Chapter 16 Mads
Mads
She doesn’t move at first. Just stands there staring at me, wide-eyed, breathing shallow. I can’t tell if she’s turned on, freaked out, or about two seconds from bolting.
I hope it’s all three.
Because when I put this mask on, something in her shifted. Pupils blown wide, throat working around a swallow. And for a second, just one, she looked at me like she wanted me to ruin her. Right here. On this fuckass horror set. Red corn syrup covered floors and severed foam limbs and all.
She is as viscerally drawn to me as much as I am to her, even here.
And fuck me if that doesn’t nearly snap the last bit of restraint I have.
She’s flushed and fidgety.
I am completely still, letting her body heat seep into me. I watch the way her chest rises. Every cell in my body dances in revelry. “Wanna play a game of hide and seek, Blue?”
I want this so badly it’s embarrassing. To chase her, corner her, catch her. To get my hands on her and prove I could undo every knot she’s tied herself into. I think about the things I’d do to her, the things I’d give, just for an hour where she let me make her feel good.
She twists to look up at me, startled. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
I tilt my head, catlike. A predator sizing up its prey. “I’ll even let you pick. You can hide, or you can seek.”
She seems to melt further into me. Her fingers twitch at her sides. Nervous. Maybe unsure. But not walking away.
“Hide,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I want to hide.”
I smile under the mask. I knew she would be such a good girl.
She finally pries herself away from me and turns to face me, crosses her arms, and gives me a suspicious look.
“How do I know you’re not going to peek?
You’ve got this on,” she reaches up and flicks the vinyl covering my cheek.
“That’s literally the plot of every slasher movie ever.
Creeping on the girl from under a mask.”
I lift a hand to my chest, mock-offended. “Blake Aster, are you impugning my moral integrity?”
“Yes,” she says flatly. “With cause.”
“Fair enough.” I peel the mask off slowly, keeping my eyes on hers the whole time. “Better?”
“Much,” she says, voice tight.
“Good,” I say, then step in and kiss her the way I’ve been dying to do it since the moment she looked at me like I was something dangerous she wanted anyway.
If she’s surprised, she doesn’t let it show.
It’s not sweet. I don’t think anything between us ever could be.
It’s hot, demanding, messy. Her fingers fist in my shirt before she can think better of it, and when she kisses me back, it’s with teeth. Her mouth opens under mine, asking me to take more.
I do.
My hand slides into her hair, the other to her hip, pulling her in so snug I can feel every shaky breath she releases. She gasps when I shift just enough to press her against the nearby set wall, and I can already tell it’s going to be a problem how much I like that sound.
When she finally pulls away, her lips are slick and bright pink, her eyes a little glassy. “If I don’t go now, I’m not going to.”
I release her reluctantly. “Go, then. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
She backs away slowly, eyes still locked on mine like she doesn’t quite trust me not to drag her back.
Honestly? She shouldn’t.
When she disappears behind a hanging plastic curtain, I exhale and press the heels of my hands to my eyes for dramatic effect.
Okay. Counting. That’s a thing I can do.
One.
I want to eat her alive. That’s fine. Totally manageable.
Two.
Why the fuck is every kiss with her the hottest kiss of my life, and why does the taste of cherry lip balm really do it for me?
Three.
Focus. Game. Objective. Find her. Then, maybe pin her against the nearest flat surface. Don’t beg.
Four.
Actually, maybe beg a little. Light begging. Tasteful begging.
Five.
Shit, how long has it been? I wasn’t looking at a clock, and I am probably counting too slowly. Should I just—no. No, I am not going to blow this by being impatient.
Six.
But also, what if she’s somewhere ridiculous, like crouched behind the fog machine, inhaling god knows what fumes, breathing heavy, flushed, and waiting for me to find her and—
Seven.
Nope. I’m gonna combust.
Eight.
Okay, eight is enough.
I drop my hands, pull the mask back on, and step into the shadows to hunt her down.
I realize I barely gave her enough time to disappear into this cursed funhouse of props and splintered plywood.
I move slowly at first, footsteps light against the warehouse floor, scanning the shadows and wondering what kind of idiot lets himself get this worked up over a girl crouching in the dark. But it’s not just that she’s playing along with me. It’s her.
