by Drew Jordan
He stopped me from sliding out from under him by pressing his hands firmly onto my shoulders. “Where are you going?”
Before I could respond, he kissed me. At first, I hesitated, his physical weight oppressive. But his mouth teased and tasted mine, and my body responded without total consent from me. My arms wrapped around his back, feeling the smooth, hard muscles bulging beneath his flesh as my lips parted to give his tongue access. He kissed like he was in no hurry to get anywhere in particular, yet urgently enjoyed what he was doing. It was fervent and dominating, yet never rushed. I sighed, tangling my tongue with his, arching my back so our skin would touch, my breasts teasing against his chest.
“Where are you going?” he asked again.
Confused, as I wasn’t trying to shift away, I murmured, “Nowhere.”
“Exactly,” he said, his voice satisfied.
In the dark, his head bent, shifting lower, and I swallowed my uneasiness, focusing on the tight desire coiling in my belly as he lowered his mouth over my nipple, sucking and teasing at it. Then he bit. I gave a soft cry. But he instantly returned to drawing the tip into his mouth, soft suckling. He switched to the other breast, and my desire grew, my grip on his back firmer. He pushed both of my breasts together so he could suck both nipples at the same time. I jerked a little, startled. No one had ever done that before. Why had no one even thought to do that before? I groaned, my head falling back. There was an element of pain, my breasts squeezed tightly, but mostly there was pleasure, each tug of the taut buds causing a matching tug of arousal in my inner thighs. I shifted, restless, anticipating the hot thrust of his cock inside me.
Would he take me hard? Or with a slow, steady rhythm. I couldn’t predict him or his next move. But I found myself squeezing his back harder, rocking my hips upward.
Max shifted off me suddenly, leaving in his place nothing but cold, empty air. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
But I got my answer when he jerked my arms upward, over my head. I tried to see what he was doing, but I couldn’t given the angle and the disappearing daylight. Then I felt the rough scratch of rope over my wrists, tightening, tightening. I sucked in a breath, shocked. Though not sure why I was shocked. Then turned on. My arms fell slack, then taut again as he tugged on the rope, securing a knot to the headboard. I was strung up. Like the animal carcasses in the yard. His fresh catch.
His lips grazed my temple, then my earlobe, his tongue dipping inside with a soft little flick. His kisses across my cheek were gentle, feathery. He covered my mouth with his, but without domination. It was a beautiful, lovely kiss, intimate. Deep. I wanted to wrap my arms around him again but I couldn’t. I tugged against the rope unintentionally, the shock of my restraint reoccurring every few seconds as I kept trying to touch him. Every time I realized I was being held back, tethered, I felt a hot rush of liquid between my thighs. It was exciting. Dangerous. He controlled everything, and I wanted him to.
No decisions to be made. He made them all for me, and it was a relief. A heady, arousing, terrifying relief.
Max sucked my nipples again, harder, more aggressively until I was groaning softly. He rested his hand on my mound, so it cupped me, a teasing reminder that he wasn’t inside my panties, wasn’t actually touching my aching clitoris, or delving into my body. It was delicious, languid. Yet I wanted more. He shifted away from me again and I opened my mouth to ask then shut it again before I spoke. There was a creak and I rolled a little on the mattress as he left the bed. He moved across the cabin in the dark.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “I’m turning on a light.”
I did. I waited a heartbeat. “Can I open them again?”
“Yes.” He’d put on the lamp by the kitchen sink and it sent a soft glow around the cabin. “I want to see you.”
He returned to the bed, but he didn’t climb on with me. He stood beside the bed, his erection pushing against the fabric of his boxer briefs. His gaze drifted over me, settling on my panties. I fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny or to lift my hips in invitation. I knew instinctively he wouldn’t want me to do that. So I waited, my breath shallow, my chest rising and falling rapidly. My hair had soaked the pillow beneath my head and when I turned to see him, the cool damp of the cotton met my cheek. I had fisted my hands over my head in the rope. It wasn’t an uncomfortable position. The only thing uncomfortable was the deep ache in me that demanded satisfaction.
Max took my panties by the waistband and pulled them down. He didn’t remove them, but instead quickly wrapped them around my ankles, binding my feet together. I was confused, unsure what he was planning. But that was part of the excitement. He shoved my feet up a little so my legs scissored out and he leaned in, studying my sex, his breath tickling my inner thigh. I was tense, the struggle to hold myself still intense. He flicked his tongue across my clit, and I jerked a little at the sensation. Then when he laved slowly down, lower, then back up again, I gave a low moan.
But he lifted his head again and moved away from me. Frustrated and confused, I watched him go over to the kitchen cupboard and open it.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning.
“I’m hungry. I’m fixing us dinner.”
