Page 28 of Savage Stalkers
“Y-yes, fuck yes,” he stammers, pushing back onto me.
I fist his hair and yank his head back.“Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” he moans. “I belong to you.”
My thrusts turn brutal, and his arms shake under the pressure.
“You’ll come when I tell you,”I bite out, then release my hold on his hair.
“Please, please?—”
“Not yet.”
I pound into him harder, both hands on his hips, my grip bruising.
“Touch yourself, feel your cock dripping for me.”
He reaches down, and I fuck him harder. Finally, after one last deep thrust, I stop to wrap my hand around his throat and squeeze.
“Now,”I growl as I pull back a little, then continue with short, fast thrusts.
His whole body seizes.
“I’m going to fill you... take all of it.”
“I’m coming . . .fuck, I’m coming!”
Driving deep once more, I come hard inside him, holding him down as he gasps for air.
Chapter Twelve
Skye
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The girl looking back at me is someone I used to know well but no longer recognize. The midnight-blue dress fits perfectly, and my hair is swept up in an elegant twist that took the stylist two hours to perfect. I look every inch the woman my mom wants me to be. Yet all I can think about is how the other night has to be my last night with the masked men. It’s the last time I’ll feel the rush of adrenaline when I hear footsteps behind me in the dark. The last time I experience the mix of fear and anticipation, and the last time I belong to my masked men, even if it’s only ever been a fantasy. I need to stop fighting. This image in the mirror is my life, and nothing I’ve done has changed the hold my mother has over me, and I doubt anything ever will.
My phone buzzes on the vanity, and I glance at it, hoping for... what? A message from them? They don’t have my number. I’m simply another client to them. A girl playing out her fantasies.
Tapping open my phone, I see the message is from Mom.
MOM
Where are you? Guests have started to arrive.
I close my eyes and push down the hollow feeling in my chest. Tonight, I’ll smile and nod while Mom parades me in front of whatever trust-fund baby she’s picked out this time. I’ll make polite conversation about the weather and charitable causes, and I’ll pretend to be interested when he talks about his yacht or his family’s summer house. Then I’ll agree to marry him, because what is the point in dragging this out any longer? Every new man is a carbon copy of the last.
The irony hasn’t escaped me; I’m mourning the loss of something that was never really mine. Three strangers who I’ve never seen without their masks and who I know nothing about—except that they make my body come alive in ways I never thought possible.
But it felt real. For the first time in my life, something felt completely real.
I pull myself together and head downstairs, where I find my mom playing the picture-perfect host.
As I get close, she turns to me and hisses through a staged smile, “Remember, darling, shoulders back, smile like you mean it, and for god’s sake, try to look interested when people talk to you.”
I roll my eyes; it’s like I have never done this shit before. “Yes, Mother,” I murmur, falling into step beside her.
The ballroom is a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. The sound of classical music mingles with the laughter and conversation. I spot several familiar faces from Mom’s social circle, all wearing the same rehearsed smiles—if you can even call it a smile after all the Botox.
“Mrs. Radcliffe!” Mom practically glides across the floor toward her; she is some politician’s wife.
