Page 125 of Letters From A Stalker

When I move around him, the tattoo covering his back steals every other thought. A horned skull dominates the upper half, large and dark, unmistakably bison-like. The horns stretch outward across his shoulders while behind and beneath the skull rises a shadowed forest of tall pines, some sharp enough that I can make out individual branches and others fading into mist and deeper shading as they travel toward his spine. The whole piece looks almost alive when his back moves as bone shifts over muscle, which makes the trees seem to bend with him.

I stand there staring long enough that I forget I’m supposed to be subtle. “Jesus Christ.”

His shoulders move slightly. I think he is laughing at me?

“Shut up.” I breathe out, careful but the I hear the faintest breath of a sound from behind the mask. He is definitely laughing and it makes me relax instantly.

I drag my fingertips over one of the shadowed pines in retaliation. His back goes still.

Interesting.

My smile comes back. So he doesn’t get to be the only one discovering things tonight. I trace the edge of one of the horns, then follow the darker lines down the center of his back, taking my time until he finally turns toward me. His hand closes around my waist. The next movement happens so easily I don’t understand what he is doing until one arm slides beneath my thighs and the floor disappears.

A startled laugh bursts out of me. “Oh my God.”

I grab his shoulders automatically while he lifts me against him as though my weight barely registers. His bare chest is hot against my side. My laughter dies quickly as his eyes hold mine. He looks toward the stairs, the question doesn’t need words.

“Upstairs,” I whisper as he carries me.

The faint light near the staircase lets me see pieces of him as we move, black ink disappearing and reappearing across his shoulders while the rest of the house falls away beneath us. I can hear his breathing close to my ear, feel the steady flex of his arms beneath me and the subtle movement of his chest against mine every time he takes another step. The upper hallway is dimmer, lit only by the weak spill of light that follows us from downstairs, and my bedroom beyond it is almost completely dark. The curtains are closed, keeping the streetlights from doing anything useful. Once he carries me across the threshold I can barely make out the shape of the bed and the outline of his body against the doorway.

He sets me down slowly and my feet touch the floor. His hands stay at my waist until he knows I am steady. For several seconds, we stand facing each other without speaking, but I can’t see the tattoos anymore. I can’t see the details of his body. I can barely see him at all. Then his hand rises toward his face and I hear fabric shift softly in the darkness. The balaclava moves, making my pulse jump. He lifts it only far enough to uncover his mouth, but the darkness takes all of it before I can even try. His fingers find my cheek. They slide along my jaw, then into my hair, and the absence of sight makes the touch feel different than anything he did downstairs.

A second later, his lips touch mine. The first kiss steals whatever remains of my nerves. He starts with more restraint than I expected after the way he touched me downstairs, his mouth firm against mine but controlled enough that there is room for me to answer. I do. Immediately. My hands find his bare chest as I kiss him back, and the moment my lips part beneath his, the last of that restraint disappears. His tongue slides against mine, slow and deep, tasting me like he has been thinking about this for weeks and is finally allowing himself the one thing the letters never gave him. His hand tightens in my hair. The other closes around my waist and pulls me flush against him, the hard line of his dick pressing into my stomach through the denim.

I taste mint and something warmer beneath it, feel the faint scrape of stubble against my skin when his mouth shifts and the strong stroke of his tongue against mine. Every sensation seems louder without sight, his breathing, the movement of skin against skin, the tiny sound he makes when I catch his lower lip between my teeth. That sound goes directly between my legs. I do it again. His fingers tighten in my hair as his mouth leaves mine and moves along my jaw, then lower to the side of my throat while I tilt my head to give him room. He kisses the hollow beneath my ear, then opens his mouth there and sucks just hard enough that my knees weaken all over again.

“God.” The word barely makes it out as a gasp.

His teeth graze the sensitive skin, my nails instinctively dig into his shoulder. He stops. Completely. The sudden absence of movement catches me harder than if he had asked twice.

His voice comes low against my neck. “Too much?”

I make another sound that isn’t a word. Something broken and incoherent, half moan, half protest at the loss of his mouth.

His hand tightens once against my hip. “Words, little ember.”

Heat rolls through me. “Please don’t stop.”

His mouth returns and that is all the conversation he seems to need. The T-shirt is still hanging loosely around me from downstairs, and his hands gather the fabric before pulling it over my head, letting it disappear somewhere into the darkness. Cool air reaches my skin for only a second before his palms replace it. His hands are warm around my breasts, rougher than I expected. His thumbs move slowly over my nipples until both harden beneath the attention, and when his mouth travels down and closes around one, my back arches from the sheer contrast of heat and teeth and tongue. He sucks until the sensation borders on too sharp, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, learning the difference from the way my breath stutters.

A soft sound catches in his throat, I feel it against my skin. One hand stays on my breast while his mouth moves lower over my stomach, following the line of my body with kisses that become less frequent the closer he gets to my hips. He lingers at the soft place just above my pubic bone, breathing there until I am shaking with how badly I want his mouth lower.

The mattress dips beneath my weight when he guides me backward onto the bed. His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, as he kisses the sensitive skin there first, open-mouthed, then higher, so close to where I need him that my hips lift without my permission. A pulse of anticipation tightens low in my stomach. His hands spread my legs and when his mouth finally touches my pussy, my entire body seizes.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets his tongue do the talking. He moves slowly enough that I feel every inch of it, dragging from my entrance up over my clit, then circling there with maddening patience. A helpless sound leaves me while my hands search through the dark until they find his shoulders, then the back of his head, the knit of the balaclava under my fingers where the rest of his face stays hidden. There is something obscene about having no visual reference for where he is. I know he is between my legs because I feel his breath and mouth there, feel the strength of his hands holding my thighs apart and the faint rub of fabric where the mask still covers everything I am not allowed to see, but the darkness removes everything except sensation.

Then his tongue changes pressure which makes my hips jerk, and he notices immediately. Of course he does. Within moments, he has found exactly what makes my legs tighten around his shoulders, that slightly firmer stroke just to the left of my clit, and he keeps returning to it with a patience that feels almost cruel. He flattens his tongue and works me in slow, wet circles until I am dripping against his mouth, then sucks gently, then harder, until my thighs start shaking around his head.

“Oh, fuck.”

A low hum vibrates against me and his mouth eases away, letting the cool air reach my wet skin. I make another helpless sound, nothing coherent, just need.

“Words, little ember.” He repeats because obviously he won’t move until I use them.

“Please don’t stop.” I whimper.