Page 45 of The Wild Man
The word is barely past his lips before he’s grabbing my waist and lifting me up. My legs automatically go around his waist, and a moan slips out of me when his hardness encounters my softness.
Without another word, he carries me to his bed, and we do what he said.
We fuck.
fifteen
Everlee
As you can probably guess, Wild Man likes sex. He likes a lot of sex. Doesn’t matter where we are, what we’re doing, or the time of day. If he becomes randy, he pounces.
Take yesterday for instance, while we were out picking berries. I was down on my knees trying to reach a nice juicy patch of plump blackberries. Of course, I was naked—he still refuses to give me clothes, the bastard—so my wiggling bare ass was up in the air. The next thing I knew, big hands were gripping my hips and pulling me back, angling me where he wanted me. I knew what was coming, and I opened my mouth to tell him I wasn’t ready—seriously, who would be while picking berries and getting poked by thorns—but my protest died on a cry of sharp pain. No preparation. He just went for it as usual. And I was as dry as Sister Mary. So the sudden intrusion wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, and I couldn’t imagine it was much better for him. Did he care, though? Nope. He just kept going, banging me as hard as he could.
Thankfully—or not thankfully, depending on how you look at it—it didn’t take long to get my juices flowing. That’s what happens when you’re unbelievably attracted to the man who’s holding you captive. Your body gives your mind a big fuck you, along with the middle finger, and takes what it wants, even begging for more or to go faster, harder.
Another time, we were walking back from taking a bath. I was admiring a patch of pretty flowers and telling Wild Man a funny story about Rika. I was laughing and having a surprisingly good time, when my hips were suddenly caught in his hard grip. I was shoved over a large boulder, my breasts pressed against the abrasive surface. Then he mounted me from behind and fucked me silly. That time, I was wet. He had just fucked me in the water, and I still had part of him leaking out of me.
Several times a day, I find myself on my hands and knees or bent over, and since the time I rode him after his snake bite, a few times he’s demanded I repeat the act in the same position. That’s the only position I get to see his face when we fuck. We never do it missionary, but I think it’s because he doesn’t know about that position. I have to admit, face-to-face is my favorite. I like seeing the intensity in his eyes as I move up and down on his cock or grind my pussy against his groin. The way they flare and heat, like having me like that is a wonder to him. It usually doesn’t last very long though. When he gets to the point of losing control, he tosses me back, manhandles me so I’m on my knees, and rams his full length inside me roughly. It’s those occurrences when I come the hardest. A sick part of me loves when he loses control and dominates me. I like seeing his handprints on my thighs and hips. I like when he slams inside me so hard my teeth jolt and blackness dances at the edge of my vision. I like when he bites my neck and squeezes my throat until my vision goes dim.
Maybe I’m a masochist.
Right now, we’re both lying in his bed after having one of those intense fuckings. My heart has just settled down and my breathing is back to normal. Sweat coats both of our bodies. Wild Man is on his back and I have my head on his shoulder. His fingers slide through the ends of my hair. One of my hands is on his chest, and my eyes catch on another bracelet he made and gave to me a few days ago. I’ve gotten plenty of gifts from guys over the years. Some expensive and some not. It cost Wild Man nothing to make these bracelets and they’re so simple, but they’re honestly the sweetest gifts anyone has ever given me.
I tilt my head back to look up at Wild Man. His eyes are open and he’s looking at the canopy of trees above us. The dark hair on his face is thick, tempting me to run my fingers through it. I have a couple of times and surprisingly, although coarse, the hair is also kind of soft.
“What’s your name?” I ask. I’ve been wondering this since the first moment I met him. It’s become normal to call him Wild Man and he answers to the nickname. But I want to know what his real name is.
He dips his chin into his chest so his eyes can meet mine. A line appears on his forehead, as if he’s thinking hard about my question.
“Fey.”
“Fey,” I repeat the name, my brows dropping. That can’t be right. It has to be a shortened version of something. Maybe his parents gave him Fey as a nickname and he can’t remember his full name. I try to think of something that would constitute such a nickname, but come up short.
I say it again aloud, this time slower. “Fey.”
The word has barely left my lips when Wild Man bucks up from his lying position and he hovers above me, his body wedged between my thighs. His face is so close, I have to nearly cross my eyes to look at him. Beneath his beard, his jaw his tense and a muscle works in his cheek.
He looks angry, and I don’t understand why. Is it because he doesn’t like me using his real name?
When he speaks, it’s a low growl. “Again.”
My brows pucker, and it’s then that I realize he doesn’t hate me saying his name. He likes it. And from the fierce expression on his face, he likes it a lot.
“Fey.”
His lips tighten, and I swear if eyes could light someone on fire, I’d be a pile of ashes right now.
He drops his head, his eyes intent on my mouth. Right before his lips meet mine, I turn my head to the side.
Nope. Still not ready to give him that. The act of kissing is far too intimate. He hasn’t earned the right to my lips, and I’m not sure he ever will. Not when he’s still holding me captive, literally tied to him, and forcing me to stay naked.
Wild Man growls, the sound harsh. I couldn’t care less if it angers him. He can go suck a big dick.
It’s the same song and dance as the other time he tried kissing me. When he grips my hair and tries to force my head where he can get to my lips, I hold steady, feeling a couple of strands of hair pop from their follicles.
“Mouth,” he grunts.
“No.”