Page 77 of X Marks the Stalker
“Yes,” I say. “Efficiency.”
We strip without ceremony, clothes dropping to the tile. I step into the shower first, turning to offer my hand. She freezes, eyes widening as they travel down my body, taking in every inch with undisguised appreciation.
“Oh,” she says on a breath, her cheeks flushing darker than before.
Her gaze lingers on the ridged muscles of my abdomen, the scars marking my skin, then lower. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips.
“Something wrong?” I ask, self-conscious under her scrutiny.
She shakes her head, eyes meeting mine with unfamiliar heat. “Not wrong. Just...unexpected.”
“Unexpected how?” Water streams down my body as I wait for her answer.
“You’re beautiful,” she says, no artifice in her voice. “Like a statue. Perfect.” Her fingers reach out, hovering inches from my chest, not quite touching. “I knew you’d be fit, but this is...” Her eyes drift downward again, a small gasp escaping her lips. “And you’re...bigger than I imagined.”
Her eyes light up, lips parting. The naked hunger in her expression stirs something primal in me, not just desire for release, but the raw need to claim and be claimed.
She steps into the shower, the glass door closing behind her. The space feels smaller with both of us inside, steam curling around our bodies.
“Let me,” she says.
Her touch glides across my chest, soap trailing in slick patterns down my arms, washing away evidence, washing away death. Her palm flattens against my stomach, muscles tensing beneath her fingers. The bathroom steam curls around us, fogging the mirror until our reflections blur into ghostly outlines.
“Is this okay?” she asks.
“Yes,” I manage.
She continues washing me, methodical yet intimate. When her hand drifts lower, I capture her wrist.
“Your turn,” I say, taking the soap.
I clean her arms, neck, and face. She closes her eyes as I work, surrendering to my touch. Water droplets cling to hereyelashes, trembling with each breath. When I finish, we stand facing each other, water cascading over us, the steam rising in thick clouds around our bodies, shrouding the bathroom in white mist. The shower’s patter drowns out the world beyond this tiled sanctuary.
She gazes up through wet lashes, expression both vulnerable and determined.
“Are you clean?” she asks.
I blink. “Yes? We’re in the shower.” A rare smile tugs at my lips. “Rather thoroughly cleaned, I’d say.”
Her laugh breaks through the tension, unexpected and bright in the steamy enclosure. “No, I meant—” She bites her lip, eyes dancing with amusement. “STDs. Are you clean?”
“Oh.” Heat rises to my face that has nothing to do with the shower.
The realization of what she’s asking, what she intends, sends blood rushing south. I harden under her gaze, her eyes tracking the transformation with undisguised appreciation. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips as she watches me respond to her implied intention.
“Yes,” I manage, voice dropping lower. “Regular testing. You?”
Her lips curve into a smile. “Clean. And I have an IUD.”
I nod, processing this information with what remains of my rational brain. Not much.
She lowers herself to her knees before me, water streaming over her face, her hands steadying on my thighs. The sight steals my breath.
“I need...” she starts, then stops, fingers digging into muscle. “Can I?”
I nod, unable to form words as her mouth envelopes me.My hands find her wet hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she takes me deeper. The sensation is electric, overwhelming.
I fight to maintain control, to not lose myself in the warmth of her mouth.
