Page 157 of X Marks the Stalker
“Please,” I gasp.
He pushes in further, filling me. The sensation is overwhelming—not quite pleasure, not quite pain, but something transcendent between the two.
His fingers find my clit again, circling with deliberate pressure as he moves inside me, establishing a slow, careful rhythm.
“You’re still coming, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his voice tight with restraint.
I can’t tell anymore. The sensations blur together—his cock stretching me open, his fingers working my oversensitive clit, the aftershocks still rippling through my core. It’s overwhelming. Too much. Not enough.
“You’re taking me so well,” Xander murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of his control.
I press my face into the pillow, muffling my cries as he increases his pace. His hips snap against me with more force, each thrust driving deeper than the last.
“I want to hear you,” he says, tugging my hair to lift my face from the pillow. “Don’t hide from me.”
My next moan fills the room, unfiltered and raw. The sound seems to break something in him. His rhythm falters, becoming more urgent, more primal. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me steady as he drives into me.
“Fuck, Oakley,” he groans, his voice cracking. “You feel incredible.”
I pull against the restraints, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin under my fingertips. The cables hold firm, keeping me bound and helpless beneath him.
“Are you going to come again?” he asks, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“Yes,” I gasp, barely recognizing my voice.
He leans forward, his chest pressing against my back as he maintains his relentless pace. His breath is hot against my ear as he whispers, “Let go, baby.”
His words push me over the edge. This orgasm hits differently—deeper, more intense.
Xander growls in response, his hipsstuttering as he follows me over the edge. He buries himself deep inside me with a last thrust, his body shuddering against mine as he comes.
For several heartbeats, we remain frozen together, both panting and trembling from the intensity. Then he withdraws, collapsing beside me on the mattress. His fingers make quick work of the restraints, freeing my wrists.
I roll toward him, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He pulls me against his chest, one hand massaging my wrists where the cables left faint marks.
“That was...” I trail off, unable to find words adequate to describe what just happened.
“I know,” he says, pressing his lips to my forehead.
I trace lazy patterns across his chest, enjoying the rapid beat of his heart beneath my fingertips. “I should lock you up more often.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Yes, please.”
I curl against Xander’s side, my body still humming with aftershocks. His arm wraps around me, fingers tracing idle patterns along my shoulder. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear grounds me as my thoughts drift.
“So,” he says, his voice rumbling through his chest. “What are you going to do about the Hemlock Society invitation?”
The question hangs in the air between us. My fingers freeze mid-pattern on his chest.
“I...” The words stick in my throat.
I think about Blackwell, about the satisfaction I felt when the final nail pierced his heart. About the gas station attendant, my first unplanned kill. About Dr. Wendell’sblood pooling on the floor, and how I’d suggested cutting out his tongue.
But I also think about the nightmares that followed. The way my hands sometimes shake when I’m alone.
“I don’t think I can,” I whisper. “The need to hunt, to...balance scales. It’s not there for me.” My voice grows smaller with each word, fear creeping in. This society is his family. His purpose.
I tilt my head up, needing to see his face. “I’m sorry.”
