Page 67 of Stalked
A flutter of anxiety rises in my chest. “Are you planning to share me?”
Vane's expression turns feral, possessive. “Over my dead body.”
Relief washes over me at his words, surprising me with its intensity.
Over my dead body.
Four simple words that shouldn't affect me this way, yet they do.
I've never been possessive or exclusive in my time at The Red Room. I enjoyed the freedom, the multiple partners, the sharing—it was liberating after years of rigidly controlling every aspect of my life. In New York, I reveled in the anonymity, in being passed between partners.
But with Vane? The thought of him allowing another man to touch me makes my skin crawl.
I press my lips together to hold back a smile. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his possessiveness pleases me. How much I want him—only him—after fifteen years of pretending I didn't.
“So you're the jealous type,” I say instead, trying to sound casual, as if my heart isn't racing at the fierce look in his eyes.
His fingers drift to the cut on my hip, pressing just firmly enough to remind me it's there. “It's not jealousy when something already belongs to you.”
I should tell him I don't belong to anyone. That's what the independent, successful woman I've built myself to be would say. But the words don't come.
Because here, beneath his touch, I'm not the gallery director or the sophisticated New Yorker. I'm just Lia—the same girl who gave him everything on prom night and then ran scared.
“I've shared everything in my life,” Vane continues, his voice low and dangerous. “My home, my food, even my clothes with my brothers. But not you.” His grip tightens. “Never you.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and hate how much I love hearing those words.
Vane helps me to my feet, his hand warm against my lower back. My legs tremble slightly from our encounter, and I'm acutely aware of my nakedness. My dress remains behind in the rope room, along with any pretense that I'm in control of this situation.
“Ready?” He asks, his voice rough.
“I'm naked,” I point out, though it's obviously not a revelation to him.
His lips curve into that infuriating smirk. “Yes, you are. And you're going to stay that way.”
I don't argue. There's something oddly freeing about walking through these corridors with nothing to hide behind. No designer clothes, just my skin, the rope marks and the shallow cuts on my body that mark me as his.
Vane guides me through the maze, never hesitating at intersections. It's clear he knows the layout intimately.
“Almost there,” he murmurs, his hand possessively gripping my waist as we turn down a wide corridor lined with plush red carpet.
The sounds reach us before we see anything—deep grunts and rhythmic movements. When we step through the ornate archway into the orgy room, the scene unfolds before us.
Three men occupy the center of the space, their muscular bodies entangled on a large platform bed. One man is on his hands and knees, being penetrated from behind facing away from us, while pleasuring the third with his mouth. They move together so beautifully, lost in their shared pleasure.
I feel Vane tense beside me, perhaps expecting me to be shocked or uncomfortable. But I'm not.
“I guess we're not the first after all,” I say, my voice steady.
I study the three men, mesmerized by the raw passion they display. Their bodies glisten with sweat in the dim lighting, muscles flexing with each thrust and pull. There's something primal and beautiful about watching them lose themselves in pleasure.
Vane's arm tightens around my waist, and I feel his eyes on me rather than on the scene before us.
“Does this bother you?” He asks, his voice low against my ear.
I shake my head, still watching. “Not at all.”
One of the men throws his head back, a deep moan escaping his throat as he climaxes. The sound sends a shiver through me.
