Page 115 of Mine To Hunt

"Now." He growls against my ear. "Come."

He doesn’t give me time to process. He fucks me through it, fast, deep, relentless, each stroke slamming against that swollen spot while his hand finally finds my clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

The orgasm that had been held back for so long explodes through me with violent force. My vision whites out behind the blindfold, body seizing, walls clamping down so hard it must hurt him, but he doesn’t stop.

Wave after wave crashes over me until I’m boneless, shaking, barely able to draw breath between sobs of overwhelmed pleasure.

Only when my spasms begin to slow does he let himself follow. His thrusts turn erratic, hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, each stroke driving deeper as though chasing something he can no longer hold back.

His breathing grows rougher against my ear, short, ragged exhales that match the frantic rhythm of his body against mine. Then, abruptly, he pulls out.

The sudden emptiness makes me gasp, my walls clenching around nothing, still fluttering from the aftershocks. Before I can process the loss, I feel him shift upward, straddling my waist.

His hand moves fast, his own now, stroking himself with quick, tight pulls right above me. I can hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over slick skin, the low, strained growl building in his throat.

He comes with a low, guttural groan that vibrates through his chest. Hot, thick pulses land across my stomach in heavy spurts, one after another, striking my skin in warm, sticky ropes that stretch from just below my breasts down toward my navel.

The heat of it contrasts sharply with the cooling sweat on my body. I feel it pool slightly in the dip of my abdomen before it starts to slowly slide sideways toward my ribs.

He stays hovering above me for several long moments, breathing hard, the faint tremor in his thighs the only sign that he’s as affected as I am.

He doesn’t speak right away. He simply reaches behind me, unties my wrists with careful fingers, and rubs them gently for a few seconds before letting go.

"Don’t move." He orders again, voice softer now, almost tender in its command.

I obey, too wrecked to do anything else. I hear him leave the room, footsteps fading, then returning. A soft towel wipes meclean, his touch surprisingly gentle, methodical, tracing between my legs, over my stomach, soothing the ache.

Emotions swirl inside me, exhaustion, satisfaction, confusion, a lingering high from the intensity. My body feels used, marked, but strangely alive.

I reach up and pull off the scarf, blinking against the sudden light. He's already dressed, mask back in place, sitting at the edge of the bed, composed as if nothing happened.

I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest, feeling exposed even now, the cool air on my damp skin a reminder. "Can I see your face?" I ask softly, my voice still rough.

He shakes his head, a silent refusal. I reach out anyway, my hand inching toward his mask. He backs away, but I try again. My fingers brush the edge of the mask inching upward.

Just then, my phone rings, a text notification. We both freeze, the sound jarring in the heavy silence. Who could be texting me this late?

I glance at the screen. An anonymous message.

‘You look peaceful these days. I was starting to think you forgot me.’

Followed by,‘Don’t worry. I didn’t forget you.’

My blood runs cold. He’s finally caught up.

Chapter 35

Her

The message is still glowing on my screen when the second notification vibrates through my hand, sharp and intrusive in the quiet room. Only minutes ago the air had been thick with heat and breath and skin, but now it feels different, colder, thinner, as if something invisible has slipped inside the walls.

I am still sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheets twisted beneath me, my body heavy and sensitive from him, when the image loads slowly on my phone. It is a photograph. Taken from outside.

Grainy but clear enough to recognize him immediately. His tall frame, the mask, the unmistakable shape of him stepping through my front door earlier tonight.

The angle is distant, hidden, deliberate. Someone stood outside my house long enough to capture that moment. Someone patient.

Beneath the image, the message appears.‘You shouldn’t be trusting men who hide their faces.’