Bossed Around

“There are monsters out there,” Gardner says, beginning to grow agitated, his cane tapping off the marble floor in an eerie rhythm. “Monsters. That’s why we only allow collectors through the doors. That’s why we schedule and vet them months in advance.” His head shakes rapidly. “Not the public. Never the public. We can’t have the public.”

Thea rises to her feet and places a hand on her uncle’s arm, calming him down. But I can see she holds a little of herself away, like she doesn’t exactly trust him. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll finish this paperwork.”

“It must be finished by morning.”

“I understand.”

“You’re the only one I trust to do it. No one else.” He turns to look at his wall of paintings. “You’re one of the rare good ones. Women,” he spits the word. “But if you went out there, you’d become just like them.”

Thea nods, gives him a tired smile.

My lip curls in anger.

What the hell is he talking about? She’d become just like what?

I’m not sure. But it’s obvious that the uncle is the reason she is tired. He has this young girl running an entire gallery on her own with no help. He keeps her here, doing his bidding, doesn’t he? Because he’s scared of the outside world.

It’s for good reason. A lot of dangerous people want him dead.

Including my boss.

But I’ll squeeze his throat extra tight for dragging this angel into his bullshit.

The uncle leaves and returns upstairs where I will meet him shortly. I settle in to watch Thea do her paperwork for a while longer, so I’m surprised when—as soon as she hears her uncle’s door close upstairs—she pushes back from the desk and tiptoes outside, to the courtyard nestled among the walls of the gallery. I follow her there, keeping to the darkness and working to keep my breathing even, laser-focused on her every movement.

She goes to the wall where some items are hidden beneath a burlap tarp and she drags it off, revealing a large canvas. Several bottles of paint. She drags the oversized canvas out into the center of the grass and once again, I have to restrain myself from helping her. Doing something for her. Anything.

She brings over the bottles of paint, too.

And then she loosens her bun, dropping that wealth of dark hair around her shoulders in a soft cascade that makes me throb. Everywhere. Ache to spear my fingers through it. Feel the texture of it on my thighs, my stomach, my balls.

I forget to breath when she unbuttons her shirt and peels it off, letting the white material flutter to the grass. Christ, she is…she is not wearing a bra. The moonlight bathes the pale, naked swells of her tits and she raises her arms to the sky, as if basking in the glow. And it’s the most striking sight I’ve ever come across. It’s sacred, this secret moment of decadence. This half-naked girl lifting her fingertips toward the moon, barefoot, hair around her shoulders, as if absorbing strength.

After a moment, she sweeps down to pick up a bottle of paint.

Blue.

Gently, delicately, she removes the cap—

And then she splashes the color across the blank canvas.

Like cracking a whip.

I shove a wrist into my mouth just in time to catch my moan, come spurting from the head of my cock. I’m coming. My God, I’m coming. Violently. Moisture gushing down the inside of my thigh, soaking into my black pants. She does it again, this time with yellow. Snaps her wrist with an expression of pure authority, paint striking the canvas like leather on skin—and I have to turn and press my hips to the wall of the gallery, fucking it roughly, grinding my cock on stone, the sound of paint slapping behind me. Slap. Snap. Whip.

This tiny teenager, not an inch over five feet tall, has felled a deadly giant with a wave of her hand. I’m nearly incoherent, knees threatening to give way. Every time she blasts the canvas with a lightning bolt of paint, my climax is prolonged, wringing me out until it starts to fucking hurt. And I like it.

No, I love her burning me alive like this.

I love her being the maestro of my pleasure and pain.

Even as I rap my forehead against the stone wall, come drenching the front of my pants, I wish for more. More, more, more. It’s an honor to be put through this torture by my little angel. To be on the receiving end of those digging claws. How innocent, young and sweet she looks for someone so fierce. Knowing her secret is an aphrodisiac, the addiction powering through my veins, replacing the ice that has lived there so long.

I’ve never wanted a female.

I’ve especially never had this…urge. To be so sweetly mistreated.

I could crush her with one hand. I’m three times her size.