Page 94 of X Marks the Stalker
I stare at Oakley sitting on my kitchen island, her breath coming in short gasps. Above her hangs the pot and knife rack, casting long shadows across her flushed skin. The overhead lights highlight the pulse jumping in her throat. An idea sparks.
“Don’t move,” I command.
Her eyes widen, but she stays perfectly still as I reach for her hips. In one fluid motion, I hook my fingers into her panties and yank them down her thighs. The fabric tears slightly in my haste. She lifts her hips just enough to help me, her breath hitching as cool air hits the exposed skin.
I drop the scrap of fabric to the floor and step back to grab my bag from under the counter. Oakley watches me, her chest rising and falling rapidly as I pull out a length of soft black rope.
“You trust me?” I ask, the rope sliding between my fingers.
She nods, eyes never leaving mine. “Yes.”
Above her, the knives gleam in the kitchen light. I reach up, selecting a paring knife first—small, precise. I trail the flat side along her arm, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.
“Your skin,” I murmur, playing the knife across her collarbone. “So perfect. So alive.”
I exchange the paring knife for a larger one, this time dragging the dull edge up her inner thigh. She’s trembling now, her arousal evident on the butcher block beneath her.
“Please,” she whispers.
I set the knife aside and gather her wrists in one hand, wrapping the rope around them. The black bindings contrast beautifully against her skin. Once secured, I position her arms above her head, back against the countertop.
Reaching up, I select a carving knife with a narrow blade. I test its weight in my hand before aligning it with the ropes binding her wrists. With controlled force, I drive the knife through the rope and into the butcher block, pinning her hands above her head.
She gasps, testing the restraint. The knife holds firm.
“Spread your legs,” I order.
She complies, opening herself to me. I choose two more knives and pull out more rope. I bind her ankles and secure each to the island’s corners with the blades, embedding them deeply into the wood. The position leaves her exposed, spread-eagled across my kitchen island.
I step back to admire my handiwork. Oakley’s splayed across the kitchen island like an offering—wrists pinnedabove her head by a carving knife, ankles secured by knife-points driven deep into the wood. Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, pupils blown wide with a cocktail of fear and desire.
“So,” I say, unbuckling my belt. “Just a friend, huh?”
She tugs against her restraints, testing them. The knives don’t budge. I’ve done this before.
I shrug out of my shirt, letting it drop to the floor. I step between her legs, hands sliding up her thighs.
“What am I to you, Novak?” I ask, my voice low. “What exactly are we doing here?”
She opens her mouth to answer just as my thumb finds her center. Whatever words she planned, die on a gasp.
“I think,” I continue, working her slowly, “that you like the idea of being with someone dangerous. You get off on it.”
Her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure. I give it to her, watching her eyes flutter closed.
I lean over her, pressing my body against hers. Above us hang the remaining kitchen knives—chef’s knife, boning knife, cleaver—suspended on hooks, points gleaming just inches from my back. One wrong move and they could slice into me.
Oakley notices them too, eyes widening as she registers how close the blades hover above us. A thread away from cutting into my skin as I position myself above her.
But the danger doesn’t frighten her. Her breathing quickens, lips parting.
“You like it, don’t you?” I whisper against her ear, letting my weight press her further into the butcher block. “Being on the edge.” I nip at her earlobe. “Like on that rooftop.”
The memory hangs between us—her body balanced overBoston’s skyline. Nothing but my grip keeping her from falling. The way she surrendered to it, to me.
Her lips curl into a knowing smile. “Maybe I do.”
“Maybe?” I push two fingers inside her, making her arch against her restraints. The knife at her wrists shifts, the blade catching light. “I think it’s more than maybe.”
