Page 110 of X Marks the Stalker
A gasp escapes me as Xander flips me over, stomach pressed against cool wood. My heart hammers against the table.
“Careful with the merchandise,” I quip, looking over my shoulder at him.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice playful but heated. “I know how to handle you.”
His hand traces down my spine, making me shiver. “Promises, promises.”
“Hold still,” he commands.
The flat of the knife comes down against my ass with a sharp slap that sends shockwaves through my body.
“Oh God,” I moan, the pain blooming into something electric.
Another strike lands, harder. My body jerks forward, nerve endings confused between pleasure and pain. But then his palm follows, caressing the heated skin, his touch gentle as he soothes the sting away. The contrast between sharp pain and tender care makes me dizzy with want.
“Too much?” Xander asks, his breath scorching my ear.
“Not enough,” I challenge, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “Is that all you’ve got?”
His laugh is low and dangerous. “Just warming up.” His fingers trace the spot he just struck. “Pink looks good on you.”
The knife comes down again, the cool metal striking my flesh with calculated force. Each impact sends waves of heat spreading through me, awakening parts I never knew existed. My fingers claw at the edge of the table, desperate for an anchor.
His hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding me embarrassingly wet.
“Don’t move,” Xander commands.
I grip the table's edge, knuckles bleaching white. My thighs quiver as he trails the cool metal along my inner thigh, danger whispering against my skin.
“Not even a twitch,” he warns.
The smooth handle of the knife traces circles between my legs, teasing at my entrance. My breath catches in my throat as he presses it forward, the unfamiliar sensation both strange and thrilling. I bite my lip to keep from bucking my hips as he slowly pushes the handle inside me.
“Stay perfectly still.”
My muscles clench around the intrusion. The handle slides deeper, filling me in a way that’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating. The knowledge that one wrong move could bring the blade against my skin makes every sensation sharper, more intense.
He pulls the handle out, then flips the knife and brings the flat side down against my inner thigh with a sharp slap.
I gasp, my body jerking before I can stop it.
“I said don’t move,” Xander reminds me, his voice tight.
“Sorry,” I whisper, forcing my body back into stillness.
The handle returns, pressing deeper this time. My body grips it hungrily as he sets a rhythm. My breathing shatters while I focus on not moving despite the tidal wave building inside.
I grit my teeth, fighting against the instinct to writhe.
“You’re dripping.”
The handle withdraws, leaving me empty and desperate. Before I can beg, the blade smacks my other thigh. The sting cuts sharper this time, wetness pooling beneath me.
“The need to stay still is driving you crazy, isn’t it?” Xander asks, sliding the handle back inside me with agonizing slowness.
I nod, speech beyond me. Every muscle strains with the effort of control. The contradictions—feel everything, move nothing—send my arousal skyward. The knife handle fills me again, unyielding as he pushes deeper.
“You’re tightening,” he says, watching where the handle disappears inside me. “Fighting your own body’s instincts.”
