Page 37 of X Marks the Stalker
I shift in my seat, widening the space between my thighs beneath the tablecloth. An invitation he immediately accepts. I’ve lost control.
“What else do you know?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the ambient gallery noise. I keep my expression neutral, as if we’re discussing nothing more provocative than auction prices.
“Everything,” he whispers, his fingers grazing the edge of my underwear, then sliding over the thin fabric, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. “Though I should confess I’m more of a ‘dinner first, then private location’ kind of guy. This is kinky, even for me.”
The juxtaposition of his skilled touch and his slightly flustered commentary creates a tension that heightens every sensation. I bite my lip, suppressing a moan. My breathing becomes shallow, uneven. The exhibitionism of it—being touched like this with Boston’s elite mingling just feet away—makes me wetter than I want to admit. I should stop him. I should be disgusted with myself.
Instead, I press against his hand.
I don’t even know why I’m letting him do this. He’s a stalker. Possibly a murderer. Yet I’m so aroused I can barely think straight. Don’t want him to stop. The danger, the intimacy, the feeling of being seen... I’ve completely lost my mind.
His fingers move with devastating precision, as if he’s been studying exactly how to touch me. And maybe he has.
Through the haze of my arousal, his fingers slip beneath the fabric, and reality crashes back. We’re in public. I don’t know who this man is. The journalist part of my brain finally overrides whatever madness has possessed me.
I grasp his wrist, stilling his movement.
“Stop.” The word comes out breathier than I intend.
He pauses. No resistance, no pushing. Just immediate compliance that somehow makes this whole situation even more confusing.
“Too much?” he asks, voice calm despite the electricity still crackling between us.
Not enough, I want to scream. My body aches for him to continue. What kind of person am I becoming?
Despite everything—the surveillance, the breaking and entering, the audacity of approaching me here—there’s something in his immediate response that disarms me completely. He stopped the instant I asked. No argument. No persuasion. Just respect for my boundary, offered without hesitation.
I should be terrified of this man. He’s invaded my privacy in ways that should make my skin crawl. Yet somehow, in this moment, I feel...protected. As if the same intensity he brings to watching me has transformed into guarding me.
It makes no logical sense, but my instincts—the same ones that have kept me alive through dangerous investigations—aren’t signaling a threat. They’re signaling something far morecomplicated.
He withdraws his hand, the friction sending one last shiver through me. As he pulls away, something small and hard presses into my palm—metallic and familiar.
A flash drive.
My fingers close around it. Our eyes lock as I slip it into my purse.
“What’s on this?” I ask, struggling to regain my professional composure.
“Everything Martin was killed for,” he says. “The complete financial trail connecting Blackwell to shell corporations that purchased properties where three women were found dead. The same pattern that led your father to investigate Blackwell before he was framed.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. The flash drive burns a hole in my purse.
“Why give this to me?”
“Because you’re the right person to use it.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a touch so light it might be accidental if not for the deliberate way his eyes hold mine.
“There’s more where that came from,” he says. “If you’re interested.”
“More information about Blackwell?” I ask, though I suspect the offer extends beyond just data.
He smiles. “That. And other things.”
My body still hums from his touch, embarrassingly responsive to this dangerous stranger. The rational part of my brain screams I should grab the flash drive and run—report him to the police for breaking into my apartment, for watching me through cameras.
But the journalist in me, the daughter of murdered parents, wants—needs—whatever else he knows.
