Page 16 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

I slam my apartment door behind me, kick off my heels, and peel away my silver mask. I quickly change into something more comfortable, then hurry to my laptop.

The geometric tattoo I glimpsed on my masked companion’s wrist burns into my memory like a brand, taunting me with its familiarity.

“I know you,” I whisper to my empty apartment, fingers already pulling my laptop open. “Not just from tonight.”

My external hard drive connects with a satisfying click. Hundreds of images captured outside the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association flood my screen. Powerful men in bespoke suits, Italian leather shoes, and expressions that scream my net worth has nine zeros.

One of these men planted cameras in my apartment. The same man who slid his fingers between my thighs at a crowded charity gala while discussing evidence that could solve my parents’ murder.

Scrolling through images, I hunt for that telltale ink. My breathing quickens with each photo. Security guard. Valet. Member. Staff. Who are you?

My fingers freeze over an image of a tall man with his back to me, entering the club during a thunderstorm.

Something about his posture—the precise angle of his shoulders, the measured cadence of his stride captured in my burst-mode shots.

I zoom in, searching for any glimpse of his wrist, but his hands remain tucked into his pockets.

“Damn it,” I mutter, biting my lower lip.

My phone vibrates on the desk, nearly sending me jumping out of my skin. Unknown number.

Anonymous

You won’t find me in those photos. I’m more careful than that.

My heart slams against my ribs. He’s watching me right now.

How did you get this number?

Anonymous

Same way I knew you’d be checking those surveillance photos right now.

My phone pings again.

Anonymous

The Harrington. Thursday. Don’t forget.

I bite my lip, staring at the message.

Don’t break into my apartment. Just ask for my number like a normal person.

Anonymous

Where’s the fun in that?

A smile spreads across my face. I stare at the message a moment longer, a thought crystallizing. I glance up at the smoke detector housing one of his cameras.

“Are you watching me right now?” I ask, crossing my arms.

Three dots appear on my screen.

Anonymous

Yes. That dress looked better on you than hanging in your closet, by the way.

Heat crawls up my neck. Half indignation, half something darker. I shift in my chair, crossing my legs as I remember his touch from the gallery. His voice in my ear, his body close to mine.

My phone buzzes again.

Anonymous

Your pupils are dilating, and your breathing pattern has changed. Are you aroused right now?

The clinical observation delivered in text somehow makes it filthier. I could lie, but what’s the point? He’s watching my body betray me in real time.

“Yes.”

Anonymous

Go to your kitchen.

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. This is insane. Dangerous. The stupidest thing I’ve ever considered doing.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, standing up. My legs wobble beneath me as I move to the kitchen, aware of the camera tracking me.

Anonymous

Open the second drawer on the left.

I frown, pulling open the drawer. It’s where I keep my emergency candy stash—a collection of chocolate bars, gummies, and several large rainbow swirl lollipops I’d bought during a shopping trip last week.

Anonymous

Take out one of those big lollipops.

My breath catches. He knows what’s in my drawers? The surveillance level both disturbs and thrills me.

Anonymous

Unwrap it. Slowly.

My fingers tremble as I peel the cellophane from the colorful spiral lollipop, the crinkle of the wrapper loud in the quiet apartment.

Anonymous

Now go to your bedroom.

I move to my bedroom, lollipop in hand, heart racing.

Anonymous

Take off your shirt and pants. Then your underwear.

A voice in my head screams that this is madness. Another voice, louder and more insistent, tells that voice to shut the hell up.

My hands shake as I unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my legs. I hook my thumbs in my underwear, looking directly at where I think the camera must be, and push them down in one decisive movement.

Anonymous

Sit on the edge of your bed.

I perch on the edge of my mattress, the lollipop clutched in my hand. I feel ridiculous. I feel powerful. I feel more turned on than I’ve been in years.

My phone vibrates with another message.

Anonymous

Put it in your mouth. I want to watch you suck it.

Heat floods my core as I bring the lollipop to my lips, maintaining eye contact with the camera I imagine is somewhere in front of me as I slide it past my teeth. The sweet, artificial cherry-berry flavor bursts on my tongue as I hollow my cheeks around it.

Anonymous

Slower. Make it last.

I slow my movements, drawing the candy out before pushing it back in, mimicking a more intimate act. The knowledge that he watches me, directs me, makes everything more intense.

My phone rings. I answer, putting it on speaker.

