Page 78 of X Marks the Stalker
“Oakley,” I gasp.
She pulls back. “Just feel, Xander. Stop thinking for once.”
Her mouth returns, more insistent. I watch through half-lidded eyes, her determination mirroring my own.
I tighten my grip on her wet hair, holding her head as I push deeper into her mouth until she chokes. The sound sends a shock of pleasure through me. She recovers, swirling her tongue around the tip with unexpected skill.
A moan escapes me, louder than I intended. I’m never this vocal. Never this unrestrained. The sound echoes against the tile walls, amplified by the shower’s acoustics.
“Fuck,” I breathe, watching her eyes water from the strain.
Something primal takes over. I thrust harder into her mouth, establishing a punishing rhythm that leaves her gasping for breath between strokes. The water continues to cascade over us both, steam clouding the glass walls around us.
She doesn’t pull away—she takes it, matches my intensity, hands digging into my thighs hard enough to leave marks. Each time I push forward, she chokes, the sound mixing with the running water in a symphony of desperation.
My movements grow faster, rougher, abandoning the control I maintain in every aspect of life. Her mouthbecomes my universe—hot, wet, demanding. Tension builds at the base of my spine.
“Oakley,” I warn, giving her the chance to pull away.
Her response is to take me deeper, her fingernails digging into my skin.
Pleasure builds, threatening to consume me. Before reaching the edge, I pull her to her feet.
“Turn around,” I command, voice raw.
She complies, facing the shower wall, hands splayed against the tile. I press against her from behind, covering her body with mine. One hand cups her breast while the other dips between her legs, finding her slick and ready.
“Is this what you want?” I ask against her ear.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Now.”
I enter her in one fluid motion, and her cry echoes off the bathroom walls. My control fractures as I establish a rhythm. There’s nothing tender about this—it’s raw need, a desperate attempt to feel alive after staring death in the face.
“Yes,” she hisses, her internal muscles clenching around me. “Fuck me.”
The shower rains down as steam fills the glass enclosure. Her hand reaches back, urging me deeper.
“Look at me,” I command, turning her face toward the glass wall where our reflection is barely visible through the condensation.
She meets my eyes in the foggy mirror, her gaze unflinching, challenging. I slide my hand from her hip to between her legs, finding her clit.
I pinch her sensitive bud, her legs trembling. I apply more pressure, circling as I drive into her from behind.
“You like that?” I whisper against her ear.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”
She approaches the edge, internal muscles clenching. Just as her breathing hitches, I withdraw my fingers, denying her release.
“Xander,” she protests, voice breaking with frustration.
“You’ve been a bad girl, Oakley,” I tell her, slowing my thrusts to an agonizing pace. “Following me.”
Her entire body is tense with frustrated desire. I start again, my fingers returning to her clit with firm, deliberate strokes. She responds, pushing back against me, desperate for more friction.
“Please,” she begs. “I’ll be good.”
Again, I sense her approaching climax and withdraw. A sob escapes her. I press my chest against her back, teeth sinking into the junction where neck meets shoulder. Not breaking skin, but marking.
