Page 31 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Oh.” Heat rises to my face that has nothing to do with the shower.

The realization of what she’s asking, what she intends, sends blood rushing south. I harden under her gaze, her eyes tracking the transformation with undisguised appreciation. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips as she watches me respond to her implied intention.

“Yes,” I manage, voice dropping lower. “Regular testing. You?”

Her lips curve into a smile. “Clean. And I have an IUD.”

I nod, processing this information with what remains of my rational brain. Not much.

She lowers herself to her knees before me, water streaming over her face, her hands steadying on my thighs. The sight steals my breath.

“I need...” she starts, then stops, fingers digging into muscle. “Can I?”

I nod, unable to form words as her mouth envelopes me. My hands find her wet hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she takes me deeper. The sensation is electric, overwhelming.

I fight to maintain control, to not lose myself in the warmth of her mouth.

“Oakley,” I gasp.

She pulls back. “Just feel, Xander. Stop thinking for once.”

Her mouth returns, more insistent. I watch through half-lidded eyes, her determination mirroring my own.

I tighten my grip on her wet hair, holding her head as I push deeper into her mouth until she chokes. The sound sends a shock of pleasure through me. She recovers, swirling her tongue around the tip with unexpected skill.

A moan escapes me, louder than I intended. I’m never this vocal. Never this unrestrained. The sound echoes against the tile walls, amplified by the shower’s acoustics.

“Fuck,” I breathe, watching her eyes water from the strain.

Something primal takes over. I thrust harder into her mouth, establishing a punishing rhythm that leaves her gasping for breath between strokes. The water continues to cascade over us both, steam clouding the glass walls around us.

She doesn’t pull away—she takes it, matches my intensity, hands digging into my thighs hard enough to leave marks. Each time I push forward, she chokes, the sound mixing with the running water in a symphony of desperation.

My movements grow faster, rougher, abandoning the control I maintain in every aspect of life. Her mouth becomes my universe—hot, wet, demanding. Tension builds at the base of my spine.

“Oakley,” I warn, giving her the chance to pull away.

Her response is to take me deeper, her fingernails digging into my skin.

Pleasure builds, threatening to consume me. Before reaching the edge, I pull her to her feet.

“Turn around,” I command, voice raw.

She complies, facing the shower wall, hands splayed against the tile. I press against her from behind, covering her body with mine. One hand cups her breast while the other dips between her legs, finding her slick and ready.

“Is this what you want?” I ask against her ear.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Now.”

I enter her in one fluid motion, and her cry echoes off the bathroom walls. My control fractures as I establish a rhythm. There’s nothing tender about this—it’s raw need, a desperate attempt to feel alive after staring death in the face.

“Yes,” she hisses, her internal muscles clenching around me. “Fuck me.”

The shower rains down as steam fills the glass enclosure. Her hand reaches back, urging me deeper.

“Look at me,” I command, turning her face toward the glass wall where our reflection is barely visible through the condensation.

She meets my eyes in the foggy mirror, her gaze unflinching, challenging. I slide my hand from her hip to between her legs, finding her clit.

I pinch her sensitive bud, her legs trembling. I apply more pressure, circling as I drive into her from behind.

“You like that?” I whisper against her ear .

“Yes,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”

She approaches the edge, internal muscles clenching. Just as her breathing hitches, I withdraw my fingers, denying her release.

“Xander,” she protests, voice breaking with frustration.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Oakley,” I tell her, slowing my thrusts to an agonizing pace. “Following me.”

Her entire body is tense with frustrated desire. I start again, my fingers returning to her clit with firm, deliberate strokes. She responds, pushing back against me, desperate for more friction.

“Please,” she begs. “I’ll be good.”

Again, I sense her approaching climax and withdraw. A sob escapes her. I press my chest against her back, teeth sinking into the junction where neck meets shoulder. Not breaking skin, but marking.

She cries out, the pain clearly amplifying her pleasure. I bite down harder, then soothe the spot with my tongue.

“Let me come,” she pleads.

“Not until I think you’re ready,” I murmur against her wet skin.

I rub her clit with renewed intensity while maintaining my steady thrusts. Her breathing becomes ragged, her muscles tensing. Once more, I pull my hand away just as she starts to tip over the edge.

“Fuck!” she screams in frustration, slamming her palm against the tile wall.

I bite her other shoulder. She whimpers, the sound piercing through me. I near my own edge, her tight heat drawing me close.

I withdraw completely, stepping back. She protests until I spin her around to face me again, her back now against the shower wall. I drop to my knees on the shower floor, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder as I taste her once, twice, then bite her inner thigh.

She clutches my hair, pulling as I alternate between sucking and sharp nips on her clit. With every approach to climax, I retreat, leaving her trembling.

