Page 35 of Wild Life
Two players. One game. The question was, who would lose?
The candle flames flickered and crackled while rain battered the exterior of the hut, entrancing me.
I sucked harder, taking in more of his finger, tasting the trail of sweetness. Cryptid’s focus never left my lips.
“Honey?” My voice was husky and deep.
He nodded.
“That’s smart. For the swelling,” I said, lying with my knees bent and my feet flat on the tabletop. Honey had wonderful anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties that made it a viable alternative for wound care when traditional medication wasn’t available.
He extracted more of the substance from the jar. The cool honey coated one of the bumps in the dip of my neck, soothing me like ice. He massaged it in, and I let out a moan of relief.
One by one, he treated the bites, moving lower, toward my shirt. And with each treatment, my anxious muscles relaxed. The reason should’ve been the sweetener itself, but I knew it was his touch—the gentle pressure he applied as he rubbed each node.
He hooked his fingers on the loose neckline of my clothing, and I lifted my upper back slightly to allow the fabric to move at his whim, yearning for more alleviation. The shirt was so big that with very little effort, I could slide it down my body and pull my arms free.
It stopped short of revealing my nipples, yet the rest of my chest was free for his viewing, and he took complete advantage of it, pressing honey all around my breasts. His interest lingered longer than before, massaging larger circles that extended beyond the perimeter of each wound, on skin that didn’t need care, but still craved it.
I watched the rise and fall of his upper body as his breath sharpened while he ate up as much of me as he could see.
The stinging had subsided, and a new heat built internally. One that radiated through my body and made everything pulse to life. The baseline tension between us had been disturbed, and there was no way to bring it back down.I wasn’t going to try.
I slid my shirt down farther, allowing my breasts to break free with an excited bounce.
He sucked in a harsh breath as his heated stare roamed over my nipples. Despite the warm climate, they were still perky, and he was the reason.
His finger plunged once more into the honey before he deposited the jar onto the table next to me. He rubbed the messy glob onto the tip of my peak, stickiness dribbling down my tender flesh.
I arched into his touch, encouraging his exploration. For once, he understood my meaning and began to draw circles along my longing skin. He played with me like I was his greatest wonder. His forehead wrinkled, and I wanted to smooth away those lines of curiosity.
This was new to him. I sensed it from the way he touched me, like he had never experienced another woman before. He was fixated on the things that his predecessors took for granted when they saw my body. The men I’d been with had seen countless breasts before, but this man touched me like mine were the only ones in the world. I was a sculpture he sought to comprehend, studying how it all fit together. How it had been made.
This went beyond worshipping—it was an awakening.
His tented loincloth could barely contain him any longer. He was big, that much I could tell from how the tiny fabric tremored with each jerk of his cock. And I wanted so badly to do some examining of my own, but I feared it would scare him. If this was all new, I didn’t want to frighten him away with my assertiveness.
Fingers pinched, rolled, and teased me until my toes curled and my core was shaking. I watched as he put those same fingers in his mouth and sucked off the remnants of the honey that had touched me.
And then he lowered his head and tasted me directly from the source, swiping his tongue over my nipple. I nearly convulsed.
Weeks without sex. Without the sensual touch of a man, and now that it was happening, I was hopelessly desperate for more. It wasn’t my need for security. No, I just wanted him. For the first time in my life, I wanted to prolong sexual intimacy and not race through it to get to the part I craved.
And I cravedeverythinghe was doing.
His tongue swiped over my peak again, and I moaned so loud that his eyes flashed to mine. The muscles in his jaw flexed with worry. He was concerned that he hurt me.
I cradled his head in my hands, his thick hair tangling between my fingers, loose as it always was before bed. “It hurts so good,” I whispered.
His mind worked to process my meaning.
“Don’t stop,” I urged.
He nodded.
His mouth descended on my nipple again. This time, he took all of it between his lips and sucked. His beard tickled my skin, shooting off nerve endings through my breast.
Fingers still twined in his wild tresses, I clutched his head in place, trapping him against me. My hips rocked, but I found no relief in the nothingness against them. “I need more,” I moaned.
