Page 20 of My Masked Stalker
“Answer me,” Killian commands in a voice that makes it clear he never gets disobeyed.
“B—both,” I gasp, the reply coming from somewhere in my gut instead of a conscious part of my brain.
“Good,” he chuckles. “So good for me. And good girls get rewarded.”
He parts my pussy lips with his thumbs, blowing air onto my exposed clit. I whimper, squirming against the scarecrow’s crucifix, like a bird caught by a predator. I’m his sacrifice, his offering. The skull mask may be discarded in the dirt, but the black paint makes him look just as wild, as feral. He was the hunter prowling through the shadows all night just to sink his teeth into me.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, his breath hot on my skin. “My Red, my delicious feast.”
I gasp when his mouth ghosts over me, not quite touching, just close enough for his breath to brush my most sensitive skin. My hips jerk, chasing more, but his laugh is dark, cruel.
“Greedy already,” Killian drawls, dragging his nose up the inside of my thigh, smearing a line of paint against my pale skin. “You want my mouth on you, don’t you? Say it.”
“I—” My throat closes up, making it impossible to speak.
Another sharp slap, this time to my thigh, and I yelp, jerking against the old wood.
“Say it, sweetheart,” he orders. “Tell me what you need.”
My voice breaks. Or is it my pride? “I want your mouth,” I finally admit.
“That’s better.” He laughs, the wicked wolf. “Good girls get what they beg for.”
He licks me once, a long, slow stroke that makes my toes curl in my boots. But instead of staying where I need him, he veers away, biting down on the soft flesh of my thigh. The sharp sting makes me cry out, and he soothes it with his tongue.
“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters against my skin. His teeth scrape, his tongue flicks, but every time I strain for more, he pulls back with that wolfish grin.
“Killian,” I plead, my hands coming forward to pull on the soft dark strands of his hair, pulling him where I need him.
“Shh,” he whispers, those pale eyes boring into me from below. He might be kneeling, but there’s no way I’m in charge here. “You’ll come for me on this cross, my good Little Red. You’ll scream for me, and everyone out there will think it’s just the wind blowing through the corn.”
His mouth finds my clit—at last—and I nearly sob from the shock of contact. The hot swirl of his tongue and the wet suction have me thrashing against the scarecrow’s post, desperate for more. Heat gathers low in my belly, the pressure building so fast it’s dizzying.
But just as I’m about to tumble over that edge, he pulls back. His teeth graze against me, and he bites my thigh again, grinning against my skin while I cry out in frustration.
“Killian!” I whimper, my hips bucking in the empty air. “Please—don’t stop!”
“Not yet, sweetheart.” His voice is silky, dark, and teasing. “You’ll come when I say you can. Not a second before.”
He drags his tongue over my slit, slow and deliberate, just enough to make me shiver, then pulls away again. My fists ball at my sides, nails digging into my palms as tears of frustration burn my eyes.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “I need it… Oh god, I need you.”
“You sound so sweet begging in the dirt,” he growls, his breath hot against my pussy. “My perfect little Red, dripping for her wolf.”
The third time he denies me, I scream. The sound rips through the maze, carried away on the wind.
“Louder,” Killian demands, pressing two fingers into my soaked heat while his mouth clamps down on my clit again, sucking hard. “Let everyone hear how hard I make you come.”
I shatter, my orgasm tearing through me like a wildfire. My legs spasm, and my back arches against the scarecrow’s rough cross. The climax is brutal, wringing every drop of pleasure out of me until I’m shaking, wrecked, barely able to stay upright, held up by his strong hands.
Killian doesn’t stop until I’m sobbing with oversensitivity, my body jerking from every flick of his tongue. Only then does he lift his head, lips glistening, chin smeared with my wetness. His pale eyes blaze among the streaks of black paint, feral and triumphant.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, taking away some of the paint. “My sweet Little Red, coming apart on a fucking scarecrow like she was made for the dark.”
My world tilts when he picks me up in a bridal carry, and he starts walking while my eyes take in the sharp line of his jaw, the strong nose, the sexy arch of his upper lip. Every step jostles me against the hard planes of his body, and I clutch at his shoulders instinctively, my heart galloping.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You did so well for me. Screaming, begging, soaking my mouth like the sweetest fucking wine.” His grip tightens, possessive. “But that was just foreplay.”
