Page 14 of The Wild Man
I take a step back, my heart jumping to my throat, when he approaches. But I need not have worried. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence as he walks past. He stops where several dishes sit on a flat rock and picks up a bowl. After, he turns, and I brace again as he walks toward me. This time, I do have to worry, as his thick fingers wrap around my upper arm and he pulls me behind him.
“Hey!” I yell, yanking on my arm. It’s apparent that when he grabs me, there is no getting loose from him. “Let me go!”
He does so, but only when we reach a log by the fire pit and he takes a seat. The bark has been ripped away and the wood beneath is smooth. Which is good for him, because his cloth isn’t long enough to cover his ass when he sits.
My arm is pulled, and I’m forced to sit between Wild Man’s splayed legs. I bite back a few dirty words and opt to choose my battles wisely. Sitting between his spread legs, although degrading, isn’t as bad as say, being forced to take his cock.
Thankfully, the cock in question is hidden behind the cloth, because my face is way too close to it in this position.
I sit stiffly, my legs tucked beneath me. One of my hands is holding the edge of the blanket under my arm. I’m sideways with one of his long legs at my back and the other bent in front of me. The hair on his legs is as dark as the hair on his head and the scruff on his face. The events of the last twelve hours must be turning my head to mush because for some idiotic reason, I wonder how coarse the hair is.
My eyes move down to his feet. Big feet with long slender toes and a small scattering of lighter-colored hair on the top. I’m mildly surprised that his toenails look clean and are clipped. I would have thought they would be long with dirt underneath.
I pull my eyes away and look up at his face. I’ve never particularly cared for men with beards. I prefer them with clean-shaven faces. But on Wild Man, I can’t imagine him without the hair covering his cheeks and chin. With his long, thick dark hair falling down his tanned, bare shoulders, it gives him a caveman-type look and suits him perfectly. And although I loathe to admit it because of what he’s done to me, he really is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Too bad looks can be deceiving.
“You have to let me go,” I tell him quietly, hoping to touch the part of him that has to still be human. “You can’t keep me.”
Instead of acknowledging my words, he pinches something from the bowl between his fingers and holds it up to me. My eyes briefly bounce off it, noticing an orangey-yellow piece of fruit, before I lift them back to him. He looks at me, his expression only holding expectancy as he waits for me to take it.
I shake my head. “No.”
His eyes turn to narrow slits and a grunt leaves his throat when he shoves the fruit closer.
I’ve got two options here. I can continue to refuse the fruit, not giving him what he wants—this is the option I prefer, because I want to deny him anything he wants. I’ve no doubt he can force me to eat if he so chooses, but I damn sure don’t want to make it easy for him.
Or I can give in and hope my acquiescence earns me brownie points with him. Maybe enough that he’ll untie the rope around my waist.
With no small amount of reserve, I lift my hand, intending to take the fruit from his fingers. I don’t get the opportunity to. He pulls his hand back, his face forming a scowl when he shakes his head. His other hand comes up and pushes my hand away. The fruit is again lifted, this time closer to my mouth.
I narrow my eyes when I realize he wants me to take it from his fingers with my mouth. He wants to hand feed me.
Seriously?
We hold each other’s eyes for several moments. His black bottomless ones to my determined brown ones.
In the end, it’s me who gives in. Picking my battles, I feel I’ll quickly learn, will be more difficult than I imagined.
I lean forward, never moving my gaze away from his face and slowly open my mouth. As soon as my lips part, his eyes move there. I manage to take the fruit without my tongue touching his fingers, but my lips still graze the tips. His eyes darken at the touch, and it sends a fissure of fear racing over my scalp.
I quickly jerk my head away and chew the sweet fruit, swallowing it past the dryness forming in my throat.
He holds up another piece, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to say no. But I once again lean forward, this time managing to avoid touching his fingers with any part of my mouth. Apparently, Wild Man notices and finds my actions irritating, for he pinches his lips into a firm line when I lean back, slowly chewing.
The next piece he picks up, he does so where I’ll have no choice but to touch my lips to his fingers. The moment my lips come in contact with the tip of his thumb, the muscles beside his eyes twitch and a low, rough sound emits from his throat.
I yank my head back and swallow the fruit before it’s all the way chewed. A movement to my left catches my attention and my eyes move there. Then they widen as the cloth covering his shaft jerks and begins to point outward.
My attempt to scramble backward, away from that thing and the man it’s attached to is thwarted by a hand gripping my hair. My head is jerked back, and I’m forced to look up into a pair of black eyes. The hand not holding the sheet latches onto the thigh in front of me. I dig my nails deep into the flesh, not enough to break skin, but enough he should feel a pinch of pain.
His jaw is clenched, the muscles on either side of his cheeks flexing, and his eyes blaze a message that says there will be dire consequences if I don’t do what he wants.
“Mine,” he growls, lowering his face so close to mine I can feel his breath. His hair hangs forward and a piece falls on my cheek.
“Fuck you,” I seethe right back at him. I am sick and fucking tired of hearing that word.
With my head still tilted back by the hand in my hair, another piece of fruit is brought up to my lips, but I keep them sealed shut this time, glaring at him. Surprise filters through me when, instead of trying to force the fruit into my mouth, he gently runs it across the seam of my lips. His eyes track the movement, and I really don’t like the attention he’s giving my mouth.
Just as I decide to take the fucking fruit, he lifts it away and draws it to his own mouth. He chews slowly, the lump in his throat from his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.