“You look good with it in your mouth,” he says, his voice deep and rich through the speaker. “I wish it was my cock in there.”

“Is this what you think about when you watch me?” I ask, pulling the lollipop from my lips with a soft pop.

“Among other things,” he admits. “Now, trace it down your neck.”

I tilt my head back, dragging the wet candy down the column of my throat, leaving a sticky trail that cools in the air.

“Lower,” he instructs, his voice rougher now.

I draw the lollipop between my breasts, down my stomach, circling my navel. The sticky sweetness leaves a colorful path on my skin.

“Now between your legs,” he says. “Tease yourself with it.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper, even as I spread my thighs wider.

“But you want to,” he counters, his voice knowing. “You’ve been thinking about me since the gallery. Since my fingers touched you in a room full of people who had no idea what was happening under that tablecloth.”

He’s right. God help me, he’s right.

“Fuck,” I breathe, bringing the lollipop to my center. The cool, hard candy against my heated flesh makes me gasp.

“Circle your clit,” he directs. “Don’t press too hard. Just enough to feel it.”

I follow his instructions, tracing the lollipop around my sensitive bud in slow, deliberate circles. The contrast of the hard candy against my soft flesh sends shivers through me.

“How does it feel?” he asks, his breathing heavier.

“Strange,” I admit with a breathless laugh. “Cold. Sweet. Sticky. Good.”

“Now slide it inside,” he says. “Just the tip.”

I position the rounded end of the lollipop at my entrance, pausing.

“Is this sanitary?” I ask, partly teasing, partly concerned.

“Actually,” he says, “sugar has been used as an antibacterial agent historically, with a concentration of approximately twenty-five percent being sufficient to inhibit bacterial growth through osmotic pressure. Though I should note that commercial lollipops contain various additives beyond simple sucrose, so the antimicrobial properties may vary. Studies suggest that?—”

I burst out laughing, the tension breaking. “Are you seriously giving me a scientific analysis of lollipop hygiene right now?”

A pause, then a self-conscious chuckle. “Sorry. I retreat into data when I’m nervous.”

“I make you nervous?” I ask, flattered.

“Yes,” he admits, his honesty disarming. “I’ve never done this before.”

“What, voyeuristic candy play?”

“No—well, yes, that too—but I meant...this. Whatever this is. Involving myself. Breaking protocol.”

Something about his vulnerability—this powerful man who can hack secure systems and break into buildings without detection, yet stumbles over his words when aroused, sends a fresh wave of heat through me .

“Well,” I say, pressing the lollipop against my entrance, “let me help you focus on something besides statistics.”

I push the candy further inside me, gasping at the unusual fullness. The handle provides the perfect grip as I move it in shallow thrusts.

“Is this better than data?” I ask, my voice breathy.

“God, yes,” he groans, all scientific detachment gone.

“Tell me what to do next,” I ask, enjoying both his direction and his occasional lapses into adorable awkwardness.

“Keep going,” he says, his voice rougher now. “Take it deeper.”

I moan. The hard, unyielding candy stretches me in a way that’s so different from fingers or toys.

“God,” I moan, my head falling back. “This is so weird. And hot.”

“You’re beautiful,” he groans. “So fucking beautiful like this. Now take it out.”

I withdraw the lollipop, watching as it emerges, glistening with more than just sugar.

“Put it back in your mouth,” he commands, voice strained.

My eyes widen, shock colliding with desire as something primal and forbidden ignites in my core. I bring the lollipop back to my lips, hesitating only briefly before sliding it into my mouth. The taste of candy mingles with my own flavor, creating something new.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re incredible.”

I suck the lollipop clean, making sure he can hear the sounds before pulling it from my mouth with a pop.

“Is this what you had in mind when you installed those cameras?” I ask, voice husky .

“If I’m being honest, I had a seventy-eight point three percent expectation you’d call the police when you found them.

A twenty-one point five percent chance you’d try to trace them back to me.

This scenario didn’t even register on my probability matrix,” he admits with a strained laugh. “But I’m not complaining.”

I laugh again, charmed by his analytical mind even in this most intimate moment. “You calculated the odds of me finding your cameras?”

“I calculate the odds of everything,” he says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “It’s how my brain works.”

“And what are the odds of my coming in the next five minutes if you keep talking to me?” I ask, bringing the candy back between my legs, using it to circle my clit again.