Prey upon me a dark stal.., p.13
Prey Upon Me: A Dark Stalker Romance, page 13
Fuck me! I don’t have any collateral. I don’t have anything to offer for a new bargain. All I have is a man with the body of an Adonis lying on top of me with a knife.
And it hits me.
The idea may be enough to make me nauseated, but it’s the only course of action I can see that won’t end with someone much worse winding up at my front door.
I offer him my new proposal, and though he seems to understand it, he actually releases his grip on my mouth ever so slightly.
“Come again?”
“I’ll give you a blow job.” I all but mouth it, but he hears it all the same.
I know the suggestion sounds completely random and off-topic, but feeling him rub against me, I pray I can appeal to his primal nature rather than logic. It’s the only thing I can think of that would force him to remove the handcuffs. At least then I could fight back. And even if he decides not to let me go, leaving me to lay here as he teabags or some shit, I still have my teeth in the event I can’t escape before the act. I have a feeling he’ll be far more preoccupied with his dick or balls being ripped off and the consequential blood loss rather than finishing off the girl responsible.
Because there’s no way he’s letting me out of here.
I’ve already proven to be too much of a liability, and whether he has something to threaten me with or not, anyone concerned about their own self-preservation isn’t going to take their chances on me again.
He looks more than a little taken aback by my offer, recoiling ever so slightly. “You would do that?”
He sounds more than a little skeptical, but he lowers the knife down onto the bed, and using his teeth, he pulls the glove off his free hand to cup my sex. Even with my panties and the thin fabric of my sleep shorts, I know he can feel how wet I am. For once, my traitorous pussy might actually do me some good, because the knowledge issues a change in his demeanor.
“I have a better idea.” He sits back on his haunches, and it takes everything in me not to try bucking him off or to start screaming now that his hand is off my mouth.
I need to appear compliant, but he makes that rather difficult when he suddenly hooks his thumbs under the band of my shorts and underwear, tugging them down.
Oh, fuck.
I have to swallow back the urge to sob, tears preemptively burning the backs of my eyes. This was exactly what I was trying to avoid with my offer. If these are going to be my last minutes, I don’t want to spend them in pain, being violated as he slams into me unrelentingly, hard enough to do damage. And then what? Is he going to slam the knife down into my chest? Or drag it across my throat and leave me to choke on my own blood?
I’m not going to be able to get out of these handcuffs, and unless my vagina has spontaneously grown teeth, I won’t be getting the chance to bite anything off.
“Do you have any preferences?” he asks oh so calmly, like this really is just a casual hookup.
What little hope I have that he’ll remove the handcuffs in order to take off my shirt is obliterated when he picks up the knife and moves to slice the cloth up in order to tear it off.
“Please,” I choke out. “Let me keep it on.”
If these really are going to be my last moments, some stupid little part of me doesn’t want to spend them knowing that he ruined my favorite sleep shirt. It sounds stupid even in my own head, seeing as how it will likely be covered in my blood by hour’s end, but I’ve had it since high school. And I want to cling to as much modesty as I can.
To my relief, he pulls the blade back and nods. “As you wish.”
My legs instinctively lock together the instant he tosses my shorts and underwear aside, like I can really hide myself from him.
Daring to look back up at his face, I can see it in his eyes. He’s grinning, like I’m the most adorable thing in the world. To my surprise, he gets off the bed, heading across my room to the closet. When he returns holding one of my scarves, I’m more than a little confused.
Is he going to tie each of my feet to the posts at the end of the bed?
But if that’s the case, he’d need two.
I freeze as he rounds the bed and comes to stand directly at my side.
“Lift your head,” he instructs, and every instinct has me jerking away as he drapes the fabric over my eyes, eliciting a dark laugh. “I thought this is what you’re into.”
Being blinded from seeing what some knife-wielding psycho is going to do to my body?
Why the fuck would he think that?
When I make it clear that’s not the case, he still secures this scarf, knotting it firmly behind my head to ensure there’s no chance of it slipping.
“Sorry, baby,” he purrs, “but I want to see and appreciate every glorious inch of you.”
I hear him adjust the curtain, no doubt pulling it all the way closed, before the faintest light makes its way through the material of the scarf.
He’s turned on the lamp to my nightstand, but even with the illumination, the material of the scarf is too thick to see anything more than faint, blurred outlines. It looks like he might be pulling things over his head, and as he settles back onto the mattress, I realize I’m right.
Bare hands, bare arms, and even his mouth brush my skin. I can still feel the denim of his pants against my legs, but it’s clear his shirt and mask are gone.
Does he have a condom? A small, sick part of me hopes he doesn’t. This way, if he does kill me, maybe they’ll be able to get some DNA evidence from my body.
The thought isn’t a welcomed one, but it’s impossible to ignore the presence of that knife.
I try to brace myself for the invasion, anticipating him to pry my legs apart and slam into me. Instead, his knees come to rest on the outside of my own as he straddles me.
I flinch at the sensation of his fingers brushing my abdomen and only panic further when he begins drawing up the hem of my shirt. “W-What are you doing?”
Another dark laugh. “You said I had to leave the shirt on, not that it had to stay pulled down.”
