Page 10 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Five

Brooklyn

D reams are supposed to blur at the edges, slip from your hands like silk when you chase them. This one grabs me by the throat and refuses to let go.

In the dream, I am on the same trail as yesterday, only it’s darker, wilder, like the forest grew teeth overnight.

The trees are so tall the sky doesn’t exist. The path beneath my boots is almost impassible, roots clawing up from red earth, stones that catch at my ankles, branches that lash my arms and cheeks.

I can’t see behind me, but I know I’m not alone.

I run, because in dreams that’s what you do.

My thighs burn, lungs spitting fire, but there’s no stopping.

I’m desperate to keep moving, even though my mind keeps whispering, it’s pointless, you’re caught, he’ll always be faster .

My own breath is the only sound, sharp and panicked, and every step is slower than the last.

A sound splits the silence: boots crushing leaves, deliberate and patient. I look back, but the darkness behind me is absolute. Nothing there, and that’s even worse.

I burst into a clearing—a rough circle hacked out of the woods, the ground churned by some ancient violence.

I try to double back but there he is, the man from the trail, only now he’s bigger, all cartoon-proportioned: arms thick with muscle, veined and inked, the tattoos writhing as he moves.

His shoulders block out the moon, and his eyes catch what little light there is, burning a hole right through me.

He says my name. Not Brooklyn, but “little fox,” the words wrapping around me, heating me from the inside out. There’s no air left. There’s no space between us, only the burn of him and the cold of my terror.

He closes the distance in one stride, hand clamping around my wrist. His fingers are rough, calloused, like he’s spent a lifetime breaking things.

Maybe people. He spins me and slams me against a tree, the bark scraping through the fabric of my shirt, biting into my skin.

He’s so close I can smell him—earth, sweat, some sharp manly musk that short-circuits my brain.

I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open, jaw clamped shut by the weight of his gaze.

He presses into me, so hard the breath whooshes from my lungs.

My feet leave the ground, boots scrabbling at nothing.

His knee forces my legs apart, and I can feel the full length of him, every inch, pressed against me.

I should be fighting, but my body betrays me: my hands flutter uselessly, then flatten back against the trunk, as if I’ve accepted my fate.

My chest heaves, trapped between panic and something else, some fucked-up hunger I can’t look at straight-on.

His mouth is at my ear now, teeth grazing the lobe, hot breath tickling my neck. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” The voice is velvet and gravel, an accent that’s not quite the typical American, not quite anything I’ve ever heard before. “Did you think I’d let you walk away?”

I shake my head. Or maybe I nod. I’m not sure.

Everything is noise and sensation. His hand is on my waist, fingers digging into the softness, holding me like he owns every part of me.

His other hand finds my hair, and he yanks my head back, exposing my throat.

I whimper, actually whimper, like some helpless kitten in a documentary, but when he licks a line up the tendon of my neck, the whimper melts into a moan.

He laughs, low and sensual. “That’s it,” he whispers, mouth tracing my jaw. “Let them all hear how good you taste.”

He bites me, not gentle at all, and I feel the pain rip down my spine and curl under my ribs.

My body reacts before my brain can catch up—hips tilting forward, grinding into the unyielding mass of him.

I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants to ruin me.

I know I should be disgusted, terrified, anything but what I am: soaking wet, so needy it hurts.

He lets me go and turns me around, grabbing my hands and forcing them above my head.

“Keep them there.” He lets go when he sees I’ll obey.

His hands move lower, dragging up my shirt, nails scraping over the bare skin of my back.

He palms my ass, squeezing so hard I think he’ll leave bruises. Maybe I want him to.

“I like your body. Love it,” he murmurs, as if reading my mind.

“All of you. You have no idea what it does to me.” His voice is pure menace, but his hands move with a greedy, reverent care, cupping, kneading, exploring every inch.

“You were made for this. Made for me, little fox. I want to rip your vocal chords out and swallow them because the way your voice sounds drives me wild. Your eyes, so fucking blue make me want to lose my fucking mind. You, Brooklyn, are a work of art. If you don’t believe me now, I’ll fuck you until you do. ”

His mouth finds my shoulder, bites there too, then soothes it with his tongue.

