Page 34 of Wild Life

Maris

It was a rainy evening again, and the already little tropical bubble that contained Cryptid, the pig, and me had become microscopic inside the dry hut.

The dwelling had no natural lighting, but tonight, he had fished some candles made from beeswax, I guessed, from the shelves behind the dining table. We had dined on more of the chewy mystery meat that I had yet to identify and some papaya harvested earlier. I ate better here than I did at home, every meal consisting of protein and a shitload of fiber, pun intended. And I missed toilet paper.

Cryptid was busy cleaning up, and the pig was already asleep on the floor next to me as I sat on the bed. I was a bit worried about how easily and deeply he fell asleep, like he’d gotten into a stash of nighttime cold medicine or something. I actually wished he’d share his drugs with me so I wouldn’t be awake to deal with this stupid itching. My skin was on fire, but scratching the fire-truck-siren-red welts only made it itch more.

I let out a frustrated groan and dropped myself flat on the bed. “These fucking bites! I wish I could rip my skin off!” My nails dug in harder, dangerously close to drawing blood. Surely, the viscous liquid would cool the discomfort.

The mattress against my back was uncomfortable. I jumped off the bed and paced back and forth, irritated like a squirrel searching for its tenth consecutive lost nut. Cryptid stared at me like I was losing my mind.

I was.

I shot him a deadly stare back. “What are you looking at? Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” I stuck out my tongue and screwed up my face, hoping to scare his attention away. Instead, he furrowed his thick brows harder.

I was still on edge because of what had happened at the waterfall. He had saved me from turning into ant food, yet that damn tension between us had wormed its way through yet again. It was always there. After every damn encounter, even a bodily danger event, it was a reminder that I hadn’t had sex in forever. I had turned a new leaf and was trying hard to keep my vagina quiet. Unfortunately, the universe was conspiring against me by constantly sending the definition of masculinity to undress me. It was exhausting being this strong, and I scorned him for always being there for me.

I might’ve sounded immature, but I wanted someone to blame other than myself this time. It was either Cryptid or the pig, and the furball wasn’t awake half the time to fault.

The scratching was only magnified the more worked up I got. I slapped my thighs, the sound echoing loudly. The pain canceled out the itch temporarily, and it felt so good. I slapped myself again, this time on the backs of my legs.

A husky grunt from across the room responded to my smack. Over my shoulder, his intense focus was on me, brimming with something much darker than anger. My knees wobbled in response.

I swallowed that lump in my throat that he was so good at inducing. “It’s the only way to get the itching to stop.”

He cast one more lingering view at my backside before turning away to the shelves. I watched his broad shoulders flex, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his already golden skin. His back was so muscular that it reminded me of ridges in rock. And his ass was firm like two boulders.

I mindlessly scratched my thigh while my mouth watered.

When he turned around, I was greeted with the view of his chiseled abs. It was such a shame that a man this beautiful was hidden away on an island with no one to witness him. No one but me.

Perhaps it wasn’t so much of a shame, then. Even if I was swearing off sex, I could certainly indulge my eyes, right?

My gaze traveled down the valley of where his abs met, stopping at the small jar in his hands. “What’s that?”

He tapped the surface of the dining table.

“I don’t understand…”

The jar slammed onto the table. I stumbled backward as Cryptid started for me until my back hit the wall. I was cornered, and his body was so massive that it blocked every direction I could run. “Wait, what are you doing?”

With too little effort, he threw me over his shoulder, my top half dangling over his back and my butt under his chin. I banged my fists on his back. “Put me down, you big oaf.”

My ass hit the table first, followed by my back, and then my head, which thudded hard. “Ouch! What the fuck was that for?” I rubbed my skull. “You’re such an asshole, you know. For someone who can’t talk, you sure have no problem ordering me around.”

I shoved my way off the table, but he pushed my chest with such force that I fell back down. I let out a frustrated groan. “If you weren’t the size of an elephant, I’d punch you in the face for that.”

My nails dug into the skin on my neck, scratching the bumps with fury, frustration only heightening the urge for relief. He swatted my hand away, then opened the jar, his stare warning me not to dare itch again.

I eyed the amber-color liquid. “What’s that?”

To my surprise, he pushed his coated finger past my lips. Our eyes locked as it made contact with my tongue.

Sweet. Sticky. Thick.

I lapped at the syrupiness with my focus on him. A rush of air escaped from his lips. My insides squeezed at his reaction—the fleeting moment I overpowered him. I might not have been as physically strong, but there were other ways to exert control, and whenever I succeeded, I wanted to giggle with glee.

That wasus—what fed the tension that always existed. The struggle for power. I was addicted to it. As much as I enjoyed pulling his strings, I loved that he didn’t give in easily. It was as if he was resisting his urges like I was.

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