Page 17 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

His breath catches. “With current variables and stimuli... Shit, that’s hot… Approximately ninety-six point seven percent.”

“I like those odds,” I purr, increasing the pressure against my sensitive flesh. “Let’s test your hypothesis. Tell me what you’re doing right now,” I demand, surprising myself with my boldness.

His sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve caught him off guard.

“I’m touching myself,” he admits, voice tight. “Watching you with that lollipop, tasting yourself. How could I not?”

“Tell me more,” I urge, working the sticky candy against my clit.

“I’m imagining it’s my tongue instead of that candy,” he continues. “I want to taste you, not just watch you taste yourself. I want to see if you taste as sweet as you look. ?

His words send electricity through me. I increase the pressure of the lollipop, my breathing becoming ragged.

“Are you close?” His question raises goosebumps on my skin.

“Yes,” I gasp, working the lollipop against my sensitive flesh. “So close.”

“Use your fingers,” he demands. “I want to hear you come while that lollipop is in your mouth.”

I bring the candy back to my lips, sucking it in as my free hand moves between my legs, fingers finding my swollen clit. The dual sensation—the sweetness on my tongue and the building pressure in my core—overwhelms me.

“Are you still touching yourself?” I ask around the lollipop, picturing him looking at me from some hidden location, his hand moving in rhythm with my frantic fingers.

“Yes,” he groans. The sound of his pleasure makes me circle my clit faster. “I’m stroking myself, watching you suck that candy, knowing where it’s been. You’re so fucking hot, Oakley.”

“I want to see you,” I whimper, my fingers working faster.

“Next time,” he promises, voice tight with restraint. “I want to feel you come. I want to see that moment when you lose control.”

I suck harder on the lollipop, my fingers moving in quick, firm circles. My free hand grips my breast, pinching the nipple hard.

“God,” I moan around the candy, my head thrown back, “I’ve never done anything like this. It’s so good.”

“You were made for this,” he pants, his own breathing growing more erratic. “Made to be watched. I’m seeing every expression on your face, every drop of sweat on your skin, every time that lollipop disappears between your lips and in that perfect pussy.”

The knowledge that he can see me like this—pleasuring myself while sucking on a lollipop that’s been inside me, completely exposed, pleasure written across my face—pushes me closer to the edge. My movements become erratic, desperate.

“I’m close,” I warn him, pulling the candy from my mouth. “So fucking close.”

“Wait for me,” he grits out. “I want us to finish together.”

I slow my fingers, fighting against my body’s urge to chase release. My legs shake with the effort of holding back.

“Look at the camera,” he commands. “I want to see your eyes when you come.”

I find the camera with my gaze, making direct eye contact with it as I continue to circle my clit in shallow, teasing motions.

“Now,” he groans. “Come for me now, Oakley.”

His permission breaks the dam. I press against my clit as pleasure crashes through me in waves. I keep my eyes locked on the camera, letting him see every moment of my release. The lollipop falls from my lips as I cry out, my back arching off the bed.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice tight with restraint. “Let me see everything.”

The first wave of pleasure crests and breaks, but instead of subsiding, it builds again, higher and sharper. I slide two fingers inside myself, feeling my inner walls pulse and clench.

“I can’t—” I gasp, overwhelmed by the intensity .

“You can,” he insists. “Keep going. I want to see you completely undone.”

I obey, working my fingers deeper as my thumb continues circling my clit. The stimulation sends me spiraling into a second climax that tears a primal sound from my throat.

“Fuck,” he groans, and I hear the moment he loses control. A deep, guttural sound that seems wrenched from somewhere primal. “Oakley?—”

The way he says my name—like a prayer, like salvation—triggers something even deeper. My entire body convulses, pleasure radiating outward from my core in electric pulses that leave me gasping and trembling.

“Oh shit,” I whimper, collapsing against the mattress, aftershocks still rippling through me.

For several moments, the only sound is our synchronized breathing, gradually slowing from desperate pants to something approaching normal.

“Well,” I say after catching my breath, a satisfied smile playing at my lips. “That escalated quickly.”

His laugh comes through the phone, genuine and warm. “You continue to surprise me.”

“I’m glad,” I say, a hint of triumph in my voice. “It’s nice to know I can still be a little unpredictable, even to someone who’s been watching my every move.”

“You’re many things,” he says, voice thick with promise, “but predictable isn’t one of them. That’s what makes this dangerous.”

“Dangerous for whom?” I whisper.

The line goes silent for a beat too long .

“For both of us,” he finally answers. “Sleep well, Oakley.”

The call ends, but his words linger in the darkness. Dangerous. Yes. But as I curl into my sheets, sticky and satisfied, I realize I’ve never wanted anything safe.

Shadows dance across the ceiling overhead as my body hums with aftershocks of pleasure.

On the nightstand, wrapped in a tissue, the lollipop stands as sticky evidence of something I could never confess to anyone—not my friends, not even Zara, who’s heard every nasty detail of my dating life since college.

What would I even say? Hey Zara, guess what? I just got off with a mystery man who might also be a serial killer I’m investigating. There was a lollipop involved in ways that would make a porn director blush. She’d have me committed. Or worse, she’d want details.

