Page 21 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

T hat’s interesting. Most people don’t follow a potential murderer to the edge of a building. Then again, most people don’t ask potential murderers for favors. Oakley Novak is not most people.

I stop when we reach the low safety wall that rings the rooftop. Three feet of concrete between life and death. I rest my hands on it, the rough texture scraping against my palms. The city sprawls beneath us, a tapestry of light and shadow.

“Careful,” I say, not looking at her. “It’s a long way down.”

She steps right up to the edge, standing close enough that her arm brushes mine. “Heights don’t bother me.”

I step up onto the safety wall in one smooth motion, balancing on the narrow concrete barrier.

The wind tugs at my clothes, Boston becoming a glittering abyss beneath my feet.

I’ve always been good at balancing— physically, at least. Emotionally, I’m about as balanced as a Jenga tower in an earthquake.

Oakley’s eyes widen, her composed expression shattering. “What are you doing?” Her voice carries a note of genuine alarm I haven’t heard before. Is she worried about me?

“Pushing boundaries,” I reply, extending my hand toward her. The city spins beneath me, cars reduced to fireflies, people invisible from this height. Something about standing on this edge—this perfect boundary between life and death—clicks into place.

She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. I pull her up beside me with a single tug, my grip firm as she finds her footing on the narrow concrete. Her body goes rigid against mine, her heart hammering. I turn her until her back meets my chest, her body hanging half over the abyss.

“Trust me,” I whisper against her ear, my arms encircling her waist, holding her securely while giving the illusion she might fall.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t struggle. Instead, she relaxes into my grip, surrendering her weight to me completely. The trust in this gesture hits me harder than any bullet could.

“You’re not afraid?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Not of falling,” she answers.

I tighten my hold, leaning her further over the edge until her hair dangles freely in the open air.

The city becomes a kaleidoscope of lights beneath us, vertigo intensifying the sensation of being suspended between worlds.

This is the closest I’ve ever held another human being without planning to kill them. It’s terrifying in an entirely new way.

I’d never let her fall .

“What about now?” I press her further out, testing her limits, testing mine.

“I think you’re more afraid than I am,” she says, and the accuracy of her observation sends an uncomfortable shock through me. She’s right. I’m terrified—not of the height, but of how badly I want to keep holding her like this, on the edge of everything.

I guide her down toward the rooftop, carefully positioning her so she’s seated on the edge, back to the city, facing me.

Her hands grasp the concrete on either side, knuckles white with tension as she processes the contradictory signals—the danger of the position, the intimacy of the moment.

I stand between her knees on the rooftop side, keeping her secure with my body.

“Don’t move,” I order. “If you move without permission, this ends.”

Her pupils dilate, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “Is this how you operate? Complete control?”

“You’re asking me to kill someone for you,” I remind her, placing one hand on her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. “You don’t get to negotiate the terms.”

When she tries to reach for me, I catch her wrist, pinning it to the concrete beside her. “I said, don’t move.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks, eyes wide, breath quickening.

“Whatever I want,” I say. “That’s how this works. You surrendered control the moment you stepped onto this ledge with me.” The words come out smooth, confident—as if I’m not making this up as I go, as if my heart isn’t threatening to jackhammer its way out of my chest.

I push her dress up slowly, exposing her thighs to the night air. The contrast of her pale skin against the dark concrete makes my pulse quicken. My cock strains painfully against my pants, but I ignore it. This isn’t about me.

Positioning myself more firmly between her legs, I trail my free hand up her inner thigh, watching gooseflesh rise in its wake.

“Do you want it, Oakley?” I ask, my breath hot against her skin, my hands holding her securely even as she teeters on the edge of the world.

“Yes,” she breathes, the word carried away by the wind.

She tries to reach for me again, her hand brushing against the obvious bulge in my pants, and I catch her wrist, now holding both pinned at her sides. My body screams for her touch, but I refuse to give in.

“You don’t touch me,” I tell her. “Right now, on this roof, your pleasure, your safety, your very life belongs to me.” I sound like a bad BDSM novel, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains.

A small shiver runs through her, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or anticipation. Maybe both.

I slide her underwear to the side with a swift, decisive motion, exposing her to the night air. The gasp she makes sends heat coursing through me.

“Look at me,” I command, waiting until her eyes meet mine. “Tell me to stop and I stop. Otherwise, you take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She nods once, decisively.

I lift her, adjusting her position so she’s balanced on the edge, the city behind her. One small push and she’d fall backward into oblivion. The knowledge of this danger colors everything that follows. Power surges through me, raw and absolute.

Maintaining eye contact, I slide two fingers inside her without warning. Her back arches, a strangled cry escaping her lips as her body clenches around the sudden intrusion. The heat of her around my fingers makes my cock twitch, demanding attention I refuse to give.

“Stay still,” I remind her as she tries to move against my hand. “Your job is to take it, not control it.”

Her breath comes in short gasps as I move my fingers with methodical precision, curling them to find the spot that makes her thighs tremble. All the while, I keep her suspended over the edge, the thirty-two-story drop at her back a constant reminder of her vulnerability.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to unzip my pants and bury myself inside her, but this isn’t about me. Not tonight.

“Oh God,” she moans, eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me,” I repeat, stilling my fingers until she complies. When her eyes open, pupils blown wide with desire, I resume my movements, adding a third finger, stretching her further. “I want to see your face when you come.”

With my free hand, I loosen my grip on her wrists to trail my fingers up her body, over the curve of her breast, along her collarbone, coming to rest at the base of her throat.

