Page 54 of X Marks the Stalker
“Not yet,” I warn as I feel her tightening around my fingers. “Not until I say.”
She makes a sound of frustration, her head falling back, then straightening as she remembers the void behind her.
“Look at me,” I say again, softer this time. “Focus on me. Nothing else exists right now. Not the edge, not the fall, not even your need. Just me.” It’s what I’ve wanted since I first saw her—her complete attention, her focus entirely on me.
Her eyes lock with mine, a strange intimacy forming between us despite the mask, despite the circumstances.
“Now,” I whisper, curling my fingers one last time while pressing firmly against her clit. “Come for me now, Oakley.”
Her entire body tenses, suspended between pleasure and the void below. The danger heightens everything—eachsensation amplified by the knowledge that we’re balanced on the edge of oblivion. She comes with a cry that echoes across the rooftop, her inner walls pulsing around my fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her.
I hold her through her orgasm, ensuring that even as she loses control, she doesn’t lose her balance. When the last tremors subside, I lift her from the edge, carrying her a few steps back to safer ground before setting her down. My arms feel empty without her weight.
Her legs buckle beneath her, and I catch her with one hand at her waist. My fingers splay across her hip, holding her upright as if she belongs to me.
She reaches for me, her hand sliding across my erection. “Let me take care of you,” she whispers, her eyes dark with desire as she presses against the hardness straining my pants.
Despite every cell in my body screaming for release, I step back, catching her wrists and removing her hands. Desire pulses through me so intensely that I have to take a deep breath before speaking. This might be the single most idiotic act of self-denial in human history.
“No,” I say, my voice strained. “This isn’t about me.”
Confusion flickers across her face. “Don’t you want?—”
“What I want,” I cut her off, my cock throbbing in disagreement with my words, “is irrelevant. This was about showing you something.” Like how I’m going to need an ice bath and possibly therapy after this little demonstration.
“Showing me what?” she asks, smoothing down her dress with shaky hands, her eyes still flicking to the bulge in my pants.
“That control is an illusion,” I reply, watching her while shifting my stance to ease the pressure against my zipper. “That you think you want to control Blackwell’s fate, but what you want is to surrender that burden to someone else.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s not?—”
“So…” I say, adjusting my cuffs as if we’d just concluded a business meeting rather than a sexual encounter on the edge of a rooftop. As if I’m not experiencing the most painful case of blue balls in recorded history. “About Blackwell...”
She blinks, clearly thrown by my abrupt shift. “What about him?”
“My answer is still no.”
Her expression hardens. “Why not? You help people get justice all the time.”
“I don’t know what you think I do, Oakley, but I’m not for hire.” I step back, creating distance between us. “And Blackwell isn’t just anyone. He’s connected, protected. Going after him would be suicide. And while I have many questionable hobbies, suicide isn’t one of them.”
“So you admit you do go after people,” she presses, advancing on me. “Just not ones who might fight back?”
“I never said I go after anyone,” I counter, even as I marvel at her boldness. “But hypothetically speaking, targeting someone like Blackwell would bring heat that would never cool down. It would be like trying to swat a hornet while wearing a suit made of honey and standing in the middle of the hive’s annual convention.”
She steps closer, her gaze unflinching. “So your answer is no?”
I nod.
“Too bad.” She turns toward the roof access. “Because I'm doing it anyway. With or without you.”
Shit. She's actually going to do it. And she's going to die.
Chapter 14
Oakley
The clock on my computer reads 1:47 AM when I notice the time. The newsroom sits empty around me, my desk the only island of light in a sea of darkness. I’ve been chasing Blackwell’s ghost through financial records for hours, losing myself in the labyrinth of shell companies and offshore accounts.
