Surrendering to the Night Watchman's Touch

The museum after closing always felt like a different country—shadows pooling thicker between the display cases, the air conditioning ticking like a slow pulse, marble floors throwing back every footstep. Simone stayed late again, the way she had for three weeks straight, clipboard forgotten on the pedestal beside a case of Yoruba bronzes. Twenty-eight, white, blonde hair twisted up in a messy knot that kept slipping, she wore a thin cream blouse that clung where the heat of the building had already made her sweat, and a black pencil skirt that hugged the curve of her ass. She told herself she was cataloging. She knew she was waiting.

Omar’s boots announced him before the flashlight beam swept the far end of the wing. Thirty-two, Black, six-three and built like the kind of man who could pin a woman to a wall without breaking a sweat, he moved with the easy power of someone who’d done this route a thousand times. The uniform shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders; the radio on his hip crackled once, then went quiet. He stopped when he saw her, just like he always did.

“Still here, Ms. Simone,” he said, voice low and rough, the way it got after midnight. The beam dropped to the floor between them. “You got a home, or you planning to move into the storage vaults?”

She turned, letting the light catch the open collar of her blouse, the swell of her breasts. Heat already pooled low in her belly. Weeks of this—lingering stares when he passed her office, the way his gaze dragged down her legs whenever she crossed them in the staff lounge, the accidental brush of his hand against her lower back that first time he steadied her on the ladder. She had started staying later on purpose. Started wearing thinner blouses. Started positioning herself right in the path of his rounds.

“Cataloging,” she answered, though the clipboard was blank. Her voice came out softer than she meant. “These pieces need better notes before the loan. You know how it is.”

Omar stepped closer. The beam swung up just enough to light her face, then lower—deliberately—across her chest, her waist, the tight skirt. He didn’t hide it. She didn’t pretend not to notice. Thick mutual want hung between them like humidity.

“I know how it is,” he said. “You stay late. I find you. We talk about the weather and the exhibits and neither one of us says the thing we’re thinking.” He stopped two feet away. She could smell him—clean sweat, faint cologne, the warm iron scent of a man who’d been walking all night. “How long we gonna keep pretending, Simone?”

Her nipples tightened against the lace of her bra. She felt the dampness already starting between her thighs. She could have left. Could have gathered her things and walked out into the cool night and gone home to her empty apartment and her vibrator. Instead she stayed planted, one hip cocked, deliberately in his path.

“I’m not pretending,” she said. Her pulse hammered in her throat. “I like when you find me.”

Omar’s mouth curved, slow and dirty. He clicked the flashlight off. In the sudden dimness the emergency lights painted everything amber and shadow. He closed the last distance until she had to tip her head back to hold his eyes. Up close he was overwhelming—broad chest, thick arms, the dark skin of his throat working as he swallowed.

“Yeah?” His hand lifted, not quite touching, fingers hovering near the open V of her blouse. “You like knowing I’m walking these halls thinking about bending you over one of these cases? About how wet that tight little cunt would get if I finally put my hands on you?”

Simone’s breath left her in a shaky rush. “Fuck. Omar—”