Page 62 of The Wild Man
“My momor doesn’t carry my baby in her belly,” he grates between clenched teeth. “I will fuck her till she does.”
The last word has just left his lips when he’s forcefully pulling my hips down at the same time he surges forward.
The pain is sharp, but it’s mixed in with a delicious pleasure I know I’ll never get with anyone else.
I’ve barely had time to recover from his first brutal thrust before he’s pulling out and slamming back inside. I throw my arms over my head, grabbing the cloth in a tight grip, and arch my back.
“Oh God, Fey! Yes!”
Several more thrusts follow, his grunts filling the space around us with each one. His fingers wrap around my waist, and I’m hoisted up so I’m straddling him with our chests pressed together. He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back. His black eyes filled with heat stare down at me.
“Ride, momor,” he growls. “Fuck my pussy with my cock.”
My walls clamp down on him as the filthy words leave his mouth. I love when he talks like this to me. And what’s even hotter is when he calls my pussy his. Because it is. It has been since nearly the beginning.
I dig my nails into his shoulders for leverage and angle my hips upward, sliding off his shaft. With only the head left inside, I let myself fall back down on him. He hisses out a breath while a low moan leaves my lips. I move up again and repeat the movement, going faster with each stroke.
“More. Harder,” he grunts. One palm moves to my butt where he grabs a cheek. His other wraps around my throat, squeezing hard enough to nearly block my air. “This is your cock.” He emphasizes his point by pulling me up and yanking me back down. “Take like you own. Your cock, momor.”
I don’t know where it comes from, but the need overwhelms me, and I couldn’t ignore it even if I wanted to.
I slide my fingers through his hair, fisting the thick strands and pull his head back like he’s done to me so many times. I stare down at him, letting him see the truth in my next words.
My voice doesn’t sound like my own when I say, “It is my cock, Wild Man.” I grind down on him, smashing my clit against his pubic bone and hitting a spot inside that nearly leaves me dizzy. “Mine. Only ever mine.”
I don’t realize how true those words are until I say them aloud. Just the mere thought of someone else touching Wild Man or his hands on another has an anger growing so hot inside me it scorches the sides of my brain. I’ve never been the possessive type, but this man brings it out in me. I feel just as crazed about him as he does about me.
His eyes move down to my lips, and for a brief moment, I wonder if he’s going to try and kiss me again. The thing is, I’m not sure I have it in me to stop him this time. Each time he tries, it gets harder and harder to deny him.
One moment I’m sitting on his lap and the next I’m tossed on the bed, flat on my stomach. I haven’t had time to register the new position before Wild Man’s big body is mounted over mine from head to foot. He doesn’t pull me to my knees like I expect. My legs are spread and his cock is spearing my pussy once again. One of his hands sneaks beneath and up my body to wrap his fingers around my throat. His grip is so tight he steals my air. But, God, does it feel good.
He rams his hips forward over and over again, growling and snarling. His head dips and his teeth latch onto his usual spot. I’ve grown to love the marks he leaves on me. I want him to leave more all over my body.
“My momor,” he snarls against my neck.
His pace picks up, his thrusts becoming harsher, like he’s trying to insert himself so far inside me that he’ll never get free. The whole time, his possessive hand stays around my throat.
I let out a hoarse cry when my orgasm hits. My release spurs his own. He lets out a roar and his hips buck so hard against my ass, I wouldn’t be surprised if I have bruises from his hip bones later. More marks for me to admire later.
* * *
Hours later, after another round of sex and after Wild Man took me to the pool of water to wash—because there was blood all over us, something that didn’t seem to bother Wild Man in the least, but it sure as shit did me—I’m lying in bed.
The cramps started an hour ago, and they hit with a vengeance. My period has always been light, but I’ve had bad menstrual cramps since I started my menstrual cycle at twelve years old. They’ve gotten so bad in the past that my doctor prescribed pain meds. Obviously, I don’t have them with me, so dealing with the pain now is not a good time.
Thankfully, after explaining in more detail to Wild Man that I’ll be bleeding for a few days and demanding I be allowed something to cover at least my lower half, he found some cloth for me to use. My top half is still bare, but at least I have something for my bottom half to staunch the flow of blood.
I’m curled on my side with my hand pressed against my stomach when Wild Man walks into the bed area. He carries a bowl and a jug of water. When he sees my huddled form, a slight frown appears between his eyes.
When I told him I was lying down earlier, I didn’t tell him why, only that I was tired. It was the truth. The pain hadn’t hit yet, but I knew it was coming.
He stops near my head and drops to his knees, setting the bowl and jug beside him.
“What’s wrong? Do you hurt?”
His concern touches a place near my heart. I reach out and grab his hand, thankful the cramps have resided for the moment.
“Cramps,” I say.