Page 80 of X Marks the Stalker
“Arms up,” I instruct, and she lifts them like a child.
I dry her with precision, starting with her hair, moving to her neck, shoulders, then breasts. She watches through heavy lids, still flushed. I continue with each arm, her stomach, legs, and between her thighs.
When dry, I retrieve a clean black t-shirt from my dresser. I guide her arms through the sleeves as if she might break. The shirt hangs loose on her smaller frame, hem reaching mid-thigh.
No underwear. There’s something satisfying about seeing her in my clothing and nothing else, her bare legs extending from the dark fabric of my shirt.
“Such a good girl, Oakley. So good.” I guide her beside me on the bed, pulling her against my chest.
Her body molds to mine, her back against my front, damp hair tickling my chin. My arm circles around her waist, eliminating any space between us.
I bury my nose in her hair. My shampoo masks her scent, but beneath lies something distinctly Oakley—warm and alive, tightening my chest.
She shifts, breathing synchronizing with mine. Her fingers find my hand at her waist, intertwining. The gesture feels more intimate than our shower activities.
“Comfortable?”
“Mm-hmm,” she nestles closer.
I tighten my hold, drawing her against me. My free hand strokes her hair, combing through the damp strands. Post-sex cuddling never appealed before, but Oakley in my bed, wearing my clothes, feels right beyond words.
“Rest,” I tell her, lips pressing to her temple. “I’ve got you.”
She makes a soft sound, her body relaxing in my embrace. Her breathing deepens as sleep claims her. I remain awake, cataloging every point of contact, recording each sensation.
I lie motionless, listening to Oakley breathe. Her back rises against my chest, her body warm and soft. Sleep eludes me, mind racing. Her presence, vulnerable and trusting in my bed, keeps me vigilant.
My phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once, twice, three rapid pulses—security alert.
I extract my arm from beneath her head, freezing when she stirs. She mumbles incoherently before settling back to sleep.
I watch her. Hair splayed across my pillow, wearing nothing but my shirt. The sight twists something in my chest.
I check my phone, opening the security app. Three alerts from Oakley’s apartment—all motion sensors triggered within sixty seconds.
“That’s not right,” I whisper.
I tap into the live feed from her living room camera. The image loads, and ice floods my veins.
Chapter 20
Oakley
The mattress dips beneath me as I roll over, my hand stretching across empty, cooling sheets. My eyes snap open, disorientation dissolving into recognition. Xander’s bedroom.
But no Xander.
The digital clock on the nightstand burns 4:17 AM in harsh blue light. Too early even for someone with his peculiar sleep habits.
“Xander?” My voice slices through the apartment’s perfect silence.
Nothing.
I just had mind-blowing sex with a serial killer.
The thought hits me. And the weirdest part? I’m not even bothered by it.
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for the panic to set in. The moral crisis. The “oh God, what have I done” moment.Nothing comes.
