Page 73 of Cruel Cravings

Nerves bounce around the inside of my stomach as the sun sets and I follow him into the woods.

This is the closest I’ve ever been to Brontë with no restraints on one of us. Nothing to hold us back from each other. Nothing to keep us from tearing each other apart.

There’s nothing to keep him from making my greatest fear come true and ending me.

But it seems we’ve come to some kind of understanding. At least for now.

Brontë claims he can show me what’s happened to my sister.

It’s possible he could be lying. This could be a trap he’s laying out for me. I have no way of knowing what’s the truth. What if this has been part of his plan all along?

He could be trapping me, lulling me into a false sense of security. But his eyes—I’d looked into them and seen the sincerity. He’s never struck me as someone duplicitous. Why would he even need to earn my trust and trick me when he had me handcuffed?

He could’ve easily just taken me where he wanted and I couldn’t have stopped him…

All of these thoughts swirl around in my head as we venture deep into the woods. The sun’s long gone and the sky’s darkened to a plum shade by the time we reach a spot Brontë thinks is good enough.

He gestures to the ground and then unceremoniously starts digging. I hang back for a moment and watch him until eventually I join in too.

For a while it’s the only sound in the air—the crunch of dirt and rocks and our breath as we dig huge holes in the ground. I’m a lot slower than Brontë, my arms shaking after only fifteen minutes and an ache starting up in my spine.

I’m not used to this kind of manual labor.

Brontë notices the tremble in my arms as I scoop up another shovelful of dirt and toss it aside. He pauses his own motions and steps toward me. He’s put on his minotaur mask again, wearing it from the moment we left the cabin as if he can’t stand being in any outdoors space without it, even one as desolate as the woods.

In the past, I would’ve screamed and took off running if he came anywhere near me like this. But things have changed. I go still as his large hand grazes mine, slipping the shovel from my grasp and tossing it aside.

“But you need help?—”

“No,” he answers. He points to the trees encircling us. “Stand watch.”

I reluctantly nod and do as I’m told.

He returns to shoveling until the hole’s big enough for one of the officers. Then we move onto a different space and dig up a hole to dispose of the second one.

We’re covered in dirt and sweat once we’re through. We walk the mile or two back toward the cabin in silence. I’ve begun to appreciate the sound of it.

My mind’s buzzing so much at any given moment that it almost helps clear out the noise.

In the cabin, I twist on the faucet for the shower and turn to Brontë.

“It’ll be quicker if we both… I mean… I don’t see any reason why…” I trail off out of awkward uncertainty, rubbing at my neck and barely able to look up at him.

What Imeantto say was that it’s not like we haven’t had sex. We’ve already seen most of each other. We’ve entered some strange cross between an alliance and companionship.

Brontë demonstrates he agrees by popping the button of his pants. He drags the zipper down and then lets them fall down his muscled hips and thighs.

I’m struck breathless as my gaze drops with his pants and his dick springs free.

If there was any doubt whether he was a grower or shower, it’s put to rest in this moment.

His huge, girthy dick hangs between his legs, almost longer than my forearm.

I swallow, heat creeping up my neck and fanning out onto my face. “Uh… maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…”

He grabs me by the wrists and wrenches me toward him. I’m experiencing whiplash as he proceeds to undo my jeans like he undid his—a quick pop of the buttons and shove of the denim fabric, and they’re sliding down my hips, pooling at my ankles.

“Wait—” I start, but he’s moved onto my t-shirt. It’s hoisted above my head and discarded on the tiled bathroom floor. My shoulders slump in defeat. “Okay… so this is happening.”

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