I apply the slightest pressure. Not enough to restrict her breathing, just enough to remind her of my control.

Just enough to remind myself that I’m still in control, even as everything inside me threatens to unravel .

Her head dips toward my neck, and I expect her lips, her tongue—some soft exploration.

Instead, she sinks her teeth into the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder. Hard.

A moan escapes me before I can contain it, deep and primal. The sharp pain radiates outward, sending unexpected waves of pleasure coursing through my body. My fingers curl inside her, pressing deeper. So much for being in control.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

She bites again, harder this time, and my hips buck forward of their own accord. The sensation is electric. Her teeth breaking through my disciplined exterior, finding the raw, animal need beneath.

I like it. Too much. Way too much. The kind of too much that makes me want to throw all my rules into the abyss below us.

My body responds with unmistakable enthusiasm to her small act of rebellion, this claiming of power even as she hangs suspended over the abyss.

“Please,” she whispers, though whether she’s asking for more or for mercy, I’m not sure.

“Please, what?” I ask, curling my fingers inside her, her inner walls fluttering around them.

“I need—” she starts, then cuts off with a gasp as I press my thumb against her clit.

“Tell me what you need,” I whisper, slowing my movements to an agonizing pace. My own need pulses through me with each beat of my heart, my erection straining against my zipper so hard it’s almost painful, but I focus solely on her responses, cataloging each gasp, each tremor .

“I need to come,” she admits, face flushed with desire and perhaps embarrassment at having to voice it aloud.

“And who controls you?” I ask, increasing the pressure of my thumb, circling her clit with deliberate strokes. My hips involuntarily thrust slightly forward, seeking friction that isn’t there.

“You do,” she breathes.

“Good girl,” I murmur, and the praise triggers something in her, a visible wave of pleasure that ripples through her body.

I bite back a groan as pre-cum dampens the front of my underwear, my control slipping.

I’m supposed to be the one in charge here, not the one fighting back whimpers like a teenager getting his first hand job.

I increase my pace, my fingers moving inside her with greater urgency, my thumb maintaining steady pressure on her clit. Her breath comes in short, desperate pants, her thighs trembling on either side of me.

“Not yet,” I warn as I feel her tightening around my fingers. “Not until I say.”

She makes a sound of frustration, her head falling back, then straightening as she remembers the void behind her.

“Look at me,” I say again, softer this time. “Focus on me. Nothing else exists right now. Not the edge, not the fall, not even your need. Just me.” It’s what I’ve wanted since I first saw her—her complete attention, her focus entirely on me.

Her eyes lock with mine, a strange intimacy forming between us despite the mask, despite the circumstances.

“Now,” I whisper, curling my fingers one last time while pressing firmly against her clit. “Come for me now, Oakley.”

Her entire body tenses, suspended between pleasure and the void below.

The danger heightens everything—each sensation amplified by the knowledge that we’re balanced on the edge of oblivion.

She comes with a cry that echoes across the rooftop, her inner walls pulsing around my fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through her.

I hold her through her orgasm, ensuring that even as she loses control, she doesn’t lose her balance. When the last tremors subside, I lift her from the edge, carrying her a few steps back to safer ground before setting her down. My arms feel empty without her weight.

Her legs buckle beneath her, and I catch her with one hand at her waist. My fingers splay across her hip, holding her upright as if she belongs to me.

She reaches for me, her hand sliding across my erection. “Let me take care of you,” she whispers, her eyes dark with desire as she presses against the hardness straining my pants.

Despite every cell in my body screaming for release, I step back, catching her wrists and removing her hands. Desire pulses through me so intensely that I have to take a deep breath before speaking. This might be the single most idiotic act of self-denial in human history.

“No,” I say, my voice strained. “This isn’t about me.”

Confusion flickers across her face. “Don’t you want?—”

“What I want,” I cut her off, my cock throbbing in disagreement with my words, “is irrelevant. This was about showing you something.” Like how I’m going to need an ice bath and possibly therapy after this little demonstration.

“Showing me what?” she asks, smoothing down her dress with shaky hands, her eyes still flicking to the bulge in my pants.

“That control is an illusion,” I reply, watching her while shifting my stance to ease the pressure against my zipper. “ That you think you want to control Blackwell’s fate, but what you want is to surrender that burden to someone else.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s not?—”

“So…” I say, adjusting my cuffs as if we’d just concluded a business meeting rather than a sexual encounter on the edge of a rooftop. As if I’m not experiencing the most painful case of blue balls in recorded history. “About Blackwell...”

She blinks, clearly thrown by my abrupt shift. “What about him?”

“My answer is still no.”

Her expression hardens. “Why not? You help people get justice all the time.”

“I don’t know what you think I do, Oakley, but I’m not for hire.” I step back, creating distance between us. “And Blackwell isn’t just anyone. He’s connected, protected. Going after him would be suicide. And while I have many questionable hobbies, suicide isn’t one of them.”

“So you admit you do go after people,” she presses, advancing on me. “Just not ones who might fight back?”

“I never said I go after anyone,” I counter, even as I marvel at her boldness.

“But hypothetically speaking, targeting someone like Blackwell would bring heat that would never cool down. It would be like trying to swat a hornet while wearing a suit made of honey and standing in the middle of the hive’s annual convention. ”

She steps closer, her gaze unflinching. “So your answer is no?”

I nod.

“Too bad.” She turns toward the roof access. “Because I'm doing it anyway. With or without you.”

Shit. She's actually going to do it. And she's going to die.