Sure enough, I feel the cotton drift over my skin as he pushes it up over my stomach and rib cage before exposing my breasts to the chilled air.
He goes alarmingly still over me, and my imagination conjures up too many horrific scenarios. I watch far too many true-crime shows, recalling one particular case where the rapist-slash-murderer used a knife to quite literally cut off his victim’s breast. Is he going to do the same? Or is he going to use it elsewhere? Every cell in my body locks up at the phantom sensation that hits my core, imagining him inserting his knife inside of me like the world’s most horrific dildo.
I whimper the instant something touches my skin, but it’s not the cold steel of a knife. He palms my breasts, his rough calluses scraping over my nipples as he squeezes.
Hot air licks my skin before something else does.
His mouth comes down on my nipple, his tongue and teeth working the bud until it’s so hard that it’s almost painful from how sensitive it is. He laps his tongue around it, only working it more before suckling on it.
Oh, God.
I shouldn’t like this. And I don’t. Mentally, I’m screaming bloody murder. But my body…
The traitorous bitch arches into his touch as he moves to give the other breast the same attention.
Or should I say affection? Because that’s what he’s doing, practically worshiping my tits like he’s never seen any pair before. He keeps murmuring about how “fucking gorgeous” they are, and to my shame, heat rushes below my waist, my slickness impossible to hide as it slides down my skin and onto the bed.
Another whimper escapes me, and it has nothing to do with being scared. I’m still horrified, but I can’t get my body to agree. It continues pressing and arching its way into his touch, and my hips rock involuntarily, searching for something—anything—to grind my clit against. There’s no way he misses it either.
He goes still again, his hot breath dancing over my nipple. “You want me, baby?”
I can’t bring myself to say anything, but he also doesn’t wait for a response.
Even with my legs clamped shut, he’s still able to slide his fingers up the length of my folds. “Fucking hell,” he growls, no doubt feeling just how wet I am.
I expect to hear the zipper of his jeans, to hear the foil of a condom wrapper, but I get neither.
He begins working his way down my body, his hands tracing over the curve of my hips as his mouth plants kisses and licks down my torso. The warmth of his breath and skin elicits goosebumps to spread all across my body, and whether I want to admit to it or not, I know it’s not a response to my fear. Every inch of me invites the connection as badly as a starved man welcomes food and water, in spite of what I try to tell myself.
“Please.” That single syllable is all I can manage, coming out breathless and caught in a whimper. I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask. For him to stop? For him to cut to the chase and go where I’m throbbing?
My hips roll in response to his fingers brushing my folds, desperate to increase the pressure, answering my question for me.
I should be embarrassed, and I am, but some baser part of me is the only thing that responds to his touch. I should be writhing away. I should be kicking and twisting and flailing, consequences be damned. But I don’t do any of those things, and it’s no longer out of self-preservation. If it was, I would simply be lying here, compliant. Instead, tiny sounds keep slipping from my throat that he can’t mistake them for anything but what they are. Moans. Metal scrapes above my head from the handcuffs, my fingers curling, but there’s no anger accompanying it. Any rationality has fled the scene, leaving me desperate to fist his hair and direct his mouth to where I need it.
When he said he wanted to appreciate every inch of me, I didn’t think he meant literally, but he takes his time working his mouth down past my navel and from hip bone to hip bone.
Maybe I’m not the only one starved of human connection. The sounds escaping him are infinitely more masculine but just as wanton. If he was simply interested in getting his rocks off, he’d be done by now.
That acknowledgment, feeling his erection pressing into my leg, finally has my body reconnecting with my brain, because common sense tells me where this is going. No matter how much affection he may be paying me right now, in a minute he’ll be doing far worse, invading my body with a hunger he no doubt possesses.
I attempt to keep my legs shut, but it proves fruitless the moment his hands grip my thighs, pulling them apart and exposing me entirely to him.
“Fucking perfection.”
I still anticipate the moment when he decides this cruel trick has played out long enough. I can only imagine he’s waiting for me to relax, waiting for that moment when I least expect him to go through with it. And that’s when the knife will pierce into my flesh. Why else would he insist on blindfolding me? You can fuck someone while wearing a mask.
I jerk again, however, when he makes it clear that’s not what he’s after. His dick may be as hard as steel, yet getting himself off doesn’t seem to be his objective.
Because that’s not his cock probing my entrance. It’s his mouth. He licks and kisses along my folds, teasing my clit with nothing more than the heat of his breath.
I’m only vaguely aware that I hiss something at him, likely a curse, inviting his lips to pull into a smile against me as his laugh vibrates over my skin.
“Impatient, are we?” His tongue pushes between my folds, and when he runs it over my clit, a gasp escapes me despite my best efforts.
Jesus, does this man know what he’s doing.
