Page 22 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

No one has ever made me feel the way he does, and it’s irrational. Crazy. On the brink of madness, and yet…

There’s nothing that can stop this.

He kneels back, just enough to slide one hand into the pocket of his jacket. The movement is slow, intentional, never once taking his eyes off me.

He pulls out a coil of rope, thin but tough, and unspools it with a practiced flick. Paracord, high tensile, the kind used for climbing or maybe something darker. The sight of it is a gut-punch. I should scream. I should bolt.

Instead, I hold perfectly still, watching as he doubles the rope and threads it around my wrists, binding them together so tight my fingers tingle. The friction burns a line into my skin, but I don’t make a sound.

He ties a knot—two, three, four, layering them so there’s no slack, no give at all.

He hauls my arms above my head, presses them to the trunk of a skinny pine, and lashes the rest of the cord around a branch so low it bows under the tension.

My arms are stretched, my shirt riding up so my stomach is exposed to the chill, but I don’t dare fight.

A wave of self-conscious embarrassment floods me and I try to struggle, to hide the parts of me I hate, but he just tuts at me.

“There,” he says, checking the knot with a professional tug. “Now I don’t have to worry about you getting away again.”

I want to curse him. I want to beg. But the only sound I make is a shaky exhale, fogging in the cold.

He crouches to eye level, one hand tracing the line of my bound arms, the other fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.

“Keep your hands there, don’t wiggle, don’t move, and don’t ever EVER try to hide yourself from me again,” he says, voice low and merciless. “Or I stop and we start again. Understood?”

I nod. I would say anything to make him keep going. It’s shameful, but I am past shame.

He releases my hair and lets his hands roam—down my shoulders, over my ribs, to the hem of my shirt. He pulls it up, bunching it around my arms, baring my chest to the icy air.

He pauses, just to look.

I feel the way the cold puckers my skin, the way my nipples stand out, hard and aching, every nerve ending primed. He brushes his thumb over one, then the other, lazy at first, then rougher, pinching and rolling until the pain blurs into pleasure and back again.

He bends forward and takes a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing, tongue flicking in relentless, perfect rhythm.

I cry out—an actual, involuntary noise, high and helpless.

He smiles around the flesh, then does it again, switching sides, making sure both are swollen and red and marked as his.

His hand is back between my legs, this time not gentle at all.

He rips my panties down, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet, and flings them aside.

My legs are open, knees scraped and raw, and he wedges himself between them, spreading me wider with one forceful shove.

He undoes his zipper and pulls his cock out. My eyes widen.

Holy fuck… that’s… not going to fit.

He lets me feel the anticipation: the bare head of his cock, hot and slick, pressed against my entrance.

He drags it up and down, slow and taunting, soaking it in my need.

I want to tell him to hurry, to take, to ruin, but my brain is short-circuiting, my mouth refusing all input except the greedy gasp of air.

“Tell me you want it,” he says, voice nearly a growl.

“I want it,” I whisper, hating how weak I sound.

He slaps my thigh, not hard, just enough to sting. “Louder.”

“I want it,” I say, voice shaking, breaking. “God, please, ruin me, Sir.”

A loud groan before he lines up and pushes inside in one brutal, perfect thrust.

I scream—actual, real scream, more shock than pain, but there’s pain, too, the delicious kind that makes the world fall away. He is huge, stretching me so full I think I might split open, but I don’t want him to stop. I want him to keep going, to fuck every last thought out of my head.

He moves slow at first, then faster, harder, pounding into me with the single-minded focus of someone who has waited their whole life for this exact moment. He buries his face in my neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks that will outlast the bruises on my wrists.

His hands are everywhere: fisted in my hair, bruising my hips, splayed over my belly, pushing down, keeping me in place so he can fuck me just the way he wants.

I lose track of time, of breath, of anything except the feeling of him inside me, the way he stretches and fills and claims me. I am owned, wrecked, completely at his mercy.

And I love it.

I come fast, way too fast, a blinding spike of pleasure that rips through me with no warning.

My whole body shakes, every muscle tightening at once.

I clench so hard around his cock that he nearly loses his rhythm, grunting as he slams in deeper, grinding hard against my clit until I am a mess of sound and sensation.

He doesn’t stop. Not when I go limp, not when I gasp and sob and whimper. He keeps going, unrelenting, until he comes with a savage snarl, burying himself so deep I feel it in my bones.

He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting, bodies slick with sweat and blood and the aftermath of violence.

He pulls out, slow, dragging the length of him against my oversensitive flesh. I shudder, every nerve on fire. I can feel the mess leaking down my thighs, hot and sticky, but I don’t care.

He unties my wrists with the same care he used to bind them, massaging the blood back into my hands, rubbing circles into the skin where the rope bit deepest.

He helps me sit up, cradling me against his chest, and for a second I think he might say something kind. Something human.

Instead, he brushes my hair off my face, kisses my forehead, and whispers, “You’re never leaving me, little fox.”

The words should terrify me. And maybe they do.

But what I feel, more than anything, is need.

I curl into him, letting the heat of his body chase away the cold. I pretend it’s a nightmare, or a fairy tale, or maybe both. I pretend I can hate him.

But I know, deep down, that there is nothing I want more than for him to do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

I am ruined, shattered into pieces and I never want to be whole again.