Page 41 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“Just saying.” His expression shifts from concern to surprise, then something darker. The dash lights cast shadows across his face, making him look dangerous in a way that only intensifies the heat building inside me.

“I so want to fuck you right now,” I add, my voice low and urgent.

His gaze locks with mine, the same hunger reflected back.

“I won’t object,” he says. “Hold that thought.”

Xander steers the car off the main road, navigating between darkened trees until we’re hidden from the road. The headlights cut off, plunging us into darkness save for the faint glow of the dashboard.

“Here?” I ask, looking around at our surroundings—the cramped front seat, the knowledge of what’s in the trunk just feet away.

Xander follows my gaze toward the back of the car. “He won’t be watching. Dead men tell no tales. ”

“That’s not funny,” I say, but laugh anyway, the sound edged with hysteria.

His eyes are serious, almost predatory in the dim light. “Come here.”

He pulls the lever to slide his seat back, creating just enough space. I crawl over the center console, my movements clumsy with urgency, knees hitting the gearshift before I straddle his lap. His hands find my hips, gripping with bruising force.

“This is so fucked up,” I whisper against his mouth.

“Do you want to stop?”

“God, no.”

I fumble with his belt, hands shaking with need rather than fear. His cool composure cracks, replaced by something raw and hungry that matches the frenzy building inside me. The windows fog from our breath as I free him from his pants.

No time for finesse. I push my underwear aside and sink down onto him in one swift motion that pulls a gasp from both of us. The sensation is overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. I grip the headrest behind him for leverage and move, finding a desperate rhythm.

Xander’s composure shatters. He yanks down the neckline of my dress, exposing my breasts to the cool air.

His mouth latches onto one nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before biting down harder than he ever has before.

The sharp edge of pain only heightens everything else, and I cry out, arching into him.

“Harder,” I demand, driving down onto him with increasing force. The car rocks with our movements, suspension creaking in protest .

He switches to my other breast, his bite leaving marks I’ll see tomorrow, evidence of this moment of madness. His hands guide my hips, setting a punishing pace that I match eagerly.

The angle is all wrong, but so perfect. The steering wheel digs into my back as I ride him harder. The position forces me to take him deeper than before, discomfort blending with pleasure until they become indistinguishable.

“God, you feel amazing,” Xander groans, composure obliterated. “Your pussy is so fucking tight around me.”

His words send a jolt through me.

“You like fucking me like this?” he continues, voice rough against my ear. “In a car in the middle of nowhere with a dead body ten feet away?”

“Shut up,” I gasp, but my body betrays me, clenching around him at his words.

“Your cunt gets tighter every time I mention it,” he observes, thrusting up to meet my movements. “Such a fucked-up thing to get off on.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe there is something broken in me that finds this arousing instead of horrifying. But I’m beyond caring now.

“Let me feel that pussy squeezing my cock.”

The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps. I cry out as the orgasm crashes through me, my body clenching around him in waves. Xander follows, his grip bruising my hips as he holds me down and fills me with short, desperate thrusts.

For several moments, we don’t move. Only our ragged breathing and occasional car creaks break the silence. Reality intrudes again—the cramped space, the cold seeping in, the situation that launched us into this madness.

I ease myself off him and back into the passenger seat, wincing at the new soreness and the mess between my thighs.

“Oh my God. I’m so bad.” I pull my dress back. The absurdity of the situation hits me all at once. We just had sex in a car with a dead body in the trunk. A man I killed. With a decorative fish keychain.

“You’re getting there,” Xander laughs, starting the car again. The engine purrs to life, headlights cutting through darkness as we return to the empty highway. His profile in the dim dashboard light looks relaxed, almost pleased.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Each mile adds weight to the reality in our trunk.

My life has truly taken a turn.

When Xander turns onto a narrow gravel driveway hidden between towering trees, I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours.

The cabin appears around the next bend. A rustic A-frame with a wraparound porch that would look perfectly at home on the cover of a vacation rental magazine if not for the sinister context of our arrival.

Xander parks beside the cabin and kills the engine. “Home sweet home. At least for the next few days.”

He grabs our bags from the backseat while avoiding any mention of our trunk passenger. I follow him up the porch steps, wincing at each wooden board creak under my feet. Inside, the cabin surprises me—open floor plan, updated kitchen, comfortable-looking furniture.

“So,” I say, standing in the middle of the living room. “ What are we going to do with...you know?” I jerk my head toward where the car is parked outside.

Xander sets our bags down and moves toward a door I assume leads to a bedroom. Instead, he reveals a staircase heading down.

“There’s a furnace in the basement,” he says matter-of-factly. “Well, not exactly a furnace, more like an oven that’s been re-assigned.”

“A furnace.” I repeat the words, their meaning sinking in. “Of course there is.”

I follow him downstairs, where the cabin’s rustic charm surrenders to concrete floors and cinderblock walls.

The basement appears purpose-built for cleanup—a drain in the center, a deep utility sink in the corner, metal tables along one wall.

And dominating the far end, a massive furnace that looks industrial rather than residential.

I stare at it, then at the clinical organization surrounding us.

My mind can’t stop wondering how many bodies have made their final journey into that furnace.

“Not that many,” Xander says.

I jump. “How did you?—”

“Your expression,” he explains. “Your eyes narrow, and your left eyebrow goes up. Also, it’s the obvious question.”

“Right.” I wrap my arms around my stomach. “So, uh, what now?”

“Now we retrieve our guest and take care of things.”

I follow him back upstairs and outside to the car. The night air hits my face, cool and pine-scented, peaceful given what comes next. Xander pops the trunk, and there he is—his vacant eyes staring at nothing, dried blood caked around the wound.

My stomach lurches. I killed this man. Not Xander. Not the Hemlock Society. Me.

“I’ve got his shoulders,” Xander says, positioning himself at the head of the body. “You take his feet, like before.”

I move to the foot of the trunk, fighting the urge to vomit as I wrap my hands around the man’s ankles. His skin has cooled already, his body stiffening.

“On three,” Xander instructs. “One, two, three.”

My arms strain as we carry him down the basement stairs, his lifeless weight pulling at my shoulders. When we lay him on the metal table, I have to step back, lungs burning for fresh air.

“You okay?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

“You will.” He guides me toward the stairs. “The first one is always the hardest.”

I freeze mid-step, his words registering.

“The first one,” I repeat. “You say that like there’s going to be more.”