Page 53 of X Marks the Stalker
She tries to reach for me again, her hand brushing against the obvious bulge in my pants, and I catch her wrist, now holding both pinned at her sides. My body screams for her touch, but I refuse to give in.
“You don’t touch me,” I tell her. “Right now, on this roof, your pleasure, your safety, your very life belongs to me.” I sound like a bad BDSM novel, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains.
A small shiver runs through her, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or anticipation. Maybe both.
I slide her underwear to the side with a swift, decisive motion, exposing her to the night air. The gasp she makes sends heat coursing through me.
“Look at me,” I command, waiting until her eyes meet mine. “Tell me to stop and I stop. Otherwise, you take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She nods once, decisively.
I lift her, adjusting her position so she’s balanced on the edge, the city behind her. One small push and she’d fall backward into oblivion. The knowledge of this danger colorseverything that follows. Power surges through me, raw and absolute.
Maintaining eye contact, I slide two fingers inside her without warning. Her back arches, a strangled cry escaping her lips as her body clenches around the sudden intrusion. The heat of her around my fingers makes my cock twitch, demanding attention I refuse to give.
“Stay still,” I remind her as she tries to move against my hand. “Your job is to take it, not control it.”
Her breath comes in short gasps as I move my fingers with methodical precision, curling them to find the spot that makes her thighs tremble. All the while, I keep her suspended over the edge, the thirty-two-story drop at her back a constant reminder of her vulnerability.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to unzip my pants and bury myself inside her, but this isn’t about me. Not tonight.
“Oh God,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed.
“Look at me,” I repeat, stilling my fingers until she complies. When her eyes open, pupils blown wide with desire, I resume my movements, adding a third finger, stretching her further. “I want to see your face when you come.”
With my free hand, I loosen my grip on her wrists to trail my fingers up her body, over the curve of her breast, along her collarbone, coming to rest at the base of her throat. I apply the slightest pressure. Not enough to restrict her breathing, just enough to remind her of my control. Just enough to remind myself that I’m still in control, even as everything inside me threatens to unravel.
Her head dips toward my neck, and I expect her lips, her tongue—some soft exploration.
Instead, she sinks her teeth into the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder. Hard.
A moan escapes me before I can contain it, deep and primal. The sharp pain radiates outward, sending unexpected waves of pleasure coursing through my body. My fingers curl inside her, pressing deeper. So much for being in control.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
She bites again, harder this time, and my hips buck forward of their own accord. The sensation is electric. Her teeth breaking through my disciplined exterior, finding the raw, animal need beneath.
I like it. Too much. Way too much. The kind of too much that makes me want to throw all my rules into the abyss below us.
My body responds with unmistakable enthusiasm to her small act of rebellion, this claiming of power even as she hangs suspended over the abyss.
“Please,” she whispers, though whether she’s asking for more or for mercy, I’m not sure.
“Please, what?” I ask, curling my fingers inside her, her inner walls fluttering around them.
“I need—” she starts, then cuts off with a gasp as I press my thumb against her clit.
“Tell me what you need,” I whisper, slowing my movements to an agonizing pace. My own need pulses through me with each beat of my heart, my erection straining against my zipper so hard it’s almost painful, but I focus solely on her responses, cataloging each gasp, each tremor.
“I need to come,” she admits, face flushed with desire and perhaps embarrassment at having to voice it aloud.
“And who controls you?” I ask, increasing the pressure of my thumb, circling her clit with deliberate strokes. My hips involuntarily thrust slightly forward, seeking friction that isn’t there.
“You do,” she breathes.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and the praise triggers something in her, a visible wave of pleasure that ripples through her body. I bite back a groan as pre-cum dampens the front of my underwear, my control slipping. I’m supposed to be the one in charge here, not the one fighting back whimpers like a teenager getting his first hand job.
I increase my pace, my fingers moving inside her with greater urgency, my thumb maintaining steady pressure on her clit. Her breath comes in short, desperate pants, her thighs trembling on either side of me.
