Page 27 of The Wild Man

I’m pulled from my thoughts with a brutal reminder that my feelings are irrational when Wild Man slips his fingers between my legs and smears his cum over my pussy lips. He slides his fingers past my folds, as if he’s trying to push the cum that’s leaked out of me back inside.

A shudder runs through me, and it’s not only from the lingering pleasure he forced on me, one I desperately wish to get rid of.

But from the very real possibility that, even if I do get out of this situation and never see Wild Man again, we could be creating something that will forever be a reminder of my time spent with him.

nine

Everlee

I’m bound again by the stupid fucking rope. I thought I got a reprieve and was able to walk around free when we came back to the tree hut yesterday after our bath and he didn’t immediately attach the rope around my waist. My freedom lasted until it was time to go to bed.

I fought and kicked and screamed and even tried to run when he picked up the rope and looked at me with expectation. Like I would willingly go to him and let him tie me up again. He’s delusional if he thinks that’ll ever happen.

After he secured the rope around my waist, he tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carted me to his bed. He pushed me to my hands and knees and fucked me again. I tried to force myself to not react, but my treacherous body is working against me. My only consolation was I was able to hide my reaction from him. As far as he knows, I hated every minute of his rough fucking.

And I could tell he didn’t like that, me not reacting the same way I did at the pool of water. The displeasure on his face was palpable. I wanted to give him the middle finger, but I figured that would come across as childish.

Now I’m lying on the pile of blankets and the warmth at my back indicates that Wild Man is still in bed with me. It’s still mostly dark outside. Only a sliver of light peeks through the leafy roof, but it’s enough to break up the pitch blackness.

Slowly, so as to hopefully not wake him, I roll to my back and turn my head in his direction. He’s on his back with one arm lying above his head. And although the other end of the rope is tied around his wrist, he still grips it tightly in his fist.

His face is turned toward me. There’s just enough light that I can make out his features. Long, dark lashes rest against his high cheeks. His thick beard almost looks like it would be soft to the touch. I have to curl my fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out and testing that theory.

Full lips, redder than you’d expect on a man, peeks out from the beard. They’re parted, and I hear the soft sound of his breathing. The thought of what kind of kisser he would be filters through my mind. I push it away, but it’s replaced by something more dangerous. Like how it would feel to have his lips on other parts of my body.

I close my eyes and shove the dirty devil who conjured those thoughts off my shoulder. She has no place here.

I open them again and take in the rest of his body. His slender neck, wide shoulders, and the dark hair under his arm that looks oddly appealing. Who knew armpit hair could be attractive. The thin blanket is pushed down and barely covers his hips. I narrow my eyes and dip my head for a closer look, then jerk it back when I see the head of his cock poking out of the blanket.

And then it moves and peeks out even further.

I snap my head up to his face, only to find his onyx eyes watching me. Sitting up, I suck in a sharp breath and the air gets lodged into my throat. I brace my arms behind me, ready to scramble backward, but at the last second, I stop. I don’t know why. I should be doing everything I can think of to get away from this man. Even just lying there, relaxed and barely awake, he exudes power. A power that scares me shitless and can force me to do whatever he pleases.

We both stay still for several minutes, each watching the other. I’m warily waiting for his next move, and what pisses me off and confuses me is that I don’t know if I’m waiting with anticipation or dread.

His hand comes up and his fingers catch around a lock of my hair. He rubs the strands between the pad of his thumb and forefinger. The act seems so inconsequential, something a normal man would do. Certainly not this primitive male.

I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but something catches my attention over his shoulder. It’s one of the skulls I saw yesterday. A shiver races down my spine at the way its hollow eyes seem to be watching me, as if judging me for something. I felt the same thing yesterday.

Who are they and why does he have them by his bed?

I open my mouth to ask, but snap it shut when Wild Man moves. He lowers the arm that the rope is attached to. Grabbing the loose portion, he begins sliding it through his fingers, gathering the extra. He does this slowly, never removing his eyes from me.

What does he want once he reaches the end of the rope where I’m attached to it?

All too soon, I feel a tug around my waist. I strengthen my stomach muscles, not giving in to the pull he has on me.

He tugs harder, and unless I want the rope to leave hellacious bruises around my waist, I’ve got no choice but to give in. I brace my hands on his firm chest and the hard muscles under my palms flex. He keeps pulling until I’m hovering over him, our mouths only inches away from each other.

His eyes move to my lips and his tongue darts out and runs along his, leaving a glistening sheen behind. He moves his other hand to the back of my head and slides his fingers through the strands. I want to fight and pull away from him, but I’m oddly caught up in the look in his obsidian gaze as he looks at my mouth.

His grip on my hair tightens and then I’m being tugged down more. I press my lips together when his surprisingly soft ones touch mine. The rough hairs above and below his lips tickles my flesh.

My head is pulled back by my hair an inch. Just enough for him to rumble out, “Open.”

I smash my lips together tighter and shake my head.

His eyes narrow. “Open,” he growls.

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