Page 35 of His to Possess
Stepping inside, I was once again overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of the room. This second time entering the vault was just as breathtaking as the first. The walls were lined with priceless artworks, each piece a testament to Rex’s obsessive collectingandhis wealth. The accumulated price of these piecesmust have been in the hundreds of millions of dollars, and it didn’t feel like Rex had any intention to stop collecting them anytime soon.
It was tempting to start the assessment on Rex’s collection right then and there. My fingers itched to examine each brushstroke, to lose myself in the history and beauty of these masterpieces. But there was an even stronger pull drawing me towards the workshop area.
I made my way through the vault, my bare feet silent on the polished floor. The watercolor beckoned to me, its potential secrets calling out like a siren song. As I approached the state-of-the-art workstation where Rex had placed it, my excitement built. Standing before the piece, I took a deep breath. This small, unassuming watercolor was fascinating. If it truly was an early, undiscovered Turner, it would be the find of a lifetime.
As tempting as it would be to spend an entire day and night in awe of the watercolor, I knew I needed to approach this professionally. With careful hands, I secured the painting on the small easel atop the workshop table. The light caught on the frame.
Pulling the large magnifying glass into position, I switched on the light. The glow illuminated every detail of the piece, and I leaned in close, my nose nearly touching the glass. A visual assessment was the first basic step, and I was determined to do it right.
My eyes scanned the surface methodically, taking in every nuance. The brushwork captivated me immediately—delicate yet confident strokes that danced across the canvas. There was a lightness to the touch that spoke of a master’s hand, each mark purposeful and precise.
The color palette was subdued but rich, with subtle variations in tone that created depth and atmosphere. Soft blues and grays dominated, punctuated by touches of warm ochre and thefaintest hint of rose. It was a masterful use of color, creating a sense of light and air that seemed to breathe life into the scene.
As I studied the composition, I felt a growing sense of excitement. The way the elements were balanced, the use of negative space, and the subtle leading lines that drew the eye—all spoke to a sophisticated understanding of visual dynamics. This was no amateur work.
The more I looked, the more I saw signs of J.M.W. Turner’s early style. There was a freshness to the approach, a youthful energy combined with extraordinary raw talent. The handling of light, the way the sky seemed to merge with the landscape, these were hallmarks of Turner’s unique vision, even in his formative years.
I continued to examine the watercolor, my excitement growing with each detail I uncovered. But I knew I needed to document my observations. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from the painting and began searching the desk drawers for a notebook or paper.
Suddenly, a deep voice from behind startled me. “What are you doing?”
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. Rex stood just a few feet away, his hands in his pockets and his expression dark. I hadn’t even heard him enter the room. Who knew how long he had been standing there, observing me in silence?
“Rex.” I gasped, my hand flying to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He didn’t acknowledge my surprise, his eyes instead traveling over my outfit with a deepening frown. “Why are your shoes thrown in the living room?” he asked, his voice low and controlled. “And why is there a towel on my bedroom floor? And this—” he gestured at the shirt I was wearing, “—is unacceptable.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of my state of undress. “I… I needed something comfortable to wear.”
Rex’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you back from work early? And why didn’t you call the chauffeur as I ordered?”
The accusation in his tone ignited a spark of defiance in me. I lifted my chin and said, “I needed some time to myself. And I didn’t realize I needed permission to change my clothes or take a cab.”
“You agreed to follow my rules.” Rex took a step towards me.
I stood my ground as Rex loomed over me, his presence filling the room. “There was nothing in our agreement forbidding me to change my work schedule or finish early,” I said. I had read the contract a million times, and nothing of the sort was mentioned. “And it certainly didn’t say anything about not taking a cab.”
Rex’s jaw tightened, but I pressed on. “I finished early at work. Since your almighty schedule doesn’t allow me to check out the watercolor until tomorrow, I thought I’d make the best of it.”
His frustration was palpable as he took another step toward me. I found myself trapped against the workbench, Rex’s face mere inches from mine. “You agreed and signed a contract.”
“It’s not my fault if the contract wasn’t detailed enough.”
“I’ll have it redrafted,” Rex said, his eyes flashing.
“That’s not how it works, and you know it.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them, but more came flooding right away. “I may not sign it this time.”
As soon as I said it, I knew I’d pushed too far. A snarl twisted Rex’s features, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake.
I wasn’t scared of Rex getting violent with me, but the danger emanating from him made my core throb. How did this man make me want to fight, submit, scream, and fuck him in the span of a single minute?
His eyes bore into mine, dark with anger and something else: desire? The air between us crackled with tension.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he pointed out, like I didn’t already know it. My insides tightened. Part of me wanted to push him more. Another part wanted to yield, to let him take control and lose myself in the intensity of his presence.
“Maybe I like dangerous games,” I whispered, surprised by my own boldness.
Rex’s hand came up to grip my chin, tilting my face up to his.
