Page 1 of My Masked Stalker (Beautiful Stalkers #1)

KILLIAN

I exhale slowly, my gaze through the scope hardly wavering with the movement.

Adjusting the zoom, I check again that my target is still in his bedroom, behind closed curtains.

Fucking pedophile could do me the favor of having to take a piss or maybe a nice sip of milk straight from the carton like the savage he is.

I’ve been perched on this rooftop for hours, watching, waiting.

It’s late August, and the New York City night air offers little escape from the humidity.

Sweat slides down my jaw, getting absorbed by my black turtleneck.

Still, I don’t move. This fucker dies tonight.

I haven’t disappointed a client yet, and I’m not about to start.

Light flares to life to the left of my crosshairs, the glare catching my attention. Too far away to be Petrov’s place. Must be the apartment next door. Sighing, I move my sight, taking quick stock of the situation, my finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard.

Fluttering curtains. Condensation rolling down the windowpane. The flicker of a TV out of sight. A perky ass in gray sweatpants.

I lift an eyebrow and pan up. There’s a swath of golden skin between the waistband of the sweatpants and the white crop top, then honey blonde hair, loose and swaying with the woman’s steps. Boris Petrov might be sleeping like the soon-to-be-dead, but his neighbor is up, getting that drink.

I must be supremely bored, because I follow her movements to the fridge, where she takes out a pitcher of what looks to be lemonade.

When she reaches up to grab a glass, her shirt rides up, exposing more of her back.

No tattoos, just smooth skin. I lick my lower lip, wordlessly commanding her to turn around like a goddamn pervert.

I’ve seen my share of human depravity through windows. Moments people wouldn’t want anyone else to see. Never once have I let myself get distracted. Until now. Until her.

She finally turns, and I groan low in my throat, grateful to whatever bastard deity made her ditch the bra tonight. Jesus Christ. I tear my gaze from her tits—reluctantly—and land on her face.

“Shiiiit,” I drawl quietly. Soft lips, pert nose, and the biggest fucking eyes I’ve ever seen.

I can’t tell the color from here, but they’ve got me locked, even across the street.

She swipes away the bangs sticking to her forehead with the back of her hand and raises the glass of lemonade to her mouth with the other.

I chew on the inside of my cheek, watching her throat work as she swallows.

A drop of sweat travels down the front of her neck, disappearing into her cleavage.

“God damn, sweetheart, where did you come from?”

She looks to be in her mid-twenties, so about a decade younger than me. Younger than what I usually go for—I prefer them jaded and disillusioned, not looking for attachments with men like me, but experienced and confident enough to know what they want in the sack.

For a second, I forget Boris Petrov exists, my finger tightening on the guard—amateur mistake.

My jaw ticks. Distraction gets men killed. But fuck it.

Tapping my earpiece twice in quick succession, I open a call to my tech-wizard business partner.

“Is it done?” Ethan says in greeting.

I clench my jaw. “I’m about to go in and do it close range. Getting a cramp in my ass. But dear old Boris isn’t why I’m calling.”

“What then?”

My eyes are locked on my new target, and she’s infinitely more pleasant to look at than the Russian chomo.

“You still have the building info?”

“Do I still have the fucking building info,” Ethan mutters to himself. “Of course I have it, job’s not done yet, is it? What do you need?”

Ignoring his rambles, I get to the point. “Apartment left of Petrov’s from my vantage. Who’s in it?”

I can hear the keyboard clacking as Ethan’s fingers fly over it, pulling up the answers I need. Three tours together, and the sound became as familiar as my own breathing.

“Apartment twelve B. That’ll be… Oh, she’s cute.”

My left eyelid twitches.

“Name, not opinion, asshole,” I grit out.

Ethan’s quiet chuckle sounds in my ear. “Touchy, touchy. Name’s Emily Lane. Twenty-eight, unmarried, kindergarten teacher. No record, not that that’s a surprise. Owns the apartment outright.”

My brow furrows at that last bit of info.

“Owns an apartment in this city on a kindergarten teacher’s pay?”

A few more clicks before Ethan continues. “Inherited it from a grandmother a couple of years ago.”

I like what I’m hearing. I like it too much.

Emily’s still leaning against the counter, sipping on her drink, her eyes not focused on anything in particular. I wonder what she’s thinking about.

I start firing off commands I normally reserve for our contracts. Except this isn’t a contract. She isn’t a job. She’s mine.

“Get me her schedule, her connections. Clone her phone, if you can.”

“If I can?” The man sounds outraged, and a small part of me not distracted by Miss Lane’s tits takes pleasure in ruffling him up. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Later,” I reply, tapping the earpiece one more time to disconnect the call.

A faint two-tone beep in my ear notifies me of incoming messages, but I ignore them for now, not tearing my eyes away from my quarry. When she flinches and looks at the countertop, I see her phone is lit up. Who’s calling her at this hour of the night? Better not be a fucking booty call.

She doesn’t look too happy about having whoever it is on the other side of the line either, waving her free hand animatedly, making slashing motions, and shaking her head.