“Please,” she begs. “I can’t take anymore.”

I stand, turning her so her back is against the shower wall. With deliberate slowness, I stroke myself, watching her eyes track the movement of my hand.

“On your knees,” I command.

She drops, water streaming down her face. I continue stroking, pace increasing with building pressure. Her lips part.

“Open your mouth,” I instruct, my voice strained.

She obeys, and the sight—wet, waiting, desperate—unleashes me. I groan, my release spattering across her face, into her mouth, on her cheeks and forehead. Shower water begins washing it away, but she remains still, watching me with those intense eyes.

I catch my breath, studying her. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, parted lips. Water streams over us both, but traces of my release remain visible. Her chest rises and falls, thighs pressing together, seeking relief.

I trace a finger down her cheek, feeling her shiver at my touch. “Will you be good, Oakley?”

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the shower spray. A visible shiver runs through her body.

I kneel, face inches from hers, tongue slowly tracing her cheek, tasting myself on her. I move, cleaning every trace with my tongue. Her breathing quickens with each stroke.

I capture her lips. She opens, tongue meeting mine with surprising aggression. I taste myself, the kiss deepening, turning hungry. Her hands pull my hair, demanding closeness.

Without breaking contact, I guide her upright. Then I drop to my knees, trailing kisses down her neck, between her breasts, across her stomach. By the time I reach her thighs, she’s trembling.

I hook one leg over my shoulder, exposing her. For a moment, I just gaze at her—swollen and glistening. Then I devour her, sucking her clit without preamble.

She cries out, hands finding my hair. Her grip tightens as I maintain suction, tongue flicking against that sensitive bundle.

Her back arches against the tiles, thighs quaking around my head. My hands grip her hips, keeping her upright as the orgasm tears through her. Sounds I’ve never heard escape her—half-sob, half-scream—as her body convulses against my mouth.

“Xander,” she gasps, pulling my hair. “Oh God, Xander.”

I continue until aftershocks subside, until her legs give out. Rising to catch her before she slides down, her body melting against mine. The water runs cold.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur into her hair.

She weighs nothing in my arms. Her head rests on my shoulder, eyes half-closed, breath quick and shallow. I carry her from the steamy bathroom to the bedroom, protective of her vulnerability.

The cool air raises goosebumps across her wet skin. I place her on the bed’s edge and grab a fresh towel from my closet.

I’ve brought women here before. None stayed. None fit. But Oakley… She can fit.

I focus on details instead. The curve of her collarbone. The freckle on her left shoulder. The rise and fall of her chest.

“Arms up,” I instruct, and she lifts them like a child.

I dry her with precision, starting with her hair, moving to her neck, shoulders, then breasts. She watches through heavy lids, still flushed. I continue with each arm, her stomach, legs, and between her thighs.

When dry, I retrieve a clean black t-shirt from my dresser. I guide her arms through the sleeves as if she might break. The shirt hangs loose on her smaller frame, hem reaching mid-thigh.

No underwear. There’s something satisfying about seeing her in my clothing and nothing else, her bare legs extending from the dark fabric of my shirt.

“Such a good girl, Oakley. So good.” I guide her beside me on the bed, pulling her against my chest.

Her body molds to mine, her back against my front, damp hair tickling my chin. My arm circles around her waist, eliminating any space between us.

I bury my nose in her hair. My shampoo masks her scent, but beneath lies something distinctly Oakley—warm and alive, tightening my chest.

She shifts, breathing synchronizing with mine. Her fingers find my hand at her waist, intertwining. The gesture feels more intimate than our shower activities.

“Comfortable? ”

“Mm-hmm,” she nestles closer.

I tighten my hold, drawing her against me. My free hand strokes her hair, combing through the damp strands. Post-sex cuddling never appealed before, but Oakley in my bed, wearing my clothes, feels right beyond words.

“Rest,” I tell her, lips pressing to her temple. “I’ve got you.”

She makes a soft sound, her body relaxing in my embrace. Her breathing deepens as sleep claims her. I remain awake, cataloging every point of contact, recording each sensation.

I lie motionless, listening to Oakley breathe. Her back rises against my chest, her body warm and soft. Sleep eludes me, mind racing. Her presence, vulnerable and trusting in my bed, keeps me vigilant.

My phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once, twice, three rapid pulses—security alert.

I extract my arm from beneath her head, freezing when she stirs. She mumbles incoherently before settling back to sleep.

I watch her. Hair splayed across my pillow, wearing nothing but my shirt. The sight twists something in my chest.

I check my phone, opening the security app. Three alerts from Oakley’s apartment—all motion sensors triggered within sixty seconds.

“That’s not right,” I whisper.

I tap into the live feed from her living room camera. The image loads, and ice floods my veins.