Page 18 of His to Watch
I grab his outstretched hand, letting him pull me to my feet. My legs feel wobbly, my body aching in places I never knew could ache, evidence of our multiple encounters throughout the night. He steadies me with a hand at my waist, then pulls me against his chest in a swift, protective gesture.
"Stay behind me," he orders, already moving toward the planetarium exit, one arm keeping me tucked against his side.
We make our way through darkened corridors, the beeping growing louder as we approach the east wing. Jerald's body is coiled tight, his movements precise and predatory. I've never seen him like this—the security guard replaced by something far more dangerous, more lethal.
When we round the corner and spot the blinking panel near the loading dock entrance, he pushes me behind him bodily, creating a human shield between me and any potential threat.
"No one takes my little girl from me," he growls, the possessive fury in his voice making me shiver despite the fear coursing through me.
Little girl.The term that should offend me, that would have made me bristle with indignation from anyone else, now wraps around me like a protective charm. I am his little girl. His to shield, his to protect, his to keep safe.
Jerald approaches the panel cautiously, studying the blinking lights with narrowed eyes. His fingers move over the keypad with practiced familiarity, entering codes I can't see from my position.
"System glitch," he finally announces, shoulders relaxing slightly as the beeping stops. "Power fluctuation triggered an automated reset sequence."
"So no one's trying to get in?" The relief in my voice is palpable.
"Not yet." His expression remains vigilant. "But we should move away from external access points. Come with me."
He takes my hand again, leading me deeper into the museum, away from doors and windows and potential intrusion. We pass through the conservation wing, where fragile artifacts undergo restoration, and enter a door marked "Authorized Personnel Only."
The climate-controlled storage room beyond is kept at a precise temperature and humidity level to preserve delicate organic materials—textiles, papers, wood. The emergency lighting here is brighter than in other areas, casting everything in a warm amber glow rather than blood red.
"No one will find us here," Jerald assures me, locking the door behind us. "This room is designed for maximum isolation from external environments."
I look around at the metal shelving units filled with carefully boxed artifacts, at the specialized equipment used for preservation. "Won't we damage something?"
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Not if we're careful."
He guides me to a cleared workstation in the center of the room—a large table covered in soft felt used for examining delicate items. With gentle hands, he lifts me onto the surface, positioning me at the edge.
"Still scared?" he asks, his large palms running soothingly up and down my bare thighs.
I nod, unable to lie. The adrenaline from the false alarm still courses through my system, making my heart race and my hands tremble slightly.
"Let Daddy take care of that," he murmurs, dropping to his knees before me. "Lie back."
The position places him between my legs, his broad shoulders spreading my thighs wide. I obey his instruction, leaning back on my elbows on the soft felt surface, watching as he looks up at me from his kneeling position.
"Perfect," he breathes, his warm exhale tickling my sensitive flesh. "So fucking beautiful."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me—gentle, worshipful, his tongue tracing delicate patterns that make me gasp and arch. This is different from our earlier encounters—not frantic or possessive, but reverent, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.
"Oh," I breathe, one hand flying to tangle in his short hair. "Jerald?—"
"Daddy," he corrects against my flesh, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "Say it."
"Daddy," I whimper, the word coming naturally now, falling from my lips like it belongs there. "Please don't stop."
He hums his approval against me, the sound traveling through my core. His large hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his attentions as his tongue explores every fold, every sensitive spot.
“You’ve been driving me crazy for months.,” he murmurs between languid strokes. “Been beating off every night to you thoughts of breeding you.”
The breeding talk—so dirty, so primal—shouldn't affect me this way, but it does. Each filthy promise sends another wave ofheat through me, another rush of wetness that he laps up with appreciative growls.
“Jacked off in the shower every night thinking you'd be so beautiful pregnant," he continues, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs. "So perfect carrying my child."
My head falls back as he returns to my center, focusing his attention on the bundle of nerves that makes my toes curl. The fear from moments ago transforms into something else entirely—a different kind of adrenaline, a different kind of surrender.
