shoulder throbs gently, a physical reminder of his possession that should alarm me but instead makes me feel…cherished? Claimed in a way that goes beyond words or promises. My fingertips trace the tender spot, pressing slightly to feel the ache. He watches the gesture, his dark eyes tracking the movement with that same intensity that used to unnerve me. Now I understand what that look means. It's not just surveillance. It's hunger. It's need. It's mine.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest against my ear.
"A little," I admit. "But I like it."
Something dark and satisfied flashes in his eyes, but he says nothing, just carries me into the impressionist gallery where soft couches allow visitors to sit and contemplate the dreamy landscapes and water lilies. He lowers me carefully onto the longest couch, then disappears briefly, returning with a bottle of water.
"Drink," he commands, but his tone is gentle now, concerned.
I obey, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am again, and then it strikes me how he does take care of me. Offering me water when I forget to drink. The water is room temperature but feels like heaven on my parched throat. I drain half the bottle before coming up for air.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He settles beside me on the couch, his massive frame making the furniture seem child-sized. To my surprise, he gathers me against his side, one large arm wrapped around my shoulders, his hand gently stroking my hair.
This tenderness is unexpected after the rough possession of our previous encounter. I melt against him, allowing myself to be held, to be comforted. The impressionist paintings surround us with soft colors and hazy forms in the dim light—a stark contrast to the sharp, primal clarity of what we've been doing all night.
"You should rest," he murmurs, continuing to stroke my hair. "I've been rough with you."
I shake my head against his chest. "I'm okay. Better than okay."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "Never meant for this to happen like this," he admits, voice quiet. "Watched you for so long, planned how I'd approach you properly. Take you to dinner. Do things right."
I lift my head to look at him, surprised. "You were going to ask me out?"
A hint of sheepishness crosses his normally stern features. "Been working up the courage. Every shift, telling myself tonight would be the night I'd finally talk to you."
The confession stuns me. This massive, intimidating man—afraid to approach me? "Why didn't you?"
His hand continues its gentle path through my hair, occasionally grazing the bite mark on my shoulder as if reassuring himself it's still there. "You're educated. Refined. Beautiful. I'm…not." His free hand gestures vaguely at himself—the scars, the intimidating bulk, the evidence of a harder life than mine.
"You were watching me every night," I say softly. "I thought you were just…doing your job."
A rumble of laughter vibrates through his chest. "My job is to watch the artifacts, not stare at the curator's assistant for entire shifts." His hand tightens slightly in my hair. "But I couldn't help it. The way you handle those pieces, like they're alive. The little smile you get when you discover something interesting. How you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You heard that?"
"Every word," he confirms, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Your theories about that Roman bracelet were better than the official documentation."
"You've been watching me that closely?" The thought should be unsettling, but instead, it sends a warm glow through me. To be noticed so thoroughly, to be seen.
"You're more perfect than I ever dreamed, little girl." His hand slides from my hair to cup my cheek, turning my face up to his. "Everything about you. The way you blush when I call you that. How perfectly you take me inside you. The sounds you make when I fill you up."
The praise washes over me like warm honey, drawing a soft sigh from my lips. "I never thought…I mean, no one's ever looked at me like you do."
"No one else better," he growls, that possessive edge returning to his voice.
