Page 16 of Stalked

Toby's brain short-circuited. How was this happening? Mason Blackwood had watched his videos? Had fantasized about him? It didn't compute. Men like Mason didn't look at awkward scholarship students who spent Friday nights alone in the library.Yet here we are, Toby thought, hysteria bubbling beneath his arousal.With my dick in Mason fucking Blackwood's hand.

Mason's other hand gripped Toby's hip, pulling him back more firmly against him. The hard length of Mason's cock pressed against Toby's ass, hot and heavy and very, very real.

"I've imagined this," Mason said, his voice a dark rasp against Toby's ear. His hand wrapped around Toby's cock with devastating precision, thumb rolling over the tip before sliding down the shaft in one long, deliberate stroke. "How you'd feel in my hand. How you'd tremble when I touch you just... like... this."

If Toby had been in his right mind, he might have had a witty response. Something cutting to hide how those words sent electricity racing down his spine. But all he could think was that Mason Blackwood was naked behind him, hard for him, working Toby's cock with the confident rhythm of someone who'd spent years learning exactly what pleasure looked like when it broke across another person's face.

Which, apparently, he has. Because he's been watching. He's been watching ME.

"I—" His voice cracked embarrassingly. "Why me?"

Smooth, Toby. Real smooth. Why not just beg him directly to tell you how special you are?

But instead of laughing, Mason's chuckle was low and dangerous. "You still don't get it, do you?" His hand squeezed just enough to make Toby's hips buck. "So fucking brilliant in class, but you can't see what's right in front of you."

Toby leaned back against Mason without meaning to, his body seeking more contact. Mason's chest was a wall of heat against his back, all hard muscle and strength. Nothing like the boys Toby had fooled around with in high school—not that there'd been many. A few fumbling makeouts, one disappointing handjob behind the bleachers, and a blowjob that had ended before it began when Coach Harfield had walked in. Toby had soon learned to hide that part of himself away. It was too dangerous for the real world, where he was a target just for existing.

But this—Mason's confident touch, the way his stubble scratched deliciously against Toby's neck, the sheer size of him—this was something else entirely.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" Toby managed, trying and failing to keep the breathlessness out of his voice. "That you're a stalker with boundary issues?"

Mason laughed outright at that, his hand never stopping its torturous pace. "There's my sharp-tongued boy."

My boy. The possessive phrase hit Toby like a drug, sending heat spiraling through his stomach. He'd always hated any reminder of his youth, his inexperience, his perceived weakness. But from Mason's lips, it sounded like praise. Like a treasure Mason had claimed for himself.

"I'm not your anything," Toby said, but it sounded weak even to his ears. Not for the first time, he cursed his inability to sound convincing when aroused. His body was a traitor, incapable of maintaining his carefully constructed walls when presented with pleasure.

"Fuck," Toby whispered, unable to stop himself from pushing back against Mason, creating more friction.

"Soon," Mason promised darkly.

That single word sent a bolt of electricity straight to Toby's cock. He'd never done that—never been fucked, though he'd spent countless nights imagining it. Fingers weren't the same, toys weren't the same. And now Mason was promising it like it was inevitable. Like it was already decided that Toby would let this man, this werewolf, this relative stranger, fuck him.

And the worst part is, he's right. I would. I will. All he has to do is ask, and I'll bend over like I've been waiting for him my whole life.

Mason's hand moved faster on Toby's cock, the other sliding up to pinch Toby's nipple through his shirt. The dual sensation had Toby arching, a moan escaping before he could catch it.

"That's it," Mason encouraged, his voice rough with arousal. "Let me hear you. No need to hold back out here."

Out here, Toby thought wildly.In the middle of the forest, where anyone could stumble across us...

As if summoned by his paranoid thoughts, a twig snapped somewhere to their left. Toby's eyes flew open, scanning the darkness.

There. Movement in the shadows. Eyes reflecting the moonlight. They weren't alone.

Toby froze, mortification crashing over him like ice water. "Someone's watching," he hissed, as if Mason might have somehow missed the fact.

Mason didn't even pause his movements. If anything, his grip tightened, his strokes becoming more purposeful. "Of course they are," he said, sounding amused by Toby's alarm. "It's the mating run, Toby. You know we're not the only ones out here."

Oh god, Toby thought, panic squeezing his chest. He knew the woods were crawling with werewolves tonight—but he'd assumed they'd be occupied with their own hunts, their own mates. Not standing in the shadows watching a random human getting jerked off.

The realization of how vulnerable he was hit him like a physical blow. Human. Exposed. Surrounded by creatures who could tear him apart without breaking a sweat. He was prey in a forest full of predators, with only Mason standing between him and potential danger.

But Mason didn't seem concerned at all. His hand never stopped its relentless pace on Toby's cock, his body a solid wall of heat at Toby's back. And despite the fear—or maybe because of it—Toby's arousal didn't flag. If anything, the adrenaline heightened every sensation, made him hyperaware of Mason's touch, the night air on his skin, the eyes in the darkness.

The combination of terror and pleasure created something new inside him, something wild and desperate that clawed its way up his throat before he could stop it. Toby whimpered, the sound high and needy, nothing like the controlled performances he put on for his camera.

"I can't—not with people watching," he whispered, even as his cock throbbed in Mason's hand, betraying his words. His body apparently had different ideas than his brain, and it was winning the argument.

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