Page 79 of X Marks the Stalker
She cries out, the pain clearly amplifying her pleasure. I bite down harder, then soothe the spot with my tongue.
“Let me come,” she pleads.
“Not until I think you’re ready,” I murmur against her wet skin.
I rub her clit with renewed intensity while maintaining my steady thrusts. Her breathing becomes ragged, her muscles tensing. Once more, I pull my hand away just as she starts to tip over the edge.
“Fuck!” she screams in frustration, slamming her palm against the tile wall.
I bite her other shoulder. She whimpers, the sound piercing through me. I near my own edge, her tight heat drawing me close.
I withdraw completely, stepping back. She protests untilI spin her around to face me again, her back now against the shower wall. I drop to my knees on the shower floor, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder as I taste her once, twice, then bite her inner thigh.
She clutches my hair, pulling as I alternate between sucking and sharp nips on her clit. With every approach to climax, I retreat, leaving her trembling.
“Please,” she begs. “I can’t take anymore.”
I stand, turning her so her back is against the shower wall. With deliberate slowness, I stroke myself, watching her eyes track the movement of my hand.
“On your knees,” I command.
She drops, water streaming down her face. I continue stroking, pace increasing with building pressure. Her lips part.
“Open your mouth,” I instruct, my voice strained.
She obeys, and the sight—wet, waiting, desperate—unleashes me. I groan, my release spattering across her face, into her mouth, on her cheeks and forehead. Shower water begins washing it away, but she remains still, watching me with those intense eyes.
I catch my breath, studying her. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, parted lips. Water streams over us both, but traces of my release remain visible. Her chest rises and falls, thighs pressing together, seeking relief.
I trace a finger down her cheek, feeling her shiver at my touch. “Will you be good, Oakley?”
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the shower spray. A visible shiver runs through her body.
I kneel, face inches from hers, tongue slowly tracing her cheek, tasting myself on her. I move, cleaning everytrace with my tongue. Her breathing quickens with each stroke.
I capture her lips. She opens, tongue meeting mine with surprising aggression. I taste myself, the kiss deepening, turning hungry. Her hands pull my hair, demanding closeness.
Without breaking contact, I guide her upright. Then I drop to my knees, trailing kisses down her neck, between her breasts, across her stomach. By the time I reach her thighs, she’s trembling.
I hook one leg over my shoulder, exposing her. For a moment, I just gaze at her—swollen and glistening. Then I devour her, sucking her clit without preamble.
She cries out, hands finding my hair. Her grip tightens as I maintain suction, tongue flicking against that sensitive bundle.
Her back arches against the tiles, thighs quaking around my head. My hands grip her hips, keeping her upright as the orgasm tears through her. Sounds I’ve never heard escape her—half-sob, half-scream—as her body convulses against my mouth.
“Xander,” she gasps, pulling my hair. “Oh God, Xander.”
I continue until aftershocks subside, until her legs give out. Rising to catch her before she slides down, her body melting against mine. The water runs cold.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair.
She weighs nothing in my arms. Her head rests on my shoulder, eyes half-closed, breath quick and shallow. I carry her from the steamy bathroom to the bedroom, protective of her vulnerability.
The cool air raises goosebumps across her wet skin. Iplace her on the bed’s edge and grab a fresh towel from my closet.
I’ve brought women here before. None stayed. None fit. But Oakley… She can fit.
I focus on details instead. The curve of her collarbone. The freckle on her left shoulder. The rise and fall of her chest.
