Page 21 of The Wild Man

I abandon the rope when I notice dirt beneath my nails. I use my thumb nail to try to scrape it out, but I can’t get all the flecks. My eyes slide past my hands and land on my feet. My toenails are worse. I even have dirt between my toes.

At least I’m sitting on a burlap sack, so I don’t have to worry about dirt getting in my buttcrack or coochie.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when a shadow looms over me. I didn’t even notice Wild Man get up from his spot. That goes to show how much I detest dirty hands and feet.

I say nothing as he stares down at me. If he wants to play the silent game, so can I.

The staring contest only lasts for a few seconds before he’s reaching down and grabbing my wrist. He pulls me up from the ground so fast that I slam against his chest. My hands land on the hard plains of his abs. If this were any other guy and any other situation, I may have curled my fingertips against those firm muscles, because let’s face it, he has a killer body. You’d have to be blind to not appreciate the dips and valleys.

But this is Wild Man and he’s holding me against my will, so I push against those delicious muscles and take a step away from him. I tilt my head, way back because he’s so tall, waiting to see what his next move is. His long, thick hair falls over his shoulders, a few strands getting stuck in his beard. The black in his eyes as he looks at me seems bottomless and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking. What he’s been thinking since he brought me here. What made him decide he wanted to keep me? What is it about me that makes him think I’m his? Is it really me, or would he have felt this way about any female?

I tense, preparing to attack when he lifts a hand toward me. But instead of grabbing me and doing whatever the hell he wants, he takes hold of the rope. At first I think he’s going to use it to drag me somewhere, so I’m surprised when he actually starts working on the knot.

Is he letting me go? Hope flutters in my stomach at the thought.

Once the rope is untied, he drops it to the ground. His brows fall into a frown when he notices the red marks around my waist from where the rope rubbed against me. His fingers are surprisingly gentle when he slides them over the spot. I would have never thought the man was capable of being any type of soft.

Then suddenly, he grabs my upper arm and bends at the waist. The breath whooshes out of me, and I let out a squeak when he rams his shoulder into my stomach. In the next second, I’m up in the air, dangling upside down. The move leaves me speechless. For all of two seconds.

“Put me down, you brute!” I pound my fists anywhere they can reach. His back, the too firm globes of his ass, his thighs. My hits are like feather-light taps, for all the good they do me. “Hey, asshole!”

A loud smack fills the air, followed quickly by the sharp sting on my butt. The motherfucker spanked me again.

I turn stiff as a board, clenching my buttcheeks, in case he delivers another one. I wait a few seconds, and when he doesn’t slap me again, I slowly relax and just hang there. Over the last twenty-hours, I’ve learned the sooner I stop fighting him, the sooner he quits whatever he’s doing. No matter what I do, he wants me over his shoulder—presumably to cart me somewhere—so I may as well just suck it up and let him take me wherever he wants.

My arms hang down, and I remain pliant. I expect Wild Man to stomp through the dense forest, jostling me to and fro, but surprisingly, his steps are fluid and graceful. I barely feel them.

I turn my head left and right, taking mental notes of anything I can use as markers when I finally manage to escape. And I will escape. I refuse to believe anything otherwise. Wild Man will make a mistake sometime or another, and I’ll be ready to take advantage.

I don’t know how long Wild Man carries me. A slow pounding starts in my head where all the blood has rushed to it. I can imagine how red my face must be.

After a few minutes, I hear the splash of water. Wild Man flips me over to my feet, and I look around. We’re in the same spot as when I first found him. The little waterfall oasis. It really is pretty out here. Even prettier being this close.

The crystal clear water looks refreshing, and my dirty hands and feet beg me to dive in.

I turn and look at Wild Man and find him naked with his loincloth tossed on the ground behind him.

I take a step back. He takes one forward, a look forming in his eyes that I don’t like. I take two more steps, wincing when something sharp presses against the sole of my foot. I ignore the pain. I don’t have time to think about it because Wild Man keeps stalking toward me.

A few more steps, and I feel the cool water on my feet. It feels so damn good that I almost forget the precarious situation I’m in.

Keeping my eyes on Wild Man, I continue moving backward. He matches each step I take, but his are longer, so he’s easily closing the distance between us. Why he’s not rushing me, I’m not sure, but I’m prepared for it. I don’t look down, but I can see in my peripheral vision that he’s hard.

The water laps at my knees. It’s cool and feels wonderful against my heated flesh. It irritates me because I can’t enjoy it more with the crazed man in front of me.

When the water reaches my hips, Wild Man makes his move. Before I can register what he’s doing, he eats up the space between us until he’s practically in my face. I try to move backward, but he stops me with his fingers wrapped around my throat. This time, I don’t fight him. It’s useless anyway.

He lifts his other hand and puts it on my shoulder. It’s then I realize he’s holding something. It’s the same kind of leaf he used when I watched him bathe.

“Wash,” he grunts in his deep voice. Slowly, he slides the leaf from my shoulder down my arm.

He wants to… bathe me?

For some reason, the notion of him cleaning me isn’t as abhorrent as it should be. I tell myself it’s only because I’m desperate to feel clean again, but a little niggle in the back of my head—something that I refuse to acknowledge—says it’s more than that.

I stand still and watch him curiously as he runs the leaf down to my fingertips. I flip my hand over and he washes my palm. I don’t know what kind of leaf he’s using, but it leaves a sudsy film behind. I rub my fingers together and they feel slick.

He moves the leaf up my forearm and all the way back to my shoulder. Then he rubs it over my collarbone. The leaf is gently abrasive. It kind of feels like those bath gloves people use for exfoliating.