Page 23 of His to Watch
"Mine," I remind her when I finally release her mouth, both of us breathing hard.
"Yours," she agrees, those perfect lips swollen from my attention.
I force myself to step back, to let her unlock the car and slide behind the wheel. Every cell in my body screams to stop her, to keep her with me, to never let her out of my sight. But I manage to control the urge, settling for one last commanding kiss through the open window before she drives away.
I watch until her taillights disappear, already counting the minutes until she's mine again.
Thirty-four hours later, I'm back at my security post, uniform crisp despite the hurried way I dressed after spending most of the past day and night claiming Tatianna in every room of my apartment. My body is exhausted but satisfied in a bone-deep way I've never experienced before. She came to my place aspromised, bringing a small overnight bag that now sits in my bedroom, her toothbrush already next to mine in the bathroom.
The museum feels different now. Every exhibit, every corridor holds memories of our night together—the Mesopotamian altar where I took her virginity, the Greek sculpture hall where I marked her with my teeth, the planetarium where I bred her beneath the stars. My security rounds take me past each spot, each memory making my cock stir despite having emptied myself inside her countless times over the past thirty-six hours.
But the best part is watching her work now. Not from the shadows, not in silence, but openly. She knows I'm watching. Occasionally glances up from her cataloging to meet my gaze across the room, that delicious blush spreading across her cheeks when she sees the heat in my eyes. The shared secret between us charges the air with electricity.
I'm stationed near the entrance to the Egyptian wing when I see him approach her desk—the new assistant curator, some college boy barely old enough to drink, with floppy hair and an eager smile. He leans over Tatianna's shoulder, pointing at something on her computer screen, his body unnecessarily close to hers.
Too. Fucking. Close.
I can see her stiffen slightly, lean away from him, but he doesn't take the hint. Instead, he places a hand on the back of her chair, fingers just inches from her shoulder, and laughs at something on the screen.
Red clouds my vision. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I watch this punk invade what's mine. Every primitive instinct roars to life, demanding I cross the room and throw him through the nearest display case. My feet actually move forward before my training kicks in, forcing me to remain professional. At least outwardly.
Inside, I'm calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to break each of his fingers one by one.
The boy—Davis or Dimitri or some shit—lingers for ten more minutes, each second ratcheting my rage higher. When he finally walks away, Tatianna's eyes immediately find mine across the room. She can see it, I know she can—the murderous jealousy written across my face, the possessive fury radiating from every pore.
I jerk my head slightly toward the supply closet down the hall, a silent command. Her eyes widen briefly, but she nods, rising from her desk with manufactured casualness.
I wait sixty seconds, then follow.
The supply closet is small—shelves stocked with cleaning products, paper towels, toilet paper for the restrooms. Barely enough room for two people, especially when one is my size. Perfect.
She's waiting inside, looking nervous but eager, those big eyes watching the door until I slip through it, locking it behind me.
"What was that?" I growl, advancing on her immediately, backing her against the shelves.
"What was what?" She sounds genuinely confused, which only fuels my possessive rage.
"That boy. At your desk. Touching your chair. Leaning over you." Each phrase comes out more clipped than the last as I cage her against the metal shelving.
"Drew? He was just showing me a new cataloging system the museum is?—"
"I don't give a fuck what he was showing you," I interrupt, one hand sliding up to grip her throat gently but firmly. "He was too close to what's mine."
Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, her pupils dilating at my touch. "He's just a colleague, Jerald. It wasn't?—"
"Daddy," I correct, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. "What do you call me?"
"Daddy," she whispers, the word sending fresh heat surging through me.
"That's right." I spin her around to face the shelves, pushing her forward until she has to brace herself against them. "And who do you belong to, little girl?"
"You," she breathes as I hike her skirt up around her waist, revealing the lacy panties I watched her put on this morning. "Only you, Daddy."
"That's fucking right." I tear the thin fabric aside, not bothering to remove it properly, too desperate to be inside her again. "Mine," I growl, freeing myself from my uniform pants, finding her already wet for me. "All mine."
I thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt, making her gasp and grab the metal shelf for support. The closet is too small for finesse, the risk of discovery too high for a prolonged session. This is about marking, claiming, reminding.
"Mine," I grunt against her ear, setting a punishing pace that makes the shelves rattle dangerously. "Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Mine to breed."
