Page 12 of Stalked

Large hands slid down his sides, firm yet careful, mapping him with slow, deliberate pressure. Not groping. Not claiming. Just exploring. Toby trembled, breath stuttering. Every muscle screamed at him to fight, to thrash, to expect the worst.

Because he knew how this was supposed to go.

The wolves didn’t waste time. They didn’t tease. They chased, they caught, they took. The hunt wasn’t a game—it was a need, and once a human was claimed, that was it.

So why was he still standing?

Sharp teeth grazed his throat, dragging slow over his pulse, not biting—just tasting. Toby gasped, a shudder rolling through him.

“Shhh,” the werewolf murmured against his skin, voice deep and velvety. “I won’t hurt you.”

Toby barely heard him over the pounding of his own heart.

The werewolf’s chest pressed flush against his back, solid and hot, heat soaking through Toby’s thin shirt. The hands on him weren’t rough, weren’t demanding. They moved with purpose, stroking over his ribs, down to his hips, fingers skimming his waistband in a way that made Toby shiver.

Why was this different?

His fingers dug into his palms, bracing himself for the moment his captor finally stopped playing and took what he came for.

But instead—lips. Soft lips replaced teeth on his neck, kissing.

Slow, gentle, devouring him in a way he hadn’t expected.

Toby sucked in a breath, every nerve alight. He should be panicking. His body should be locked up tight, anticipating pain, force, something brutal and inevitable.

Instead, he was being kissed.

The werewolf hummed approvingly, dragging his mouth along the sensitive skin behind Toby’s ear. The praise—that low, pleased tone—sent a fresh shiver through him.

“Perfect,” the werewolf murmured, hands still tracing over Toby’s body in slow, reverent strokes. One large palm flattened over Toby’s stomach, steadying him. The other traced idle circles on his hip, fingertips barely pressing into the fabric of his jeans.

His captor didn’t push. Didn’t shove him down.

Didn’t treat him like prey to be chewed up and spat out.

Despite everything—despite fear still clawing at the edges of his mind—Toby found himself leaning back, just the slightest bit. The werewolf let out a quiet, satisfied growl, nuzzling into the crook of Toby’s neck. The scent of cedar and leather surrounded him, teasing at memories that fear kept just out of reach.

Toby’s lips parted, his breath unsteady. What the hell was happening?

Why did it feel like he was being courted instead of conquered?

The werewolf growled, pleased. Something about the tone, the cadence, tugged at Toby’s memory. He knew that voice... But fear and confusion clouded his thoughts, blurring the edges, making it impossible to place.

The werewolf shifted, and Toby gasped as the unmistakable press of a hard, thick cock dragged against his ass. A thrill of panic shot through him, but it came tangled with something else—something hot and wrong and deep in his gut. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly, trying to remind himself that he should be terrified.

"I've been watching you," the werewolf growled, voice rough with want. "waiting for this moment."

Toby stiffened. His breath hitched. "W-watching me?" His mind spun, grasping for explanations, each more impossible than the last.

Had this man seen his videos? Had he been one of the nameless, faceless watchers Toby had put himself on display for?

The werewolf's hands slid lower, palms firm as they cupped his hips, pulling him back against that solid, unmistakable length. Toby let out a sharp, helpless noise, something he didn’t even recognize as his own. He had never been touched like this before, not with this kind of possession, this quiet, devastating need.

"That doesn't matter," the werewolf murmured, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "As soon as I saw you, I knew I had to make you mine."

Toby’s pulse pounded. That voice…

That voice.

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