I swear I can almost see her rolling her eyes.

Taking her phone away from her ear, she taps on the screen as she talks, putting whoever it is on speaker.

No. She’s fixing her hair and standing up straighter—they switched to video.

Emily’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens at whatever is on the screen, her free hand coming up to the base of her neck.

After a minute, she pulls her phone back and aims it at her chest, where I can see the faint outline of her nipples poking through the thin material of her white shirt. Is she aroused?

I growl when her hand travels down to cup one perfect breast, squeezing lightly. Is she fucking cybering with some douchebag? I don’t care who they are—they were dead the moment they called my girl up, and it doesn’t matter that she has no clue that she’s my girl yet.

Like the aftermath of a landmine explosion, I can’t tear my eyes away from that exploring hand, now caressing the skin above the waistband of her sweats.

A quick glance at her face shows a woman on the verge of giving in and touching herself for the person on the other side.

I’m torn between wanting to see her come unglued and wanting to be the only one who sees her like that.

In the end, my possessive nature wins. I never did share toys.

Two taps and Ethan’s back on the line.

“Did you find another hot chick in the building?” he asks irreverently.

“Can you shut down her phone’s connections?” I growl, not bothering to explain further. He knows how I get when I have a target in my sights. Single-minded and relentless, like a dog with a bone.

“Oh, sure, gimme a sec… Ah, fuck, I did not need to see that, man. It’s done.”

I hang up without another word, grinning at the confused expression on Emily’s face. She’s tapping her phone, shaking it, and even seems to turn it off and on. Finally, she throws it back onto the counter.

It’s for the greater good. As much as I want to see the face she makes when she comes, it’ll be because of me . Not some idiot who treats her like a last resort on a Saturday night.

Emily clenches and unclenches her fists, then narrows her eyes and hops up onto the counter.

What is she doing?

With both hands now free, she leans back and cups her breasts, her eyes fluttering closed. She’s gonna give me a show anyway. When she slides her right hand under her waistband, I bite my lip. A decent man would give her privacy. Good thing I’m not a decent man.

My blood rushes south when her mouth opens into a gasp I can imagine so vividly, I almost hear it.

I can see her fingers moving underneath the fabric of her pants, moving in a way that can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is—my naughty little kindergarten teacher is fucking herself on the kitchen counter, in plain view of anyone who might be looking from the building I’m spying on her from.

Growling, I tear open the front of my black cargo pants, letting my dick spring out into my gloved hand. I’ve had my eyes on this woman for less than thirty minutes, and my cock’s already pointing in her direction like an RPG round primed and ready to blow.

I squeeze the bottom of my shaft and shake it, still watching her through the crosshairs of the 110.

Fuck, I don’t think I ever jerked off on the job either.

But as Emily’s fingers pick up the pace, working her pussy where I can’t see, my arm gets a mind of its own, pumping my rod with a rough grip.

“You’re a naughty little slut, aren’t you, sweetheart?” I whisper. “Fucking yourself in front of the window for me.”

My breathing picks up with my effort, matching the way Emily’s chest rises and falls, her free hand squeezing her tits, pinching her nipples. In an impatient move, she pulls up her crop top, baring them to my sight through the SASS’s scope.

“Fuuuck, yes,” I growl. It’s too far and too dark to tell if her nipples are rosy or brown, but I know I want to paint them with my cum regardless. My balls tingle at the thought, and my ass clenches.

“Look at you, putting on a show for me, fingering that pussy. You want to make me come for you, don’t you, baby?” I know she can’t hear me, but in my head, I’m whispering filth into her ear.

Would she be horrified that a killer with more blood on his hands than the rest of my platoon combined is watching her masturbate? Or would it turn her on? Maybe I’ll smear blood all over those perfect fucking globes while I’m fucking her. I swallow back a moan at the thought.

Emily’s legs start shaking, warning me about her impending orgasm, and I jerk myself harder, faster, picturing myself between her legs, ready to fill her up.

When her head snaps back and her body twitches so hard she nearly falls off the counter, I let myself come with her, emptying my balls over the dirty rooftop with a muted groan.

As Emily’s still twitching with aftershocks, I shake the last few drops of cum off my dick and stuff it back into my pants. With clarity returning, I can admit to myself that I’m a fucking idiot. I could’ve gotten caught with my dick out and my hand on my stick.

Light turning on in Petrov’s apartment shuts off my internal berating, and I turn my sight to the target we’re actually getting paid for. Not that we don’t have enough money to last us five lifetimes. It’s a matter of reputation.

My upper lip curls when I see the middle-aged Russian waddle to the john.

Guess he’s gonna die pissing himself, and it’s nothing more than he deserves.

Taking a steadying breath, I park the crosshairs right at Petrov’s off switch.

Is aiming for the base of the skull where the brainstem meets the spinal cord cocky? Sure. But I never miss.

The crack of the shattering glass drowns out the suppressed snap of my round, and as I lift my stick off the ledge, I think I hear a woman scream. Doesn’t matter. Petrov’s got a date with his god, and I’ve got mine with Emily—as soon as I take care of the competition.