Page 152 of X Marks the Stalker
I clap my hand over his mouth. “And that’s enough sharing for one evening.”
Xander smiles against my palm before he removes my hand, keeping it trapped in his. “I was just going to say ‘when I made you breakfast,’” he says. “What did you think I meant?”
“You two,” Zara says, shaking her head with delight. “I haven’t seen Oakley this worked up in...ever, actually. Usually she’s all business. Murder this, investigation that. Never takes a day off.”
“Oh, I know all about her...intense focus.” Xander’s eyes meet mine. “Like that time at the cabin when she insisted on practicing a position for hours until she got it just right.”
Zara snorts.
My breath catches as I recall the “practice” he’s referring to—me straddling him with a training knife pressed to his throat, his hands guiding my hips.
“I hate you,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t,” he whispers back.
“This is better than Netflix,” Zara declares, leaning back in her chair. “Please, continue.”
“There was also that time with the handcuffs,” Xander starts.
“Absolutely not,” I interrupt. “We are not discussing that.”
“I meant the interview with the retired police officer,” Xander says with mock innocence. “What did you think I meant?”
Zara’s delighted laughter makes heads turn. “Oh, I see what’s happening here. You’ve finally met your match, Acorn.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile that forms. There’s something strangely liberating about Xander knowing the worst of me—both my darkest secrets and my embarrassing moments—and wanting me, anyway.
Zara’s still laughing when Xander’s hand drops below the table, landing on my knee. My smile freezes as his fingers trace small circles against my skin, each one moving slightly higher along my thigh.
“Anyway,” I say, my voice coming out higher than intended, “how’s Meatball’s skin condition doing?”
“He’s fine,” Zara says, watching me with narrowed eyes. “The medication worked— Are you okay?”
“Perfect.” I take a large gulp of my drink as Xander’s hand slides under the hem of my dress.
“You look flushed,” Zara notes, her eyes darting between us.
Xander’s fingers inch higher, his thumb drawing a lazy pattern against my inner thigh. “I was just telling Oakleyearlier how radiant she looks tonight,” he says, his voice steady while his touch is anything but.
I squirm in my seat, trying to maintain a normal expression. “It’s hot in here. I need some water.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Xander hums, his other arm still draped around my shoulders, completely at ease while his fingers trace the edge of my underwear.
I squeeze my thighs together, trapping his hand. This backfires spectacularly when he responds by pressing the heel of his palm exactly where I’m most sensitive.
He leans close to my ear so only I can hear, “I can feel how wet you are. Dripping.”
My face burns.
“You’re horrible,” I whisper back.
“You seemed to like me last night,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “When you were saying my name over and over, begging me not to stop.”
I reach for my water glass with shaking fingers, nearly knocking it over.
“Well,” Zara says, gathering her purse with a knowing smile. “I think that’s my cue to leave.”
“No,” I protest weakly. “We haven’t even finished our drinks.”
