Page 95 of X Marks the Stalker
Keeping my voice low, I ask again, “Am I your friend?”
Oakley meets my eyes, defiance and desire battling for dominance in her expression.
“No,” she whispers.
“Good.” I step between her spread legs again, sliding my belt free with deliberate slowness. “Now you’re going to take my cock like a good girl.”
I free myself, stroking it while she watches, pupils dilated. My height puts me at the perfect angle—the kitchen island aligning my cock exactly with her entrance as she lies spread before me. In one swift motion, I thrust inside her, burying myself to the hilt.
She cries out, back arching against the butcher block. The knives securing her wrists rattle but hold firm.
I set a brutal pace, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. Each thrust drives her back against the solid wood.
“Is this what friends do?” I growl, landing a sharp slap against her breast.
She gasps. “No!”
I cup her breast, twisting her nipple between my fingers. “What are we then?”
“I don’t— I can’t—” Her words dissolve into a moan as I increase the pace, driving into her with enough force to make the entire island shudder.
Another slap lands on her opposite breast, leaving a red mark that I soothe with my tongue before biting down. She writhes beneath me, testing her restraints as her first orgasm builds.
I can feel it in the way her walls clench around me, the rhythm of her breathing changing.
I wrap one hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes widen. “What are you, Oakley?”
“Yours,” she gasps. “I’m yours.”
That’s what I needed to hear. I release her throat and resume my punishing rhythm, hitting that spot inside her that makes her scream. Her first orgasm crashes through her, her body tensing beneath me as she cries out.
I don’t slow down. If anything, I increase my pace, chasing her through the waves of pleasure and straight into another building climax. My hand lands on her breast again, the sting of it pushing her closer to the edge.
“Again,” I demand.
She screams my name. The sound of it—my actual name, not some alias or nickname—pushes me dangerously close to my own release.
Her eyes roll back as her body shudders one final time, muscles clenching around me. That sight—her surrender—sends me over the edge. I thrust deep, holding myself there as I empty inside her, pulse after pulse.
I watch, transfixed, as some of my release seeps from where we’re joined. The contrast of white against her flushed skin, the slick evidence of what we’ve done pooling beneath her—it’s fucking beautiful. Primal. Like some twisted work of art.
“Christ,” I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest.
She lies there splayed and spent, chest heaving with each breath, hair wild around her head. Looking at her like this, I almost forget the knives, the danger, everything but her.
I reach up, extracting the carving knife that pins her wrists to the butcher block. The wood creaks as I pull the blade free. She flexes her fingers, blood rushing back to them as I unwrap the rope from her wrists, revealing red marks where she fought against her restraints.
Moving down, I free her ankles one by one, removing the knives and unwinding the rope. I massage each released limb, rubbing circulation back into her extremities. Her skin is warm under my touch, flushed and slightly damp with sweat.
When she’s free, I slide my arms beneath her—one under her knees, one supporting her back—and lift her from the kitchen island. Her head lolls against my shoulder, her body completely relaxed in my arms. I hold her against my chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against mine.
I carry Oakley to the bedroom, her body warm and pliant against my chest.
She curls against me as I lay her on the bed, her eyes half-lidded with satisfied exhaustion. Then I drop beside her, pulling her against my side, my fingers tracing patterns on her bare skin.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, a small smile playing at her lips. “Better than okay.”
