Chapter 9
The air freezes.
He stops breathing. I stop breathing. The only sound in the tiny room is the frantic thumping of my own heart.
A sharp, ragged exhalation bursts from him, loud in the confined space. I’m ready to die. Right here, in this filthy storage closet, I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
The shame is tangible—a hot, crawling tide that starts deep in my gut and spreads through every nerve. He knows. Knows exactly what he does to me. Knows that I’m hard for him.
“Fuck.” The word is a low growl that vibrates through his chest and into mine. “This is for real. Damn it.” He leans his head down, the mask now just inches from my face. “Is this for me, little bee?” the distorted voice whispers. “You feel like this because of me?”
I shake my head frantically. “No, I just… it’s… it’s so hot in here,” I choke out, the lie sounding feeble even to my own ears.
A dark, humorless chuckle is my only answer. “Is it?” He leans back just enough for me to see the slight tilt of his masked head. “My hands are cold. Guess I can help you with that.”
Before I can even process his words, his hand is moving. It slides beneath the hem of the dark button-down, his fingers cold as ice against the burning skin of my stomach.
I flinch, a violent, full-body tremor, but he holds me fast. His palm is rough, calloused, as he smoothes it up over my ribs, his movements agonizingly slow. He’s mapping my body, learning me. His fingers find the small, tight bead of my nipple and pinch. Gently at first, then harder.
A broken sound rips from my throat. God help me, it feels good.
His mouth is on mine again in the next second, the bottom half of his mask pushed up. He swallows my gasp, kissing me with a knowing, possessive hunger that wasn’t there before. This isn’t about shutting me up. This is a reward. Or a punishment. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“Every one of your stupid fucking jumpers and sweaters,” he mutters against my lips between kisses, his real voice, raw and unfiltered. “I see you on campus in them and I want to rip them off you. Fucking drives me insane.”
“Are you…” My words are a desperate, ragged whisper against his mouth. “Are you my stalker, right?”
He pulls back from the kiss, but only to move lower. He ignores my question completely, his lips tracing a fiery path along my jaw.
He finds the frantic pulse point on my neck, and his tongue darts out, licking the wildly beating vein.
My spine turns to liquid. My knees threaten to buckle.
Goosebumps erupt over every inch of my skin, a thousand tiny signals of surrender.
He nuzzles into my neck, breathing me in, and I feel more than hear him say, “You just smell so good. I just can’t get enough. Just can’t, fuck it. I need more. More.”
His other hand, the one not currently torturing my nipple, slides down my front. My breath hitches.
His fingers brush over the front of my jeans, a light, teasing touch that makes me press myself helplessly against his palm.
He lets me, for a second, then his hand settles fully over me, his broad palm covering the entire length and breadth of my dick. He doesn’t move, just holds me, the heat and weight of his hand a heavy, possessive brand.
“So hard,” he says, his voice a low vibration against my neck. “All for me, little bee?”
My mind is gone. White static where my thoughts should be. There’s no room for fear or logic, only this all-consuming, terrifying need.
He takes my right hand, the one he’d pinned moments ago, and guides it down between our bodies. My fingers tremble as he presses my palm against the front of his own jeans.
Oh, God. He’s huge. Hard and thick, straining against the denim. I can feel the powerful throb of his pulse right through the fabric. He’s as affected by this as I am. Maybe more.
I should pull away. I should fight. Wanting him, wanting this, means there’s something fundamentally broken inside me. A sickness in my soul that responds to darkness and obsession.
But I can’t stop myself.
My fingers curl, gripping him tentatively.
He lets out a strained sound and thrusts his hips forward in a single, sharp motion, making me take all of him in my hand.
He is showing me the effect I have on him, and the knowledge is a drug, a heady rush of power that I’ve never felt before. I can influence him. I can make this dangerous guy lose control.
My thumb rubs over the straining head of his cock, and the distorted voice from the mask orders, “Don’t. Fucking. Stop.”
I obey.
I press harder, rubbing my palm against him in a slow, circular motion, learning the shape of him through the rough material. He groans my name, a broken, desperate sound that is part Zane, part monster, and it’s the most thrilling sound I have ever heard.
I want to undo his jeans. I want to see him. I want to touch his skin. I’m insane. I am completely, certifiably insane.
Then, just as I’m getting lost in the rhythm, in the feeling of his body shuddering under my touch, he grabs my wrist and yanks my hand away.
“No,” he growls.
A pang of disappointment lances through me. I want to touch him. Why won’t he let me touch him?
“This is about you now,” he says, his voice tight with restraint, as if answering my unspoken question. He pins my hand back against the wall, and his own hand returns to my groin.
This time, there is nothing gentle about it. His fingers are strong and sure, rubbing me through my jeans with a rough, relentless friction.
He knows exactly the right pressure, the right speed.
My hips start to move on their own, bucking against his hand. I can hear his breathing, coming in harsh, ragged pants through the mask’s modulator. The sound of his control fraying at the edges.
For a moment I look past his shoulder, through the grimy window at the dark, foggy park, at the chaos and danger just outside this small, private hell, and it only makes this feel more intense, more real.
He leans in, his masked forehead pressing against mine again. “Come for me, Easton,” he commands, his voice a ragged whisper. “Right now. Let me see it.”
That’s all it takes.
The command, the use of my name, the feeling of his relentless hand. A helpless sob tears from my throat as my whole body convulses.
My back arches, pressing me impossibly closer to him as orgasm rips through me, hot and blindingly intense. It’s too much, a messy release that soaks the front of my jeans. My body trembles in the aftermath.
He doesn’t move. He just watches, his body rigid with a control I can’t comprehend. Through the eyeholes of the mask, I feel his gaze burning into me, cataloging every twitch, every shudder.
He slowly pulls his hand away from my damp jeans. I see his own hand shake as he clenches it into a fist at his side. He’s holding back.
He leans forward and with his teeth, he catches the lobe of my ear, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp.
“Yes, my little bee,” he breathes, his voice thick and victorious against my skin.
His lips graze my cheek. He’s not wearing the modulator now.
This is all him. “Show me how good I make you feel.” He kisses the corner of my eye.
“You’re mine when you fall apart. And you’re so damn pretty when you do. ”