The first place I check is behind a stack of faux-gravestones, all chipped foam and flecking spray paint.
There’s a mannequin arm peeking out, and for one deranged second, I think maybe she staged a fake body to throw me off.
Wouldn’t put it past her. But there’s no Blake.
Just the vague smell of dirt and spray adhesive.
Second stop, the section with the morgue table, complete with a blood-streaked sheet and a set of feet with a toe tag sticking out from underneath. I flip the sheet, flinch like I’m in the actual film.
My skin itches. I’m warm. My palms won’t stop sweating.
Third, I peer into the basement set. The lighting’s dim, reddish, flickering—intentionally broken.
There are hooks on the wall and chains dangling, and a rusty drain, I really hope is fake because it's crusted with something reddish that leaves me wondering.
It looks eerily close to the basement in the murder video.
I have to duck under a beam to get all the way in, and my brain is a mess of visuals now. Her wrists in those cuffs. Her mouth parted. My hands under that jumper, finding every soft, covered place that’s been driving me mad since the moment we met.
I exhale. Run a hand over the back of my neck.
This is insane. I’ve kissed her. More than once. She’s hiding from me, and I’m two wrong thoughts away from saying fuck it and just—
What is the end goal of this game of hide and seek? I mean, I think we are on the same page, but we are also technically in public, and maybe I have assumed too much?
There’s a creak behind the curtain wall to my left.
Quiet. Small. But enough.
I step toward it and nudge the black curtain aside.
She’s there.
Half-crouched behind a stack of sound equipment cases, cheeks flushed, eyes panicky when she sees me. Like she knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. And worse—she’s been thinking it too.
I don’t say a word. I just look at her. Let the air stretch tight between us. Because I’m not sure what I’m about to do.
But I know it’s going to wreck us both.
Her chest rises in shallow breaths, eyes locked on mine—or where mine should be, hidden behind the mask.
I can see the war happening in her head, flickers of hesitation sparking behind the heat. She’s turned on, but she’s also unsure.
Not of me. Of the thrill.
Of the risk.
I could be anyone at this moment, and the fact that she’s still here, still kneeling in the dark with that look on her face, tells me everything I need to know.
She wants this—the tension, the surrender, the not-quite-certainty. She’s banking on it being me behind the mask. Betting her body on it.
And the part of me that’s twisted, the part that’s already half-gone for her, is obsessed with the idea that she’d let herself be ruined on a maybe.
That she’d gamble that I’m the one she’s giving herself to, and not someone who’d take without asking.
Because she knows I won’t. But she’s still handing me the metaphorical knife, just to see what I’ll do with it.
She bolts. No warning, no smirk to tip me off, just a sharp twist of her body and the scrape of sneakers on concrete. For half a second, I blink, then I’m after her, adrenaline hitting harder than any match I’ve ever played.
The set turns into a maze of shadows and fake walls, her laughter echoing ahead of me, taunting, daring me to keep up. My cock feels thicker and harder with each step I take toward her.
She ducks behind a hanging chain, cuts left past a false stairwell, her blue hair flashing in the dim red light.
She’s fast, but she’s not trying to lose me. Not really. Every turn slows just enough, every glance over her shoulder sparks through my chest. She wants to be caught as much as I want to catch her.
Good thing that knock she took during the game was minor, because I’m loving every minute of this.
I push harder, footfalls pounding against the hollow floorboards, closing the gap until I can almost feel the heat rolling off her.
She stumbles at the end of a hallway filled with props, and that’s all it takes—I lunge, hand catching her wrist, spinning her back into me. She gasps, half-laugh, half-shock, the sound lodging straight in my gut.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Her chest rises against mine, breath quick, the chain-set swaying where she nearly crashed into it. My grip tightens, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her who caught whom.
She twists in my grip like she might break free and tries to dart sideways. The floor’s slick, uneven where the set pieces meet, and her foot slips out from under her.
She catches herself on her hands with a sharp breath, hair falling into her face. For a second, she stays there, poised between scrambling away and giving in. Then she looks back at me, a spark in her eyes that tells me it’s no accident she hasn’t gotten up yet.
