19. Lydia
NINETEEN
LYDIA
I should be scared of him.
Of the masked man who stalks my house from the shadows, the one who bloodies men on my front lawn and disappears before the sirens arrive.
But I’m not scared.
I’m obsessed.
It started the night he pinned me to the wall, hand around my throat, his breath warming my skin as he whispered, “Stay inside.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
The way his gloved fingers flexed.
The way he smelled, leather, smoke, heat.
The way he sniffed me like he needed to memorize it before vanishing.
No one has ever touched me like that without even touching me.
The next night, I leave a note taped to the window.
I know it’s you.
I can’t help myself. The night after that, a lacy black thong, folded with care and hooked onto the fencepost.
The next, a mirror selfie, nude, soft lighting, hair tousled, with a sticky note in the corner of the frame that read:
Still watching?
I never see him take them.
But I always know when he has.
The panties disappeared before sunrise.
The note came back flipped over, a new word scrawled in blocky ink.
Brat.
I left a cupcake one night. Just to see what he'd do.
When I checked the next morning, the cupcake was gone.
And there was a smear of pink frosting on my bedroom window.
My nipples went hard just seeing it, thinking about his mouth, his tongue on the frosting.
Fuck, I want it on me.
Knowing he’s out there protecting me, I start to feel more alive, more like myself. The ongoing obsession spiraled fast.
I start getting dressed by the window, slowly, deliberately, in sheer fabrics and tiny panties.
Sometimes, I touch myself with the blinds half-open.
Not fully.
Not all the way.
Just enough to let the shadows catch my silhouette.
I whisper his name when I come. Not Trip. Not his real name.
Protector.
Because that’s what he is.
And it turns me on more than anything ever has.
One night, I step outside after midnight in a see-through white tank and nothing underneath.
No bra. No panties. No shame.
I lean on the railing of the back deck, smoking my vape slowly, letting the smoke trail from my lips as my eyes scan the tree line.
“You gonna just keep watching forever?” I ask the dark.
A figure steps from the woods like he’s been carved from it.
Black mask. Combat boots. Tactical vest.
Paint-streaked pants. Broad. Beautiful. Dangerous.
He raises one gloved hand and points to the floorboards beneath me.
I drop to my knees at the edge of the deck, trembling.
I spread my legs.
No words. Just obedience.
And when he makes me come with just his talented leather-covered fingers in the open air…
When he pulls his cock out but keeps it just out of reach and won’t let me touch him…
Just spills himself across my chest with a low, desperate grunt…
I know I’m already his.
So I leave him a note the next night.
Take me on a date, coward.
The reply comes tucked into the fence post.
Tomorrow. Wear black. No bra.
He picks me up outside my house, dressed in camo and tactical gear.
“Ready to run, killstreak?” he asks.
I gasp. “Wait, is this the date?”
He doesn’t answer. Just throws me over his shoulder and carries me toward a matte-black truck.
We drive for half an hour to the middle of the woods. Private, no one around. Just him and me.
I start to open my door, but the handle wouldn’t move.
“Child locks? Are you kidding me?” I glare at him.
He gets out, chuckling low to himself, and walks to my side of the truck. He opens the door and throws me over his shoulder again, like I weigh nothing.
I kick and laugh, hitting my hands against his rock-hard back.
“I can’t do anything if you carry me everywhere,” I joke.
The truck is parked deep in the trees. Older model. Blacked-out windows. The bed is filled with gear.
He sets me down and tosses me a paintball mask, a vest, nd a belt lined with capsules of neon-colored paint.
Then comes a semi-automatic paintball gun that looks way too real.
“Wait, are we…?” I blink.
He steps forward and clips the belt around my hips, slow and firm. His gloved fingers slide over my skin, grazing just under the hem of my shirt.
Then he leans in.
“Run, little killer.”
My heart slams into my ribs.
“You’re serious?”
