Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Tatianna
The moment shatters with an electronic beep—sharp, insistent, out of place in our starlit sanctuary.
We both freeze, Jerald still inside me, our breathing suspended as the sound repeats.
Beep. Beep. Beep. A security panel somewhere nearby is activating, its rhythmic warning piercing the darkness like a knife.
My body tenses beneath Jerald's massive frame, fear suddenly replacing the warm contentment that had enveloped me seconds ago.
Is someone trying to get in? Police? Maintenance?
My mind races through scenarios, each more mortifying than the last—being discovered naked, claimed, marked by a man I barely knew before tonight.
What would they think? What would they say?
How would I ever look my colleagues in the eye again?
"What is that?" I whisper, my voice tight with panic.
Jerald withdraws from me in one smooth motion, his body transforming before my eyes—the tender lover replaced by the trained predator. He's on his feet in seconds, pulling on his uniform pants with efficient movements.
"Security panel on the east entrance," he says, voice clipped and professional. "Could be a system reboot or someone trying to override the lockdown."
I scramble to my knees, tugging his shirt down to cover myself. "What do we do? If someone comes in—"
"No one's coming in," he cuts me off, extending a hand to help me up. "And if they do, they'll have to go through me first."
The cold determination in his voice should frighten me, but instead, it sends a wave of security washing over me. This isn't just possessive talk in the heat of passion—this is a man trained to protect, to defend what's his.
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 of heat 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.
"That's it," he encourages as my hips begin to rock against his mouth. "Let go for Daddy. Let me taste how much you want me."
His tongue flattens, providing perfect pressure exactly where I need it. My climax builds rapidly, coiling tight in my lower belly, my thighs trembling in his grip.
"Such a good girl," he praises, sliding one thick finger into me while maintaining the rhythm of his tongue. "So responsive. So perfect."
The praise pushes me over the edge. I come with a cry that echoes through the climate-controlled room, my body arching off the felt surface, my hands gripping his hair too tightly. He doesn't seem to mind, continuing his gentle ministrations until the last aftershock subsides.
When I can focus again, I find him looking up at me with such naked adoration that it steals my breath. No one has ever looked at me like that—like I'm precious, essential, perfect in every way.
He gathers me against his chest, one large hand cradling the back of my head. "I'd never let anyone hurt you. Never let anyone take you from me."
The fierce protection in his voice should alarm me—it's too intense, too absolute for what should be a casual encounter. But I find myself melting into it, craving it, needing the safety of his possession like I've never needed anything before.
I'm becoming addicted to him—to his protection, his possession, his praise. To the way he makes me feel simultaneously safe and on fire. To the darkly possessive words that should offend me but instead make me wet and willing.
And I don't want to be cured.