My eyes drift to my laptop on the nightstand. Sleep isn’t coming anytime soon. My mind buzzes, my body still sensitive. I might as well be productive.

I reach for my laptop, then pause. If he’s watching me right now, he’ll see what I’m searching for. I need privacy for this.

The silk robe slides cool against my skin as I wrap it around my body.

Laptop tucked under one arm, bare feet pad across the hardwood toward the bathroom.

The one room he claimed had no cameras. Hopefully, that wasn’t another lie.

I close the door and sit on the edge of the tub, opening my laptop with renewed purpose.

“Let’s see who you are,” I whisper, opening an incognito browser window.

I type “top security companies in Boston,” but the results overwhelm me. Dozens of firms, from multinational corporations to small local operations.

I narrow my focus, typing “Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association security.” I scroll through the results until one catches my eye—a press release from three years ago.

“Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association Announces Partnership with Sentinel Security Solutions for Comprehensive System Upgrade.”

I click the link, scanning the text until I find what I’m looking for.

“Sentinel Security Solutions, led by founder and CEO Xander Rhodes...”

“Xander Rhodes,” I whisper, the name electric on my tongue.

My fingers type his name into the search bar, pulse hammering against my throat. The results load, and there he is. A professional headshot on his company website.

My breath catches .

Dark hair swept back. Those gray-green eyes pierce through the screen. The same man who rejected my pathetic attempt to infiltrate the club a couple of weeks ago. His jawline could slice glass—all sharp angles and masculine definition. My stalker. My phone sex partner.

Heat floods my cheeks. The bathroom feels ten degrees warmer.

It’s him. No doubt about it. The tattoo remains hidden beneath crisp shirtsleeves, but those eyes—God, those eyes—they’re unmistakable.

Xander Rhodes stares back from the screen with the quiet intensity of a predator at rest. Not quite smiling, yet somehow radiating absolute command of his surroundings.

His mouth—that perfect mouth with its full bottom lip—holds the ghost of a smirk, as if he knows exactly who’s looking at his photo and why.

My fingertips brush the screen before I realize what I’m doing.

He’s beautiful in that untouchable way—like expensive art behind velvet ropes, the kind that makes your fingers itch to feel the texture despite the alarms it would trigger.

“Found you,” I whisper, leaning closer to the screen, studying every detail of his face.

I’ll see him at The Harrington. I’ll look into those gray-green eyes, shake his hand, and listen to that voice without a phone between us.

But he won’t know that I know who he is.

I emerge from the bathroom and sink into my desk chair, skin still tingling from our phone encounter.

With trembling fingers, I spread Xander’s gift across my workspace—financial records, property deeds, surveillance photos—the skeleton key to Richard Blackwell’s empire laid bare.

My stalker delivered what he promised, and more.

“You’re watching me study your little present, aren’t you?” I say, glancing toward the camera tucked into my bookshelf.

The red light blinks once, almost like a wink.

Let him think his identity remains a mystery.

The knowledge simmers inside me. A delicious secret. Xander Rhodes. Security consultant, camera enthusiast, phone sex partner. The man who knows my daily routines, who’s seen me naked, crying, working, sleeping. The stranger who now feels strangely intimate.

I flip through bank statements showing suspicious transfers between Blackwell Media subsidiaries and offshore accounts. The smoking gun Martin died trying to deliver.

“These account numbers,” I murmur, touching the page with reverent fingertips. “Did you hack into his system to get these?”

My phone buzzes with his response.

Anonymous

Some questions are better left unanswered. For both our sakes.

“Fair enough. Plausible deniability works for me.”

Tracing the money reveals properties purchased through shell companies—vacation homes for judges who ruled in Blackwell’s favor, condos gifted to police commissioners after suspicious case dismissals. The pattern emerges with devastating clarity.

“How long have you been investigating Blackwell?” I ask the empty room, knowing he’s listening.

Anonymous

Longer than you might think.

I lean back in my chair. Is Blackwell his target, too? Is that why our paths crossed? The coincidence seems too perfect.

I dig deeper into the stack, finding blueprints for Blackwell’s office building with security systems marked. The level of detail is astonishing.

“You’re not just some security consultant with boundary issues, are you?” I whisper.

My phone buzzes.

Anonymous

I told you I have hobbies. Some people collect stamps. Some people golf.

I laugh out loud, tension breaking. “Spying on journalists and stealing corporate secrets? Those are some interesting hobbies. And something tells me there are more secrets under that mask of yours.”

Anonymous

You seem to enjoy the results of my hobbies well enough. And my other skills.

“Can’t argue with that,” I admit, shuffling through more documents.

For the next hour, I lose myself in the work, organizing evidence, taking notes, speaking thoughts aloud, knowing Xander listens.

The awareness of his observation no longer feels intrusive.

It’s become almost collaborative, as though we’re working the case together despite being in different locations.

I’ll see him Thursday at The Harrington and decide then whether to play my card or keep this secret a little longer.

For now, I savor this rare advantage. The stalker who doesn’t realize he’s being stalked in return. The man who thinks he knows everything about me, unaware I’ve uncovered his most basic secret: his name.