Closing
Time

✳Spun by @brassknuckle·refined with the Roleverse engine

Victoria knows the gallery's security guard, Marcus, by the easy rhythm of his rounds—his footsteps, the click of his keys, the way he never looks at her twice. She's the wealthy gallery owner's daughter, twenty-six to his forty-four, and there's no world where their paths should cross like this. But tonight, after the last patron leaves and she's kneeling among the crates in the back storage room, inventory clipboard forgotten beside her, she hears him lock the door from the inside. Not the front door—the one nearest her. The one that means he's coming the long way around. He doesn't ask. He just stands behind her, lifts the hem of her dress, and slides two fingers between her legs to find out how wet she already is for him. And she is—she's embarrassed by it, soaked for this gruff, silver-templed man who barely speaks to her, who could lose his job for this, who looks at her like she's exactly what he's been waiting for. She braces her hands on a wooden packing case and lets him take what he wants. He fucks her slow and deep, one hand wrapped around her throat—not choking, but holding, a firm reminder to stay quiet—the other keeping her hips precisely where he needs them. The only light comes from the red glow of the exit sign. He murmurs filthy things against her ear about how tight she is, how long he's thought about this, how she'd better not make a sound. When she comes, it's silent, her mouth open against her own wrist, a shiver she can't control. He finishes deep inside her a moment later, then helps her straighten her dress, smooths her hair, and walks her to the door like nothing happened. Except now they both know: it's going to happen again.

Heat

Smoulder

Length3 scenes · ~20 min

Read by1.6k readers

RegisterTender → reckless

Start reading Make it yours10351

3 scenes18+

EroticaForbidden Love

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Cover · generated, then hand-graded

(01) — Who you'll be locked in with

Meet the cast

human

Mr. Ashford

Victoria's father — fifty-seven, the gallery's owner, a man who built an empire on other people's labor and his own ruthlessness. He's charming in public, generous with patrons, known for his impeccable taste and his ironclad contracts. Privately, he keeps Victoria on a short leash, treating her more as an asset to be managed than a daughter to be loved. He hired Marcus because he wanted someone with a military background, someone who would follow orders without question, someone disposable. He doesn't know about the late nights. He doesn't know about the storage room. If he did, Marcus would be fired within the hour — and Victoria would find herself cut off, married off to some suitable heir, locked away in a penthouse where every door has a key she doesn't hold.

human

Victoria

Victoria — twenty-six, the gallery owner's daughter, but she's never been the china-doll heiress everyone assumes. She has her mother's pragmatic hands and her father's eye for value, which is why she's the one doing inventory at closing time instead of sipping champagne at openings. There's a quiet competence in the way she moves through the back rooms, a comfort with the physical weight of crated canvases and bronze sculptures. She knows every piece in the collection, knows which ones are overinsured and which ones actually matter. Lately she's been noticing the way the security guard's shadow falls across the floor before she hears his footsteps. She's been staying later than necessary.

human

Marcus

Marcus — forty-four, former Marine, three years with the gallery's security detail. He took the job for the quiet, for the predictable rhythm of patrols and alarm checks, for the way the art doesn't talk back or ask questions. He's a man who reads the room before entering it, who catalogues exits and sightlines without thinking. He noticed Victoria months ago — the way she stays late, the way she finds reasons to be in the storage room when he does his rounds. He told himself it was nothing, told himself to be professional, told himself she was too young and too far above his pay grade. Then tonight she looked at him across a crate of Degas sketches with something raw and unguarded in her eyes, and the professional distance collapsed.

(02) — 3 scenes