Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Tatianna
My entire body feels deliciously used. Muscles I didn't know I had ache sweetly as Jerald carries me through the modern wing, past abstract sculptures and contemporary installations that seem absurd in the dim emergency lighting.
I should be embarrassed by how thoroughly I've been claimed tonight—multiple times, in various locations throughout the museum, each more primal than the last. But all I feel is a bone-deep satisfaction and strange peace.
The bite mark on my shoulder throbs gently, a physical reminder of his possession that should alarm me but instead makes me feel…
cherished? Claimed in a way that goes beyond words or promises.
My fingertips trace the tender spot, pressing slightly to feel the ache.
He watches the gesture, his dark eyes tracking the movement with that same intensity that used to unnerve me.
Now I understand what that look means. It's not just surveillance. It's hunger. It's need. It's mine.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest against my ear.
"A little," I admit. "But I like it."
Something dark and satisfied flashes in his eyes, but he says nothing, just carries me into the impressionist gallery where soft couches allow visitors to sit and contemplate the dreamy landscapes and water lilies.
He lowers me carefully onto the longest couch, then disappears briefly, returning with a bottle of water.
"Drink," he commands, but his tone is gentle now, concerned.
I obey, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am again, and then it strikes me how he does take care of me. Offering me water when I forget to drink. The water is room temperature but feels like heaven on my parched throat. I drain half the bottle before coming up for air.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He settles beside me on the couch, his massive frame making the furniture seem child-sized. To my surprise, he gathers me against his side, one large arm wrapped around my shoulders, his hand gently stroking my hair.
This tenderness is unexpected after the rough possession of our previous encounter.
I melt against him, allowing myself to be held, to be comforted.
The impressionist paintings surround us with soft colors and hazy forms in the dim light—a stark contrast to the sharp, primal clarity of what we've been doing all night.
"You should rest," he murmurs, continuing to stroke my hair. "I've been rough with you."
I shake my head against his chest. "I'm okay. Better than okay."
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "Never meant for this to happen like this," he admits, voice quiet. "Watched you for so long, planned how I'd approach you properly. Take you to dinner. Do things right."
I lift my head to look at him, surprised. "You were going to ask me out?"
A hint of sheepishness crosses his normally stern features. "Been working up the courage. Every shift, telling myself tonight would be the night I'd finally talk to you."
The confession stuns me. This massive, intimidating man—afraid to approach me? "Why didn't you?"
His hand continues its gentle path through my hair, occasionally grazing the bite mark on my shoulder as if reassuring himself it's still there.
"You're educated. Refined. Beautiful. I'm…
not." His free hand gestures vaguely at himself—the scars, the intimidating bulk, the evidence of a harder life than mine.
"You were watching me every night," I say softly. "I thought you were just…doing your job."
A rumble of laughter vibrates through his chest. "My job is to watch the artifacts, not stare at the curator's assistant for entire shifts.
" His hand tightens slightly in my hair.
"But I couldn't help it. The way you handle those pieces, like they're alive.
The little smile you get when you discover something interesting.
How you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening. "
Heat floods my cheeks. "You heard that?"
"Every word," he confirms, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Your theories about that Roman bracelet were better than the official documentation."
"You've been watching me that closely?" The thought should be unsettling, but instead, it sends a warm glow through me. To be noticed so thoroughly, to be seen.
"You're more perfect than I ever dreamed, little girl." His hand slides from my hair to cup my cheek, turning my face up to his. "Everything about you. The way you blush when I call you that. How perfectly you take me inside you. The sounds you make when I fill you up."
The praise washes over me like warm honey, drawing a soft sigh from my lips. "I never thought…I mean, no one's ever looked at me like you do."
"No one else better," he growls, that possessive edge returning to his voice.
I laugh, suddenly feeling lighter than I have in years. "I feel like I should be running for the hills. You're possessive and intense and we barely know each other. But instead, I just want…more."
"More what?" he asks, his thumb tracing my bottom lip.
"More of this. Of you. Of us." I gesture vaguely at our entwined bodies, at the museum around us. "More of how you make me feel—seen and safe and…wanted."
His eyes darken, pupils expanding. "You'll get more. So much more, little girl. This is just the beginning."
