Page 4 of His to Watch
"Not as impressive as your work," he counters, stepping closer. "I've watched you catalog those Herculaneum pieces. You know things about those artifacts no one else here does."
My cheeks burn hotter. He's been watching me work? Actually paying attention to what I'm doing, not just…watching me? The thought is oddly flattering.
"It's my job," I mumble, ducking my head. "I just love history. Objects tell stories that people sometimes miss."
"You're so damn smart, little girl." His voice drops another octave, the gruff compliment washing over me like a physical touch. "Makes me want to keep you locked up with me forever."
My head snaps up, eyes wide. Did he just...? The way he's looking at me—like I'm an exhibit he wants to steal and keep for himself—makes my breath catch. There's nothing professional in that gaze. Nothing safe.
"We should check the north wing," I stammer, turning away quickly before he can see the effect his words have on me. "There might be a service entrance that?—"
"Won't be open," he cuts me off, but follows as I hurry ahead. "But we can check."
The north wing houses the temporary exhibits—currently a display on Mesopotamian fertility rituals that I helped research last spring. The dim emergency lighting casts eerie shadows across the ancient stone carvings of couples intertwined in explicit positions.
"These are…um…third millennium BCE," I explain needlessly, my academic voice taking over as we pass a particularly graphic statue. "They believed fertility rituals ensured not just children but good harvests and?—"
"Protection," Jerald finishes, suddenly directly behind me. I didn't hear him move closer. "The male figure is both fertilizing and protecting."
His body radiates heat against my back, though he's not quite touching me. I can feel his breath stir my hair, can sense the massive breadth of his chest just inches away. How can someone so large move so silently?
"Yes," I whisper, frozen in place like a rabbit before a wolf. "Protection."
His hand moves into my field of vision, pointing to a small detail on the statue I'd been avoiding looking at directly—the male figure's oversized phallus entering the female. "They exaggerated size to represent power. Dominance."
The academic observation is at odds with the rough desire in his voice. My mouth goes dry as I realize how close he's standing, how alone we are, how the statues around us mirror the thoughts suddenly flooding my mind.
"I—I should check the service door," I stammer, stepping away quickly.
The door, predictably, is locked tight. I press my forehead against the cool metal, trying to regulate my breathing, to understand why my body is reacting this way. I've never been attracted to men like Jerald—men who could snap me in half, men who loom and intimidate, men who call me "little girl" in voices that promise things I've only read about in books.
"Told you," he says from directly behind me again. When I turn, he's so close I have to crane my neck to see his face. "Nothing's opening until morning."
Lightning flashes through the skylights overhead, briefly illuminating his features in harsh white light. The scar along his jaw. The intensity in his dark eyes. The barely restrained hunger in his expression as he looks down at me.
My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can hear it. My body feels strange—heavy between my legs, skin hypersensitive, breasts tingling beneath my blouse. I've never felt this way before, this acute awareness of another person, this…need.
"We should find somewhere to wait it out," I suggest, my voice barely audible over the thunder that follows. "The staff room, like you said."
He nods once, stepping back to let me pass. As I move by him in the narrow corridor, my arm brushes against his—the briefest contact of skin against skin—and electricity shoots through me that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
What is happening to me? I've spent my life comfortable with ancient objects, not people. Especially not massive, intimidating men who look at me like they want to devour me whole. Men who call me "little girl" in voices that make my insides liquify.
Men whose hungry gazes I should be running from, not secretly craving more of.
But as we walk in silence toward the staff room, all I can think about is how his massive hand would feel engulfing mine, how his arms could wrap around me completely, how safe I might feel pressed against that broad chest.
And how terrifying it is that I want to find out.
four
. . .
Tatianna
The staff breakroom feels like a sanctuary after the vast, echoing galleries. Jerald moves with surprising efficiency, finding emergency lanterns in a cabinet and bathing the small room in warm yellow light that chases away the ominous red glow. I perch on the edge of the worn couch, watching his massive hands work with unexpected gentleness as he arranges supplies on the coffee table—bottled water, a first aid kit, some granola bars from the vending machine he'd somehow opened without electricity. His knuckles are scarred, I notice again. Not from accidents. From hitting things. People, maybe. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends another inappropriate shiver down my spine. What is wrong with me tonight?
“Still cold?" he asks, not looking up from his task.
