Page 93 of X Marks the Stalker
“Listen to me,” Oakley says, her voice dropping an octave as she struggles to focus. “I’m staying with a friend. I’m safe.”
“What friend? You don’t have friends except me,” Zara counters.
I push my finger inside her, slow and deliberate. Oakley’s back arches as a moan escapes her lips before she can stop it.
“What was that?” Zara’s voice turns suspicious. “Oakley, are you... Are you having sex right now?”
“No! Of course not,” Oakley denies, her eyes locked on mine in a silent plea. But I don’t stop. I curl my finger just so, finding that perfect spot that makes her breath catch. Her free hand grips my shoulder, nails digging into my skin.
“You sound weird,” Zara continues. “Why are you so out of breath?”
Oakley tries to respond but can only manage short, clipped words as I work my finger in and out. Her hips move against my hand, betraying her body’s wants even as she attempts to maintain the conversation.
“I’m just—I was—running around,” she manages, swallowing hard.
“You are!” Zara’s voice rises. “Oh my God, you’re having sex right now! While you’re talking to me!”
Oakley’s cheeks flush crimson. She covers the phone again, shooting me a glare.
“No, he’s—” She clears her throat, removing her hand from the speaker. “He’s just a friend.”
My eyes narrow at her words. A friend? After everything we’ve shared? After Wendell? After I killed for her?
I pull my fingers from her. Standing up, I wipe my hand on my jeans and step back, creating space between us.
“A friend?” I mouth, my eyebrows raised.
Oakley’s eyes widen with recognition of her mistake. She fumbles with the phone, pressing it tighter against her ear.
“Z, I need to go now,” she says. “But don’t worry, I’m fine and I’m handling it. No need to call anyone.”
I cross my arms over my chest, watching her squirm under my gaze. My jaw tightens as she continues her hushed conversation.
Zara’s voice carries just enough for me to catch her words. “Go get your orgasm. It’s been a while. Perhaps you should clear the cobwebs first. Do you even remember how it’s done?”
Oakley’s face flushes crimson. “Zara!”
“Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” comes the reply.
“Too late for that,” Oakley mumbles as she hangs up the phone.
The room falls silent. Oakley looks up at me, still half-disheveled, her breathing uneven. I narrow my eyes at her, heat rising in my chest.
“A friend?” I repeat, this time aloud, my voice quiet.
Oakley adjusts her clothing, tugging her shirt down. “Well, I couldn’t say ‘my serial killer stalker friend,’ could I?”
She looks up at me through those impossible lashes, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“I’m anything but a friend.”
Her smile widens as she watches my expression darken. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not cute,” I growl, crossing the distance between us in two strides. “Serial killers aren’t cute. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute.”
I grab her hand, yanking her up with enough force to make her gasp. Without breaking eye contact, I pull her after me through the apartment into the kitchen with its stark lighting and clean surfaces.
The island stands in the center of the room. Solid butcher block on a steel frame. I spin her around, grip her waist, and lift her onto the counter. Her legs dangle over the edge as I step between them, my hands still on her hips.
