Chapter 6
six
. . .
Tatianna
I'm trembling. My entire body quakes beneath Jerald's massive weight as aftershocks ripple through me.
I've never felt so full, so stretched, so completely possessed.
The burning pain of my first time mingles with waves of pleasure I didn't know were possible.
His seed—so much of it—pulses inside me, hot and thick and marking me in some primitive way I can't articulate.
His forehead rests against mine, his breathing harsh as he supports most of his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing me.
The museum's break room couch creaks beneath us, the scratchy wool blanket bunched awkwardly under my back, but I barely notice.
All I can focus on is where we're joined, how he's still hard inside me, how my body clenches around him as if reluctant to let him go. What have I done? What have we done?
"You okay?" he rumbles, his voice vibrating through his chest and into mine. His eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me want to hide and preen at the same time.
"I think so?" My voice sounds small, uncertain. My body feels different—claimed, changed, marked. "I've never…that was..." Words fail me, my academic vocabulary useless in the face of what we've just shared.
He shifts slightly, still careful not to crush me, his massive body making the couch seem like doll furniture. I wince as the movement causes a twinge of soreness between my legs.
"Did I hurt you?" Concern flashes across his usually stoic features.
"A little," I admit. "But it's okay. I mean, I knew it would…that the first time would..."
His expression softens, one large hand coming up to stroke my cheek with surprising tenderness. “I’ll also take care of what’s mine, baby.”
Mine. The possessiveness in his voice should alarm me. We barely know each other—at least, I barely know him. But my body responds to his claim with another clench around his still-hard length inside me, drawing a groan from both of us.
"I should..." He begins to withdraw, and I bite my lip against the strange emptiness that follows as he slips free of my body. Something warm trickles between my thighs—his release, mixed with the evidence of my virginity. I should be embarrassed, but all I feel is a strange pride.
"Stay here," he commands softly, rising from the couch. I watch his naked form as he crosses to the small attached bathroom—all muscle and power, scars scattered across his broad back telling stories I suddenly want to know.
He returns with a damp paper towel, kneeling between my legs with unexpected gentleness. "Let me," he says, carefully cleaning the mixture of fluids from my thighs. The tender care in this act, after the raw possession of moments before, makes my chest tight with emotion.
"You were more perfect than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, his eyes dark as they travel over my naked body. "So perfect for your daddy.”
The praise washes over me like warm honey, soothing places inside me I didn't know needed soothing.
The term "Daddy" should disturb me—I have a perfectly good father who raised me with love and support.
But when Jerald says it, it means something entirely different.
Something primal and claiming and…right.
"I never…I never do things like this," I whisper, needing him to understand. "I'm not the type to—to have sex with someone I barely know."
His large hand cups my cheek. "You know me better than you think. I've been watching you for eight months. Learning you. And you've felt me watching, haven't you?"
I nod, unable to deny it. "But why me? I'm just…ordinary. Boring, even."
A flash of genuine anger crosses his face. "Don't say that. Ever again." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "You're fucking perfect. Smart. Gentle. Passionate about things that matter. Beautiful in ways those empty-headed idiots who surround you could never understand."
My eyes burn with unexpected tears. No one has ever seen me this way—as special, as valuable, as worthy of such intense focus.
"I don't know what to say," I whisper honestly.
"Don't need to say anything." He leans down, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to my forehead before helping me sit up. "Here."
He hands me his security uniform shirt, which engulfs me completely when I slip it on. The fabric smells like him—that masculine scent of leather and spice that's quickly becoming familiar. Comforting.
I watch as he pulls on just his uniform pants, leaving his chest bare—a landscape of hard muscle and scattered scars that tell of a life far different from my sheltered academic existence.
"Water?" he asks, handing me a bottle before I can answer.
I drink gratefully, suddenly aware of my parched throat. As the initial haze of pleasure fades, reality begins to seep in. We're still locked in the museum. Still have hours before anyone will come. Hours before real life intrudes.
"What happens when they open the doors?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
He stills, those dark eyes locking on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "What do you want to happen?"
"I—I don't know." And I don't. This night already feels unreal—the power outage, the confession of my lonely life, the way he called me his, the mind-bending pleasure of his possession. Will it all evaporate in daylight? "Is this just…because we're locked in? A one-time thing?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Is that what you want it to be?"
"No," I admit, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "But I don't know how this works. What happens next. If you'll still want—" I gesture vaguely at myself, suddenly self-conscious despite everything we've just shared.
He moves with that unexpected speed again, suddenly looming over me, one hand braced on the back of the couch beside my head, the other grasping my chin firmly.
"Listen to me very carefully, little girl," he growls, his face inches from mine.
"This isn't a fucking fling. This isn't a lockdown mistake.
I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you.
Every shift watching you, wanting you, planning exactly how I'd claim you if I ever got the chance.
Now that I've had you, felt how perfectly you take me, heard the sounds you make when I fill you up?
There's no going back. You're mine now."
The possessiveness in his voice, the absolute certainty, should terrify me. Instead, it makes something warm and liquid pool in my belly again, a need I didn't know I had finally being addressed.
"Yours," I whisper, testing the word, finding I like how it feels in my mouth.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he leans in to claim another kiss, this one gentler than before but no less possessive.
A loud crash from somewhere in the building breaks the moment. We both freeze, his body instantly tensing as he pulls back, head turning toward the door.
"What was that?" I whisper, clutching his shirt around me.
"Stay here," he orders, all tenderness gone, replaced by a predatory alertness that transforms him completely. He stands, muscles coiled like a panther ready to spring, grabbing his utility belt with its flashlight and baton.
"Wait," I scramble to my feet, wincing at the soreness between my thighs. "You can't go alone—"
"I said stay here." His voice is iron now, leaving no room for argument. "Lock the door behind me."
"But—"
“Goddammit, Tatianna, listen to me,” he growls, and the possessive fury in his eyes should frighten me. It doesn't. It makes me feel…protected. Valued. "Anyone else in this building is a threat, Tatianna. A threat I'll eliminate."
The primitive declaration sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. I've never had anyone willing to protect me this way—as if I'm precious, essential.
"Be careful," I whisper, clutching his shirt tighter around me.
He cups my face with one hand, the gentleness at odds with the deadly focus in his eyes. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me." He presses a hard, quick kiss to my lips. “I’ll always protect you, baby.”
I nod, following him to the door, watching his broad back as he steps into the darkened hallway. I close the door behind him and turn the lock, as instructed. The click seems to echo in the sudden silence.
Alone, wrapped in his too-large shirt with his scent surrounding me and his seed still warm inside me, I press my forehead against the door.
What is happening to me? In the space of a few hours, I've given my virginity to a man I barely know, responded to possessive language that should offend me, and now I'm standing here genuinely worried for his safety rather than my own.
I press my thighs together, feeling the delicious ache he left there, the evidence of his possession still wet against my skin. Whatever's making that noise in the museum, whatever happens when morning comes and the doors unlock, one thing has become undeniably clear:
I don't want this night to end.