Page 15 of His to Watch
I laugh, suddenly feeling lighter than I have in years. "I feel like I should be running for the hills. You're possessive and intense and we barely know each other. But instead, I just want…more."
"More what?" he asks, his thumb tracing my bottom lip.
"More of this. Of you. Of us." I gesture vaguely at our entwined bodies, at the museum around us. "More of how you make me feel—seen and safe and…wanted."
His eyes darken, pupils expanding. "You'll get more. So much more, little girl. This is just the beginning."
Something playful rises in me then, a lightness born from the certainty of being truly wanted. I slip from his grasp, rising from the couch with a teasing smile. "Catch me first," I challenge, backing away from him.
Surprise flashes across his face, quickly replaced by something predatory that sends delicious shivers down my spine. "You want to play, little girl? With a man trained to track and hunt?"
I turn and dart between the displays, his shirt flapping around my thighs as I move deeper into the gallery. The game is absurd—I'm nearly naked in a locked museum, playing hide-and-seek with a man who's claimed me repeatedly throughout the night. But there's something freeing in the absurdity, in the childish game turned erotic by the heat between us.
I duck behind a large sculpture, listening for his footsteps. Nothing. The man moves like a ghost despite his size. My heart pounds with exhilaration as I peer around the corner, seeing no sign of him.
"Found you," his voice rumbles directly behind me, making me gasp and spin around.
"How did you?—"
He catches me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist. "Told you. Trained to hunt."
There's something different in his eyes now—still possessive, still hungry, but with a playfulness that matches my own mood. He backs me against the wall beside the sculpture, his massive frame caging me in.
"And what's the prize for finding you?" he asks, voice dropping to that register that makes heat pool between my legs.
"Whatever you want," I whisper, already melting under his intense gaze.
"What I want," he growls, lifting me effortlessly, "is to hear you beg."
He carries me to a cushioned bench in the center of the gallery, designed for visitors to sit and contemplate the artwork. In one smooth motion, he sits and arranges me across his lap, facing him, my knees on either side of his massive thighs.
"Ask nicely," he commands, hands sliding up under his shirt that I'm still wearing, finding my breasts with unerring accuracy. "Tell Daddy what you need."
The term that should sound ridiculous now sends a jolt of desire straight between my legs. "Please," I whisper, arching into his touch as his thumbs brush over my sensitive nipples. "Please, Daddy."
"Please what?" He pinches lightly, drawing a gasp from me. "Be specific, little girl. Daddy wants to hear exactly what you need."
"I need you inside me," I admit, hips rocking instinctively against the hard ridge in his pants. "Please, Daddy. I need you to fill me again."
His approving growl is all the warning I get before he lifts me slightly, freeing himself with his other hand. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, positioning me over his cock. "Take what you need, baby girl. Show Daddy how much you want it."
I lower myself onto him slowly, still tender from our previous encounters but desperate for the fullness only he can provide. His hands grip my hips, guiding but not forcing, letting me set the pace as I take him inch by inch.
"That's it," he praises as I finally seat myself fully on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside me. "Such a good girl for Daddy. Taking me so beautifully."
The praise washes over me, drawing a whimper from my throat as I begin to move. This position gives me control I haven't had before, allows me to rock against him at my own pace. His hands move to my ass, supporting and encouraging but not demanding.
"So perfect," he murmurs, watching where our bodies join with rapt attention. "Made for this. Made for me."
"For you," I agree, finding a rhythm that sends sparks of pleasure through my oversensitive body. "Only you, Daddy."
He groans at my words, his hips rising to meet my downward movements. "Say it again."
"Daddy," I whisper, then louder as his thrusts intensify. "Daddy!"
The impressionist paintings blur around us as we move together on the bench, my body rising and falling on his shaft with increasing urgency. His praise flows continuously—"good girl" and "so tight" and "perfect little pussy"—each filthy compliment pushing me closer to the edge.
"Going to come for Daddy again?" he asks, one hand moving between us to find my sensitive bundle of nerves. "Going to let me feel this sweet pussy squeezing my cock?"