I arch against him, dizzy with the contradiction of it, the violence and the tenderness.

I want to turn around, to see his face, but he won’t let me.

He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, just one, and the other hand shoves down the front of my pants, under the waistband, straight to where I’m throbbing and desperate.

Shifting my legs so they’re wider and his access is easier, he groans ever so softly when my ass grinds further into his hard cock.

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel, either.

His fingers are thick, invasive, finding their way inside like they belong there.

I gasp, shudder, try to close my legs, but he only squeezes my hands and I understand.

“If you do that, I will stop, and you don’t want that now do you, little fox?

” He thrusts his hand, slow at first, then faster, twisting his wrist at just the right angle.

My body responds like it’s been waiting forever for this exact moment, clenching and pulsing around his fingers.

“That’s it, little fox,” he croons, voice thick with pride. “You’re mine now. Mine to play with, mine to worship, mine to fuck.”

The words should scare me, but instead they detonate something deep in my gut. I start to shake, my whole body vibrating with the approach of orgasm. He feels it, laughs again, and shoves in harder, thumb circling my clit with perfect, brutal pressure.

“Cum for me,” he orders, and I do, helpless and humiliated, back arching, throat letting out a wail that echoes off the trees. I squirt all over his hand, the sensation so sharp and shattering I nearly black out.

He keeps going, doesn’t let up, fucking me through it with relentless precision. My legs go numb, the only thing holding me up is his body, and I wonder, distantly, if I’ll ever be able to walk again.

Finally, he slows, pulls out his hand, and I turn just enough to see him suck my juices off his fingers. He lets go of my wrists, and I slide down the tree, knees crumpling, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

He crouches beside me, one massive hand cupping my cheek, forcing me to look up. His face is exactly as I remembered it—savage and beautiful, eyes gone black with hunger, stubble shadowing his sharp jaw. There’s blood on his lip, and for a second I wonder if it’s mine.

“You know you belong to me now,” his voice is soft, eyes wild.

I can’t speak, can’t move, can only nod.

He smiles, and it’s the last thing I see before the dream shatters.

I wake up in my own bed, sunlight slashing through the blinds, sweat-soaked and gasping. My hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, nails digging into silk. For a moment I can’t remember where I am, or who I am, only that I am empty and aching and so, so wet.

There is a sharp pain on the side of my neck, and when I touch it I expect to find blood. There is none, but the skin is hot and sensitive, as if the bite was real. My pussy is aching. Throbbing. Both in pain and in pleasure.

I stare at the ceiling, willing my heart to slow, but it only pounds harder, each beat a drumroll of shame and something that feels a lot like longing.

I close my eyes and see his face again, the eyes, the mouth, the way he said “mine.” I try to push it away, but the memory hooks itself into me, impossible to remove.

I reach down, half hoping it’s a dream. My underwear is soaked. Not just damp, but wrung-out, a big fucking mess. My thighs are slick and sticky and the air smells like sex.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, horrified at myself. A wet dream? Can women even have those? My face burns, ears ringing with humiliation. I pull the pillow around my head, but it only makes it worse—the scent of myself everywhere, the evidence of how much I wanted what happened in the dream.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or crawl out of my own skin and set fire to the bed.

But I do none of those things. Instead, I lie there, shaking, replaying every moment, every word, every brutal touch. I can still feel his breath on my neck, his hand on my body, the shameful ache in my cunt.

I am not okay. But I am awake.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I decide it doesn’t matter. So what? A girl has needs right? And he was hot. It’s perfectly normal.

I roll onto my side and the first thing I see is sunlight carving a rectangle on the floor, already warming the corner of my room.

Everything in here is familiar… the battered bookshelf, the pile of laundry, the glass of water on the nightstand, but it all feels off, skewed, like someone swapped out my life for a copy with the colors wrong.

Why am I having wet dreams?