Page 15 of Savage Stalkers
His palm spreads flat over my heart. The weight pins me to his body, solid against my back. I can feel my heart racing against his palm, thumping frantically.
“Mine.”
The reasonable part of my brain—what’s left of it—knows this is all role-play, but damn he is so fucking good at it.
“I’ll always be watching.”His mask catches on my hair as he bends close, sending shivers cascading down my spine.“Always.”
There is a pause, and I wait to see what he does next.
“And if anyone else dares to touch what’s mine...”His hand slides lower, painfully slow, down my stomach. His fingers ghost over the waistband of my jeans, and his promise burns in the almost touch.“I’ll end them.”
The words would normally terrify me—a huge red flag if I have ever seen one. But I’m doing this is for me—something dangerous—and the way his threat sounds like obsession wrapped in violence... I am so here for it.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I need his hand to slide lower. My breath comes out short and uneven, my skin now hypersensitive to every whisper of contact between us.
“Say you’re mine.”
I need him to touch me so badly I would say anything. If this fantasy means belonging to a masked stranger, then so be it.
“I’m yours for as long as?—”
“You’re all in?”
“Yes,” I gasp out as he pushes his hand beneath my underwear, his finger pressing against my clit. With a few light strokes, he somehow has me coming undone, and my knees wobble as he caresses me through the aftershocks.
“Sleep tight, I’ll be watching.”
He removes his hand, lets go of me, and backs away.
I stare after him in a daze as he turns his mask off and disappears out of the garage.
The darkness swallows him.
Chapter Seven
Silas
Her wetness clings to my fingers, sticky against my skin. Every instinct screams at me to wash it off, to scrub until my hands are raw and clean again. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache, and my free hand trembles against my thigh. I’m desperate to reach for the hand sanitizer in my pocket, but I don’t.
Instead, I lift my fingers to my face and inhale, and the scent of her hits me.
My habitual revulsion goes to war with my hunger for her, and it’s all-consuming. I’m disgusted with myself. But beneath the nausea, and the crawling under my skin, there’s possession. She’s in me now; a part of me.
“What has you looking all murdery?” Zay asks, strolling into my room. He doesn’t knock. Ever. I shove my hand between my thighs, clamping my legs together like a vice.
Zay’s eyes narrow at the move.
“What’s wrong with your hand?” he asks cautiously, his eyes now laser-focused on it, like it’s a puzzle he must solve.
“Nothing.” I press my thighs tighter, but he’s already circling around my bed like a fucking shark.
“Show me.”
“Fuck off, Zay.”
He lunges, trying to pull my arm free. I twist, but he’s persistent, and his fingers dig into my wrist. We wrestle awkwardly, with him pulling while I clamp down harder, my legs locked in a death grip around my own hand.
“Jesus Christ, what are you hiding?” He laughs, treating this like a ridiculous game, which makes me fight harder.
