Page 43 of X Marks the Stalker
“I can’t—” I gasp, overwhelmed by the intensity.
“You can,” he insists. “Keep going. I want to see you completely undone.”
I obey, working my fingers deeper as my thumb continues circling my clit. The stimulation sends me spiraling into a second climax that tears a primal sound from my throat.
“Fuck,” he groans, and I hear the moment he loses control. A deep, guttural sound that seems wrenched from somewhere primal. “Oakley?—”
The way he says my name—like a prayer, like salvation—triggers something even deeper. My entire body convulses, pleasure radiating outward from my core in electric pulses that leave me gasping and trembling.
“Oh shit,” I whimper, collapsing against the mattress, aftershocks still rippling through me.
For several moments, the only sound is our synchronized breathing, gradually slowing from desperate pants to something approaching normal.
“Well,” I say after catching my breath, a satisfied smile playing at my lips. “That escalated quickly.”
His laugh comes through the phone, genuine and warm. “You continue to surprise me.”
“I’m glad,” I say, a hint of triumph in my voice. “It’s nice to know I can still be a little unpredictable, even to someone who’s been watching my every move.”
“You’re many things,” he says, voice thick with promise, “but predictable isn’t one of them. That’s what makes this dangerous.”
“Dangerous for whom?” I whisper.
The line goes silent for a beat too long.
“For both of us,” he finally answers. “Sleep well, Oakley.”
The call ends, but his words linger in the darkness. Dangerous. Yes. But as I curl into my sheets, sticky and satisfied, I realize I’ve never wanted anything safe.
Shadows dance across the ceiling overhead as my body hums with aftershocks of pleasure. On the nightstand, wrapped in a tissue, the lollipop stands as sticky evidence of something I could never confess to anyone—not my friends, not even Zara, who’s heard every nasty detail of my dating life since college.
What would I even say?Hey Zara, guess what? I just got off with a mystery man who might also be a serial killer I’m investigating. There was a lollipop involved in ways that would make a porn director blush.She’d have me committed. Or worse, she’d want details.
My eyes drift to my laptop on the nightstand. Sleep isn’t coming anytime soon. My mind buzzes, my body still sensitive. I might as well be productive.
I reach for my laptop, then pause. If he’s watching me right now, he’ll see what I’m searching for. I need privacy for this.
The silk robe slides cool against my skin as I wrap it around my body. Laptop tucked under one arm, bare feet pad across the hardwood toward the bathroom. The one room he claimed had no cameras. Hopefully, that wasn’t another lie. I close the door and sit on the edge of the tub, opening my laptop with renewed purpose.
“Let’s see who you are,” I whisper, opening an incognito browser window.
I type “top security companies in Boston,” but the resultsoverwhelm me. Dozens of firms, from multinational corporations to small local operations.
I narrow my focus, typing “Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association security.” I scroll through the results until one catches my eye—a press release from three years ago.
“Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association Announces Partnership with Sentinel Security Solutions for Comprehensive System Upgrade.”
I click the link, scanning the text until I find what I’m looking for.
“Sentinel Security Solutions, led by founder and CEO Xander Rhodes...”
“Xander Rhodes,” I whisper, the name electric on my tongue.
My fingers type his name into the search bar, pulse hammering against my throat. The results load, and there he is. A professional headshot on his company website.
My breath catches.
Dark hair swept back. Those gray-green eyes pierce through the screen. The same man who rejected my pathetic attempt to infiltrate the club a couple of weeks ago. His jawline could slice glass—all sharp angles and masculine definition. My stalker. My phone sex partner.