He pulls my clit into his mouth and begins sucking hard on it before I feel a finger push inside of me. Then two. His pace begins slow and steady, but my response is all the invitation he needs to proceed. Some rationality in me tries to fend off the pleasure, tries to lock up and suppress the confusing wave of sensations he wrings from me, but he’s unrelenting, pumping into me faster and faster until he finally curls those digits, hitting my g-spot. I can’t resist it anymore. I can’t resist him. I grind against his mouth, needing pressure on my clit, and he’s all too willing, gripping my thigh with his free hand and thrusting me down on his mouth. It’s so sudden I can’t prepare for the orgasm that overtakes me. My pussy clamps around his fingers as I explode, riding the sensation to its conclusion. But it doesn’t dissipate. The orgasm spreads from my core up into my chest, into my limbs, into my very marrow. It hits so hard that I don’t have a voice. I can’t do anything but collapse into the bed, into him, as I’m reduced to a trembling collection of limp, sated limbs. Aftershocks roll through me as he continues to work my sex, lapping up my release with a sound I can only describe as male satisfaction. It’s a groan, but there’s something almost smug about it, as if to say, “Yeah, baby, that was brought to you by me and nobody fucking else.”
And he would be right. Because I’ve never come that hard in my entire life.
This is too good. The other shoe has to fall. It always does.
This is where he’s going to rape me. This is where he grabs the knife…
But he just slides his hands up under my ass, giving it a kneading squeeze as he nips my clit with his teeth one last time. “Keep this in the memory bank for the next time you can’t get off.”
Yeah, he’s definitely smug.
But…what did he say?
He can’t possibly know about my problems masturbating.
Can he?
The weight on the mattress shifts, and from the vague shapes I can see, it looks like he’s pulling his shirt back on. He reaches over to where the knife is lying, not two feet from my hip, and every inch of me goes taut, only for me to hear a soft click.
Did he just retract the blade?
I don’t dare to hope as he stands and rounds the bed, coming over to the front of the nightstand near my head.
This close to the lamp, it’s impossible not to see the full outline of his silhouette before he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Consider this your warning, my little canary. Go poking around for information on me again, and I’ll be coming back to do much more.” The timbre of his voice is enough to elicit chills down my spine, but the dark laugh accompanying it has my thighs clenching at the promise. “Let’s hope you keep being bad.”
His teeth scrape my earlobe, and with one last laugh from him, I feel hands on my wrists, followed by the definitive click and release of my handcuffs unlocking. With the music he turned on still playing, I can’t hear his footsteps after a certain point, and by the time I’m able to untie the scarf and pull it off, I find myself alone.
The heat of his threat still lingers quite literally in my ear, yet I can’t help adding a few more things to my description for the police. He may have blinded me, but touch goes a very long way, especially when you’re that intimately close with the other person. You may even pick up on some things, like the feeling of his hair against your thighs. Not short, not long. Not straight, but not necessarily curly. There felt to be the slightest wave to it. And that was a clean-shaven mouth on me, no discernible trace of facial hair. There was also the small but rough texture of skin on the inside of his left forearm. A scar, perhaps? Maybe a fresh but healing scratch?
The itch to write these things down is nearly palpable, but I don’t dare to grab my legal pad. I don’t dare to do anything but shut off the music.
Because the unsettling feeling that he’s still watching me doesn’t dissipate.
CHAPTER 12
ANNA
My stalker knows I spoke to Darcy about him, but how? The question haunts me the entire day, and I’ve yet to find an answer. Hell, I’ll settle for learning how he found out who I am, period.
The longer I think about it, the less likely Darcy seems to be in cahoots with this guy. Why would she have told me what he looked like if she is? Why would she have admitted to seeing him in the apartment at all? He could be an acquaintance, someone she casually mentioned me to. Maybe a fellow student or someone she works with…
Perhaps that’s how he figured out who I was, where I lived. I’ve been checking at least half a dozen times a day to make sure my name has been left out of the press, and so far it has. If Darcy simply mentioned that her roommate was part of a recent jewelry heist, it wouldn’t take some master skills of deduction for him to figure it out. Hell, even if she mentioned it to a friend of his friend, word could still get back to him. And why would Darcy immediately cast suspicion on herself if she was feeding him information about me?
I already had enough experience in this department to know she wouldn’t. Either she was being her usual, gossipy self and let the cat out of the bag, or he had other means…
The last possibility is one I don’t want to even consider, but it’s looking more and more like I’ll have to.
Pulling out my phone, I begin researching. There are a few different options for handling this, but the simplest method requires only one thing.
Darkness.
Once again, I hang out with Darcy in the living room and try my best to act normal, but it’s not particularly easy when you may or may not be on The Truman Show. I’m all too relieved when evening falls and Darcy heads out for the night, allowing me to retreat to my bedroom. Breaking out the flashlight on my phone, I begin my inspection, coming up empty.
Thank.
God.
That doesn’t rule out the rest of the apartment, but it’s good to know I’m not being spied on in my sleep.
I check out the bathroom and hallway next, still finding nothing.
At least he’s not a pervert.
The foyer also comes up clean, but it’s harder to tell in the kitchen. With all of the appliances, there are far too many reflective surfaces to really know for sure. Keeping up my ruse, I continue examining the floor and surfaces as I move my way into the living room. Initially, there’s nothing to see, but as the phone illuminates the tall plant in the corner, a small, circular piece of glass reflects the light back to me on an otherwise plastic product.