She crawls toward me slowly, knees dragging across dusty concrete. Every inch she closes between us knots tighter in my gut, and I can’t decide if I want to reach for her or wait and let the anticipation burn.
She doesn’t say anything when she stops in front of me, when her hands slide up my thighs.
Just looks up at me, pupils blown wide, mouth tilted with intent.
My back hits the nearest wall. It’s instinct more than decision.
I need something solid behind me, because the second her fingers trail over my belt, every nerve in my body lights up.
I thought I would be the one in control, the one giving her what she needs.
And I will.
But this—
I can’t—
I don’t know how she manages to make it feel reverent and obscene at the same time.
Her touch is firm but exploratory, knuckles dragging slowly across the skin at the base of my abdomen as she works to open my jeans.
I let my head fall back, sucking in air that’s hot and thick with the leftover haze of fog machines and dust. She doesn’t rush. Just takes her time like she’s trying to learn me by feel alone.
Her hand curls around my dick, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything so good, so utterly right, in my entire life. It’s not just the heat or the pressure or the way her hand moves around me—it’s the complete unraveling of thought, the way every fiber of my being locks onto this one moment.
Because it’s her. Because it’s Blake. No one else could drag me under like this, make my body beg while my brain short-circuits. Not like this.
It’s the soft, involuntary sound she makes when I twitch against her tongue.
The way she looks up at me while she does it, eyes locked on mine.
She swirls her tongue around the head in a way that makes this feel like some test she’s determined to ace, and I’m barely holding it together enough to form a coherent thought, let alone tell her that she gets an A fucking plus. Gold star, top of the class.
Each twitch of muscle, every shift I can’t control, winds me tighter. Every thought that barrels through my head comes harder, heavier, until it drags my breathing shallow. I can’t pull in enough air to match the pace my body’s demanding.
She is unhurried and methodical, the hot, wet heat of her mouth engulfing me inch by inch. Pressure builds behind my eyes. She doesn’t rush—just takes me deeper, her tongue teasing, her throat flexing, and all I can do is grit my teeth, every second that passes threatening to split me wide open.
My fingers find her hair, not to guide her, just to hold on. The strands are soft, sliding through my knuckles until I’m involuntarily tightening my grip, pulling snug at the roots.
She sets the pace and I let her, overwhelmed by how good it feels, how good she feels.
Every few seconds, I mutter things without meaning to.
Strings of expletives, ragged and half-broken, spilling out before I can catch them.
Her name, over and over, sometimes whispered, sometimes torn straight from my chest. It’s the only thing anchoring me, the only solid thought in the rush of heat and noise driving me past my limit.
I come faster than I mean to, faster than I’m proud of—staggering and relentless, my body locking up as the pressure finally snaps. It’s violent in its intensity, drawn out by the way she doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter, just takes it, her mouth still around me as every last pulse wracks through me.
My vision goes a little blurry. My thoughts scatter. There is nothing in the world but her, and this, and the way I can’t seem to stop shaking.
I’m strung out, spine pressed to cold stone, heart galloping in my chest. She presses a quick, almost playful kiss to the inside of my thigh, then tugs at the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe the corner of her mouth, as though she didn’t just dismantle me in under five minutes.
I yank the mask off, pull her up into my arms, kiss her hard, because there’s no way I’m letting that go unrewarded.
My hands lock at her waist, hauling her closer until there’s no space left between us, her breath mixing with mine as the taste of us floods through me. It’s rough and desperate, the only way I know to give back what she just took from me in this moment immediately after.
I rest my forehead against hers, regaining my bearings.
“Oh good, it’s you,” she giggles, she says, voice dripping with mock relief, as if she just spent the last several minutes wondering if it really was me.
I can’t speak yet. Just grin and hold her tighter.
The set around us is empty, but not secure.
Lights hum overhead, wires snake across the floor, and somewhere beyond the walls, people are still working.
Here, though—here it feels like we’ve stolen something.
Illusion of privacy, nothing more. At any second, someone could walk in and see exactly how far gone I am for her.
Maybe that’s why I don’t let go. Maybe that’s why I pull her even closer, daring the universe to interrupt.
Tomorrow, we go back to playing detectives.
Tonight, I’m hers.
And she’s fucking mine.