Page 8 of My Masked Stalker
Much.
My heartbeat moves between my legs with that last one, and I stuff my phone back into my bag, embarrassed and angry with myself.
I hug the bag to my chest, as though that flimsy barrier can keep his words from sinking deeper under my skin. My thighs press together, my body betraying me in ways my mind refuses to accept.
What kind of sick woman gets turned on by threats? By the idea of being stalked, possessed, claimed? I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thought away, but his messages burn behind my lids like embers.
When the train jerks into the next station, I jolt with it, my pulse tripping over itself. My gaze darts across the car again. A man in a business suit scrolling his phone. A college kid asleep against his backpack. A mother rocking her toddler. Normal people. Safe people.
But he’s here somewhere. Maybe not in this car, but close enough to catch glimpses of my reactions. I can’t escape him.
The train rattles into my stop, and I dart out as soon as the doors slide open, my boots echoing too loudly on the platform. Up the stairs. Through the turnstile. Onto the street. The night air hits me like a slap, cool and damp, smelling faintly of rain on asphalt. I keep my head down, my pace fast, keys clutched between my fingers like makeshift claws. Every passing stranger could be him.
By the time I reach my building, my chest is tight, my lungs dragging in uneven breaths. I fumble with the lock, cursing under my breath, before shoving the door open and slipping inside. Slamming the locks into place, I lean my forehead against the door, forcing my pulse to slow.
The mixture of fear and arousal I’m feeling is overwhelming my system. I feel like I’m connected to live wires, a low current moving through me all the time, just knowing this dangerous man is fixated on me.
I kick off my boots and take off my coat, throwing it over my small sofa. I need something warm to eat to wash away the drinks mixed with dread. When I turn to my kitchen, though, I freeze mid-step. There’s an enormous bouquet of black panther peonies on my table. My favorite flower.
How did he know? And, more importantly… how many times has he been in my apartment without me knowing it?
My stomach swoops as I edge closer, every nerve screamingdon’t touch it, even as my hand lifts on its own. The peonies are lush, almost obscene in their dark beauty. A faint trace of cologne clings to them—smoke and steel, the phantom scent I’ve imagined on my stalker a dozen times.
The note tucked between the stems isn’t sealed. Just a single card, black ink slashed across ivory paper in an elegant, merciless hand.
You lock your door like it matters.
My throat closes, and I stagger back a step, my apartment no longer feeling like my little safe space. And yet, under the terror swelling in my chest, my body betrays me again. Heat unfurls low in my belly, shameful and unstoppable. He’s been here. He’s touched my things. He’s touchedme, without ever laying a finger.
I clutch the edge of my table for balance. This isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.
And I don’t know if I want him to stop.
5
KILLIAN
My breathing is slow and measured as I take quiet steps over the carpeted floor, moving unheard through Emily’s tiny apartment. I’ve been here a few times already when she was out, so I know the layout in the dark. But this is the first time I entered her home while she’s here, sleeping.
A soft moan sounds from the direction of her bedroom, and I raise an eyebrow. Or not sleeping.
What are you doing, naughty girl?
Is she using one of the colorful toys from her nightstand drawer? No, I can’t hear anything. Picturing her softly petting her pussy almost makes me groan. I bet she’s gentle with herself. Nothing like what I’ll give her, rough and raw. When I touch her, she’s going to feel me with every step she takes.
Quietly, I approach her bedroom door and see it’s open a crack. Must be fate. Or… did she leave it open for me? I know it’s a long shot, but long shots are my expertise. Peeking in, I’m greeted with half of my fantasies. Emily’s lying in bed, her legs open in the direction of my vantage point. One of her hands is slowly circling her clit, the other is fisted in the sheets, twisting them each time her back arches. Her curtains are no match forthe full moon, and in the faint light, I can see that her eyes are tightly shut.
The palm of my gun hand tingles, and I grin to myself under my mask. I take out my Glock and quietly clear the chamber—magazine out, rack the slide, press check. She doesn’t need to know the weapon is cold, though. I want to see the fear in those beautiful gray eyes.
My gloved hand tightens on the handle when I take a step forward, soundlessly pushing her bedroom door open. My cock strains the front of my pants with the movement, pressing against the material, demanding to be let out, just like the wild beast inside me is. The beast that wants to claim this woman for his own.
The moment Emily opens her eyes and spots me in the dark, my dick twitches, a spurt of precum dampening my cargo pants.
Ah, fuck—the fear.It’s fucking intoxicating.
When I point the barrel at her, her hand freezes between her legs, her chest rising in sharp little bursts as her brain scrambles to make sense of me. Of the mask. Of the gun aimed at her head.
I drink it all in, every flicker of terror in those gray eyes, every shaky breath. When I level the Glock at her, I swear her pupils dilate, her thighs twitch, her pussy clenches around nothing.