He cocks his head. “You play COD every night. Let’s see how good you are when the bullets feel real.”
Oh fuck.
The woods explode into movement.
I sprint, paintball gun clutched in both hands, gear rattling on my belt. Trees zip past, fog curls at my boots, and adrenaline surges through every inch of me.
He’s silent.
But I can feel him.
Like a ghost between the trees.
I duck behind a stump, spin, and fire three rounds into the shadows.
Miss. Miss. Miss.
A shot slams into my side from the left, blue paint bursting across my ribs.
“FUCK!” I scream, laughing breathlessly. “Okay, that’s cheating!”
Another shot whizzes past my ear.
I take off, shrieking.
“Goddamn it, Trip. You better not headshot me or I’m turning your mask into a jockstrap!”
His voice echoes from somewhere I can’t see.
“I’ll aim lower.”
My thighs clench at the sound of his voice.
I crawl through a narrow ravine, smearing mud across my knees, but manage to get to the high ground.
Suddenly, a flicker of black darts between the trees. It’s him.
I squeeze the trigger and hit his thigh.
Direct hit.
“YES!”
A growl answers me. Low. Dangerous.
Oh shit.
He breaks cover, sprinting through the trees like a demon.
I scream and run, laughing so hard I trip over a log and tumble onto my back. Jumping up as fast as I can, I see him closing in and bolt into the trees.
I make it to an abandoned shed covered in graffiti and moss.
I duck inside, breathing hard, body shaking with adrenaline. My mask fogs up. My legs are screaming. I can feel a bruise beginning to form on my side. My ribs ache with every breath I take.
But I’m alive.
And then the door creaks open.
Trip stands in the doorway, tall, dark, masked, splattered in orange paint across his thigh and shoulder where I’d tagged him.
I raise my gun.
He shoots first.
I yelp as blue paint splatters across my thigh and hip. I trip backward over a rusted can and hit the dirt floor.
He stalks inside like a predator.
I scramble and fire one more time, but miss.
He knocks the gun from my hand and grabs my vest, yanking me to my feet and spinning me into the wall.
I’m panting, covered in paint, eyes wide behind the mask.
“So… I lost?” I breathe.
He leans in, mask brushing mine.
“You win?” I whisper.
He tilts his head, teasing me.
“I haven’t started, killstreak.”
His eyes darken as his hands begin to work.
He strips me slowly.
The vest is the first thing to hit the floor, discarded and quickly forgotten about. My paint-stained shirt is peeled up over my head, leaving my chest bare to the cool night air, hardening my nipples instantly.
Cargo pants undone, tugged down, boots kicked off. All that’s left now is a thong, purple, to match the growing obsession I have for this man. He hooks his gloved thumb through the strap and pulls hard, ripping it from my body.
A whimper escapes me, causing yet another cocked head as he brings it to his face, inhaling deeply before shoving them into his pocket.
By the time I’m naked, my skin is damp with sweat and sticky with paint. My chest heaves.
He pulls a knife out from his thigh holster, letting the blade glint in the light filtering into the room. His eyes lock on mine as my heart rate picks up.
He brings the blade down to my skin before looking into my eyes again, asking for permission silently. Waiting for me to give the okay.
“Say it,” he says, voice low.
I look into his eyes, searching for answers.
“Say what?” I ask in a breathy voice.
“Tell me you want this. Tell me to keep going or to stop. Yes or no, killstreak.”
“Yes,” I breathe.
The blade glides along my skin. The cold steel against my belly, then higher, between my breasts, against my throat.
I arch into him, silently begging for more.
I know I shouldn’t be trusting this man. After what Patrick put me through, I shouldn’t be letting another man hurt me. But I want this pain, I’m craving this pain desperately.
I’m craving him.
I trust him. For some unknown reason, I trust him more than I ever trusted Patrick.
“Please,” I whisper. “Do it.”
He makes the first cut just under my breast.
