Page 18 of Wild Life (STEAM-y #2)

The Honey Scene

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 was us— 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.

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 craved everything he 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.

He feasted on me, nipping and sucking my skin with the extra pressure that I enjoyed. I liked it rough, and Cryptid was giving me what neither Eli nor any of the men I had been with ever had before.

His big hands palmed my breasts, playing with them possessively. They were his as long as he kept touching them like that.

He buried his nose beneath my cleavage, where he inhaled me deeply. The act was primal. Animalistic. Like he was satisfying some basic need to memorize my scent.

Lower and lower, he tasted me until he reached the neckline of the shirt around my abdomen. His touch glided gently over the bites on my midsection, but I was too full of adrenaline to note their irritation anymore. He tugged the shirt lower, stopping at my hip bones.

Gently, he applied more honey on my bumps, between administering kisses onto my unblemished skin. Except they weren’t regular pecks. He was devouring me.

My belly trembled with anticipation. His solid hand pressed my midsection to calm the movement while he met my gaze.

“I’m okay. You make me feel like there are butterflies in my stomach.”

He took my hand and placed it on his sculpted abdomen.

“You feel them, too?” I asked, hopeful.

He offered a crooked smirk, and I melted inside. His frown was standard on his face, and on the rare occasion a hint of a smile broke through, it turned me into putty.

God, he had a beautiful face. All of him was magnificent, but his face, which generally carried a lot of seriousness, was achingly gorgeous. And when he grinned, he was years younger and almost carefree. A man like him deserved to smile more. A man like him deserved so much more than being trapped in isolation.

Suddenly, my clothing was pulled all the way off, and I was completely bare to him.

On propped forearms, I awaited his next move.

The imaginary butterflies flapped straight into my heart. Even in our heated state, he prioritized my well-being, caring for my bites with the honey on my ankles. That area and my ass had taken the worst beating since I had been sitting cross-legged on the anthill. They’d been the first points of contact for the pests.

He worked diligently, healing each bump before moving up to my calves, sensations intensifying.

My knees parted wider, presenting myself to him as he massaged my inner thighs. He paused, completely entranced by my folds. It was the same admiration he’d had when he peered at my bare breasts—like he wanted to discover all of my mysteries. I was high off that rush, that I was a man’s first. That I would be the reference for all his sexual encounters after me. The one he could never forget. And the best part was this had happened organically and was not something I had forced, like I had many times before.

“Have you ever seen one before?” I asked.

He nodded. Maybe he wasn’t as new to this as I had thought.

“Have you ever touched one?” I asked.

He shook his head, the innocence in his eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

“You can touch it, if you like. I won’t mind.”

I won’t mind one bit.

His throat worked, and then his finger carefully traced a line around my entrance. I tipped my head back, enjoying his treatment. Round and round he went, his fingertip slipping deeper inside with each pass. My pelvis took on a life of its own, drawing micro-circles to mimic his motions. My body bowed when he found my clit with his thumb.

“Fuck.”

He gently pinched my tender flesh, the bite reverberating through my core. I reached down and showed him with my own hand over his how I enjoyed getting myself off, and together, we drew tight circles on my bud.

“You’re doing such a good job,” I murmured in encouragement.

He discovered his own rhythm, rubbing me off to it like I was an instrument. My insides turned molten with heat.

Suddenly, a thick finger plunged into me, and I dropped my head back with a moan. He slipped his finger back out, then plunged it in again, and my body was on fire as I watched him, my gaze colliding with his.

He labored slowly, too slowly to induce orgasm, but it made me greedy for more.

I sank onto him, rocking back and forth, fucking his hand like a needy slut. His slut.

He worked me well as he discovered this new skill. I lifted my feet off the table and rested my ankles on his sturdy shoulders.

The rush within built to a frenzy, the promise of release beyond my grasp. “That’s it. Keep going. Do you feel how wet I am for you?” I moaned. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He fucked me faster, and my hips bucked at a violent pace. “Oh God—"

And then reality hit me like a freight train.

I couldn’t call out his name.

I didn’t know his name.

I didn’t know him .

He was a stranger, and I was splayed out on a table, desperately chasing an orgasm from a man who couldn’t even say the word. He was yet another notch on my bedpost, and I couldn’t ever make the relationship anything more than a good fuck because I didn’t know him.

This wasn’t right. I wasn’t right.

I kicked him away and bolted off the table, any potential orgasm shattered by the cold splash of realization that had rained down on me.

His hands moved for mine, but I shook him off, too freaked out to endure his touch. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

What could I say to offer a coherent reason for my mental spiral? That I was addicted to touch? That I had stooped so low as to let a man I didn’t know anything about fondle me? That I was taking advantage of a man who seemed to have very little experience with women, if any?

No…this was wrong. Cryptid, or whatever his real name was, didn’t deserve to be treated like this. He was too good. Too good for me.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered again, before grabbing my shirt and tripping over my feet as I ran out the front door and into the rain, like I always did.