Something playful rises in me then, a lightness born from the certainty of being truly wanted. I slip from his grasp, rising from the couch with a teasing smile. "Catch me first," I challenge, backing away from him.
Surprise flashes across his face, quickly replaced by something predatory that sends delicious shivers down my spine. "You want to play, little girl? With a man trained to track and hunt?"
I turn and dart between the displays, his shirt flapping around my thighs as I move deeper into the gallery.
The game is absurd—I'm nearly naked in a locked museum, playing hide-and-seek with a man who's claimed me repeatedly throughout the night.
But there's something freeing in the absurdity, in the childish game turned erotic by the heat between us.
I duck behind a large sculpture, listening for his footsteps. Nothing. The man moves like a ghost despite his size. My heart pounds with exhilaration as I peer around the corner, seeing no sign of him.
"Found you," his voice rumbles directly behind me, making me gasp and spin around.
"How did you—"
He catches me against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist. "Told you. Trained to hunt."
There's something different in his eyes now—still possessive, still hungry, but with a playfulness that matches my own mood. He backs me against the wall beside the sculpture, his massive frame caging me in.
"And what's the prize for finding you?" he asks, voice dropping to that register that makes heat pool between my legs.
"Whatever you want," I whisper, already melting under his intense gaze.
"What I want," he growls, lifting me effortlessly, "is to hear you beg."
He carries me to a cushioned bench in the center of the gallery, designed for visitors to sit and contemplate the artwork. In one smooth motion, he sits and arranges me across his lap, facing him, my knees on either side of his massive thighs.
"Ask nicely," he commands, hands sliding up under his shirt that I'm still wearing, finding my breasts with unerring accuracy. "Tell Daddy what you need."
The term that should sound ridiculous now sends a jolt of desire straight between my legs. "Please," I whisper, arching into his touch as his thumbs brush over my sensitive nipples. "Please, Daddy."
"Please what?" He pinches lightly, drawing a gasp from me. "Be specific, little girl. Daddy wants to hear exactly what you need."
"I need you inside me," I admit, hips rocking instinctively against the hard ridge in his pants. "Please, Daddy. I need you to fill me again."
His approving growl is all the warning I get before he lifts me slightly, freeing himself with his other hand. "Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, positioning me over his cock. "Take what you need, baby girl. Show Daddy how much you want it."
I lower myself onto him slowly, still tender from our previous encounters but desperate for the fullness only he can provide. His hands grip my hips, guiding but not forcing, letting me set the pace as I take him inch by inch.
"That's it," he praises as I finally seat myself fully on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside me. "Such a good girl for Daddy. Taking me so beautifully."
The praise washes over me, drawing a whimper from my throat as I begin to move. This position gives me control I haven't had before, allows me to rock against him at my own pace. His hands move to my ass, supporting and encouraging but not demanding.
"So perfect," he murmurs, watching where our bodies join with rapt attention. "Made for this. Made for me."
"For you," I agree, finding a rhythm that sends sparks of pleasure through my oversensitive body. "Only you, Daddy."
He groans at my words, his hips rising to meet my downward movements. "Say it again."
"Daddy," I whisper, then louder as his thrusts intensify. "Daddy!"
The impressionist paintings blur around us as we move together on the bench, my body rising and falling on his shaft with increasing urgency. His praise flows continuously—"good girl" and "so tight" and "perfect little pussy"—each filthy compliment pushing me closer to the edge.
"Going to come for Daddy again?" he asks, one hand moving between us to find my sensitive bundle of nerves. "Going to let me feel this sweet pussy squeezing my cock?"
"Yes," I gasp as his fingers work magic against me. "Please, Daddy, yes!"
My climax crashes over me with surprising intensity, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure radiate outward. He holds me through it, his cock still hard inside me as I collapse against his chest, trembling and spent.
"That's my good girl," he praises, stroking my hair as I struggle to catch my breath. "So responsive. So perfect for Daddy."
I nuzzle into his neck, inhaling his scent, feeling more content than I can ever remember being. This strange night, this unexpected connection, has awakened something in me I never knew existed—a need to be possessed, to be praised, to be perfectly, completely his.
And I never want it to end.