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Immediately, he lowers my feet back to the ground, like a giant setting down a baby doll. And his contrite expression turns me embarrassingly wet. This giant bows his head in front of me, someone he could pick up and throw a hundred yards. The power in that realization runs through me like a raging river.
“I’m sorry, angel.”
I let go of his ear, staring down at my hand in disbelief. “D-d-don’t do it again.”
That’s when I notice the large protrusion in his pants. It’s the length of a hammer and thick as the leg of a sturdy stool. It’s his erect penis. I’ve been around art for six years and the male anatomy is well known to me. I’ve simply never imagined it could be so large.
That it could make my claws dig into my palms with the need to tease it.
“I think I should go inside,” I whisper, alarmed. Alarmed that I might have found myself in a situation where I can enact the terrible thoughts in my head—and that I’m so sorely tempted. Maybe I don’t have to go out in the world to solidify my identity as a sinner. It found me right here inside the gallery walls. I’ve managed to remain on the borderline, managed to keep the thoughts contained to my head, but now…with Duncan, they long to break out.
Run free.
His dark eyes seem to be encouraging me. And once again, I get the sense that he already knew my deepest secret. That he just coaxed it out of me.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
Not a ripple passes through his expression. “I’m here to pack the art.”
“And?” I ask, my volume even lower, the word almost swallowed by the night wind.
“And if you wish it, angel…” He grips onto his erection, squeezing it hard enough to turn his knuckles white, his accent turning thicker, voice like gravel. “If you wish it, this cock is ripe for your enjoyment. It’s never been inside another. I knew the second I saw ye, Thea, it was only meant for fuckin’ you. For making you wail like a baby. If ye have to boss me around and make me suffer, do it, lass. Do it. Watch me obey like a servant in exchange for long, hard rides of that pussy.”
I stumble back, gasping. Shocked by his crude words, yes. But more so by my reaction to them. I’m on the verge of an orgasm simply from the offer he’s made. It’s something I’ve fantasized about in shame, late at night, never about a specific person. Until now.
Now I’ll never see anyone but this hulking Scotsman.
But I’m supposed to fight these urges. I’m supposed to battle the wickedness.
Duncan takes a step forward, stopping on a dime when I lift my chin. “I bet if you conquer me,” he says gruffly, “you’ll be brave enough to conquer those walls, won’t you?” With a curse, he stops fondling himself, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Think about it. Please.”
I swallow the promise I want desperately to make and run past him to the courtyard entrance, stealing into the dark, silent gallery as fast as I can, my breaths like nylons rubbing together in my ears. I make it to my room and close the door, locking it behind me and dropping to my knees. One press of my curled fist between my thighs and I climax, pitching forward to cry out his name into the rug, my hips rutting my fist desperately, anxiously.
And moments later, when I lie replete on the floor of my bedroom, I replay the entire encounter again, again, and again until I pass out from exhaustion with his face in my head, wondering if tomorrow will bring my ruin.
Chapter 3
Duncan
I don’t sleep all night.
There is too much at stake.
Did I push too hard or not hard enough?
Will she let me in or fall back on the dated lessons taught by her recluse uncle?
My night is spent pacing the long marble hallways of the gallery, analyzing every reaction Thea had to me. To every word and touch. I think of how she can be soft as a flower petal one second, then dig into me like a beautiful thorn the next. My cock is puffy and neglected, my chest in pain from having her several floors away from me.
Technically, I am the one she should be protected from. I am the cold-blooded murderer that sneaks into one’s bedroom at night. I’m the evil, slightly deranged man mothers warn their children about. I lack all conscience or consequence.
Except when it comes to her.
My heart is in an ancient torture device and the crank is turned tighter every second she is away. After the unfortunate accident with her uncle Gardner, I adapted. Started to craft my identity, needing to find a way to be close to her. I tapped the phones and listened to my little angel arranging for a man to come and pack the artwork. I waited for him to arrive, then simply dismissed him, pretending to be the head of security. People rarely question me. They want to get away as fast as possible.
