Page 40 of Stream & Scream
Behind me, his footsteps maintain their steady rhythm. Not gaining ground, not falling behind, just matching my pace. He’s wearing me down, I realize.
I crash through a dense thicket and emerge into a small clearing, my vision suddenly blurred by hot tears.
I will survive this.
I will survivehim.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jaxen
Saturday night.
There’s a high in the hunt no drug can touch. I’ve tried them all—acid, coke, the purest tabs smuggled through borders, and none of it comes close. Nothing rips through me like this. Nothing coils my spine tight, nothing burns my blood hotter.
The chase is the drug.
The sound of her ragged breathing, uneven and frantic, echoing through the trees. The way the forest swallows her whole, like even the forest wants her to be mine. The panic in her movements sends a steady pulse of electricity thrumming beneath my skin.
I move with it. Boots sliding over wet dirt, shoulders slipping through wet branches, lungs steady while hers burn. My body already knows hers, tunes itself to every scrape of her sneakers, every branch snapping underfoot.
Each gasp she drags is a fucking beacon. Every stumble, every misstep, another trigger pulling me closer.
She’s fast, I’ll give her that. But she’s not faster than me.
I don’t need to see her clearly. Her body betrays her. Every scrape of her sneakers on dirt, every gasp is a flare in the dark only I can read. My body tunes itself to hers automatically. Her heartbeat sets the rhythm. My cock pounds to it.
And then there’s the cam.
That little beacon strapped to her wrist. Blinking red.Fucking glorious. Every flare pulsing like a vein I’m meant to slice open.
The forest hums with her, leaves rattling behind her. The air is heavy with her scent, her fear and sweat mixed with that cheap berry shampoo the sponsors sent the contestants.
Sweet. Innocent. Wrong. I want to scrape it off her until she reeks of nothing but me.
Every sound she makes sharpens me. The hiss of breath between clenched her teeth. The grunt when she catches her shin on a root. The broken hiccup of a curse. I’ve heard enough begging to recognize it, even if she hasn’t said the words out loud yet. Her body is begging for me.
And fuck, it makes me hard.
This isn’t just adrenaline. This is a game. My cock presses against my cargo pants, insistent, every step of hers stoking it higher.
She dives behind a fallen log, scrambling for cover. I slow down, grinning behind my helmet, letting her stew in the illusion. Letting her think she’s hidden. Letting her think she’s lost me. Hope tastes better when I get to tear it away.
“Cute,” I murmur, voice low enough to vibrate against the inside of the helmet.
For a moment, she stays tucked low, crouched in the shadows, probably praying I pass her by. Then she bursts out again, tearing around the log, boots slipping in the moss as she throws herself back into the trees.
“It’s not funny!” she shouts over her shoulder, voice ragged, cracking with the strain.
I laugh, deep and cruel, the sound cutting through the woods.
She stumbles, glances back, panic flashing across her face when she realizes how close I am. Her chest heaves, lips parting to drag in more air as if oxygen might save her.
The tempo of the chase builds. Her strides falter, her panting grows jagged, her rhythm breaks. She’s running herself raw, wearing her body down until she has nothing left to give. My body stays steady, tuned for the long game. But my cock throbs harder, aching with every ragged sound she makes.
“You sound gorgeous when you’re breaking,” I call, voice carrying low and cruel. “Panting like that… fuck, you’re making me hard, little clickbait.”
She stumbles, nearly faceplants, then throws herself forward faster. The fear fuels her.