Thin. Shallow. Intimate.
I moan.
It stings.
It burns.
I gasp and arch into him, body singing with want.
He licks the blood from my skin like it’s dessert, like it’s the first taste of something holy, and he groans a deep, throaty groan.
“You taste so fucking good.”
Then he shoves me into the wall, gripping my throat with one hand, and pushes two fingers into me with the other.
His fingers pump into me, hitting that spot inside, turning me into a quivering mess.
“ Killstreak. You’re fucking mine. Do you understand?” he growls.
I’m already on edge, already so worked up from not coming for so long, his touch sends shockwaves through my body. At his words, I shatter.
His fingers slide out of me and my pussy pulses, needing to be filled again. I whimper, missing his warmth. The loss is quickly replaced as he tears off his mask and starts to pepper kisses and nibbles along my belly and thighs. His mouth barely grazes the spot I want him most.
“I’m going to fucking devour this wet pussy until you’re a dripping mess beneath me, little killer.” He looks up at me, desire blazing in his eyes.
Then he does. His fingers spread me, and his tongue licks long, languid lines up and down my soaking wet core.
From my ass to my clit. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into me more as my back arches away from the wall again, and a moan leaves my lips.
His other hand teases my entrance before two of them enter me, filling me.
Grabbing my leg, he tosses it over his shoulder as he takes on my clit between his lips and his fingers fuck me.
I shatter around him.
My world crumbles.
I see stars.
My legs close around his head as my body convulses in pure pleasure. He keeps going, keeps milking the orgasm out of me. I come again and again.
“Trip. I-I can’t!” I scream, completely overstimulated. Unable to count the number of times I just came on his tongue.
“I told you I would make you a dripping mess.”
He looks up with that beautiful grin of his plastered across his face as he sets my leg back on the ground.. My body slumps slowly to the ground, legs unable to hold me up any longer, completely boneless and spent. His mouth meets mine, and I taste myself on his lips.
“You taste delicious.” He breaks the kiss to say.
“I fucking know,” I pant as I pull him back into me, my tongue tangling with his as they fight for room in our mouths. He pulls back breathless.
“I’m going to fuck you now, killstreak.” I just nod, unable to form words at this point.
He turns me over, lifting my hips to him.
I hear as he unzips slowly.
His cock is thick, veined, and heavy with need.
And when he presses me into the dirt and grime, everything in me breaks.
He’s rough. Dominant. Unrelenting.
He doesn’t ask. He takes.
He shoves into me with one brutal thrust, making me cry out so loud it echoes through the building.
He fucks me hard, one gloved hand around my throat from behind, the other gripping my hip, yanking me back to meet every punishing snap of his hips.
“Louder,” he growls.
I scream his name.
Over and over.
He flips me, straddling my thighs. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he reaches down and pulls out the blade.
My breath catches as the low light glints off the blade.
“Yes,” I beg. “Please.”
He drags the tip over my nipple, slow and gentle at first.
Then, as he lowers the blade down my belly to my pussy, he presses down, just enough.
A thin red line blooms across my skin. It stings. Burns. Lights my body on fire.
I moan louder than before, hips lifting, cunt pulsing around nothing. He leans down, kissing the bloody line he just made in my originally unmarred skin. Then shoves back into me with one hand still holding the blade.
“You wanted this, little killer,” he hisses.
I nod, mouth open in a sob of pleasure.
“I crave this.”
He fucks me through orgasm after orgasm. My body seizing, shaking, begging. I’m crying by the next one, sensitive, raw, overwhelmed. Tears roll down my face.
He doesn’t stop.
Not until I beg him to.
Not until I say, “Trip, I can’t, I can’t.”
Then he comes.
Roaring.
Spilling inside me like he’s never letting go.
When I wake up in the old dilapidated building, he’s holding me.
His mask is back on.
My blood is on his tongue.
And for the first time in my life… I feel safe.