“But…” I wasn’t even sure what to say. I was naked, tied to his bed. He had started to eat me out, then had stopped, because what? One appetite was stronger than the other? “I want you.”
I sounded petulant. Childish.
“I want you too,” he said mildly. He turned and watched me. “But this isn’t about instant gratification. Everything is better when you anticipate and savor it. When you work hard for it.”
There was nothing in particular I worked hard for. It didn’t take discipline to live my life. I understood his point, but it didn’t make me any less frustrated. Or feel any less helpless. “This is sex, not building your own shelter or hunting your own food.”
“Do you trust me, Laney?”
“Yes,” I said automatically. But then I realized I didn’t entirely and he had told me I shouldn’t. “No.” That sounded too harsh though. “Yes.”
“That’s why you have to wait.” He turned his back to me. “That’s why I have to wait.”
“Wait how?”
“Stop asking me questions.”
I fell silent, knowing he wouldn’t answer anything I asked at this point. He was done with the conversation. He was done with me, for now anyway. I lay there on the bed tied up, listening to my own breathing. Listening to him opening cans, turning on the stove with a click. He moved efficiently, calmly. His movements routine. It didn’t seem that my presence altered his behavior in any way. He wasn’t excited or upset or intrigued. I was there and he would deal with me, that was it.
He wasn’t a Max. A Max would have slipped me his cock almost immediately. He would have pounded for five minutes, rolled over, grinned. I stared up at the ceiling, debating if this was a mistake. If I should demand he release me and put all my clothes on and sleep on the floor by the stove. If comfort and eventual satisfaction were worth this uneasiness.
I looked back at him again, watching his back. He was so strong. So masculine. Totally foreign to me. Rubbing my ankles together, testing the restriction of my panties binding me, I thought about the last time I’d had sex. It was with my friend Harrison after a party about six months earlier. We’d been drinking wine, because it felt mature, and because it was cheap. Four dollars a bottle. We’d bought a case of it and gotten a ten percent discount. There were eight of us there at mine and my roommate Sammy’s apartment that night and we’d listened to indie rock and talked about a political rally that we all deluded ourselves we would attend the next day, but we wouldn’t. We would be hungover or have to work or wouldn’t have any money left to take the bus or would have to visit our parents. Any number of a thousand excuses and those would also fuel our procrastination for applying to grad schools, new jobs, doing our laundry, buying fresh food at the market. Instead we’d spend the next day in our respecti
ve beds for ten hours, watching YouTube videos and eating leftovers. Sammy and I would ignore the empty bottles and glasses strewn around the living room along with paper plates loaded with Chinese food.
Harrison would lie on the couch with me for a few hours, snoring, while I wished he would leave, and Sammy’s cat, Miss Priss, ate lo mein noodles off one of the abandoned plates and I wouldn’t care enough to shoo her away. But before we would waste Saturday doing nothing that mattered in any way, that was totally unproductive, and completely insular, on Friday night we were twenty-somethings with big plans and big dreams. We were movers and shakers, excited, full of opinions and chatter and trivia, and sexual urges that could be met with friends because we were evolved enough to do that. We could dive in and out of bed with each other and it was all cool, man. We were cool.
What we were was fucking clueless.
What did we achieve from talking about everything we would do and never doing anything?
What had I gained from having vanilla sex with Harrison?
A mildly pleasant night. Entertainment. The illusion of being in control of my life, my choices.
Here, I wasn’t in control at all. I was in the middle of the goddamn wilderness of Alaska, with a swollen ankle, and no means to communicate with anyone other than the man in front of me. And I was naked and tied up, arguably at my request. I was the one who had been obvious about wanting sex. He’d warned me off him and I had quested, reached out to him. This was where I was, and it was odd and terrifying that it was where I wanted to be.
But I did.
I had to finish this to the end. I had never pushed myself, seen how far I could take something. Since my mother had married Dean, I’d made it my life’s work to never be uncomfortable. It was why I was a good girl, the one who never made waves and never took risks. But when I did take a risk, it was usually a massive one. A huge, burbling volcanic risk, like now. Like one or two times before.
I couldn’t scuttle away from this. I had gotten on a plane to potentially go and marry a man I hadn’t seen since I was twelve and that was bizarre. Risky. Yet all my friends had deemed it romantic- having an online relationship with a childhood friend. Winging off to the wilderness for a lovers’ tryst, to see if the feelings were real or imagined. I’d done it with zero confidence and sleepless nights and the pervasive nag in the back of my mind that I was being desperate, seeking an answer to a question I hadn’t even asked myself.
I had been desperate.
Like I had been since the crash.
This could change that dynamic. Put me in a place of quiet confidence, the woman who knows she pleases a man just by being her.
As I watched the stranger cook food on the stove, a meaty and spicy smell filling the cabin, his hair still damp on the nape of his neck, his skin softly illuminated from the kerosene lamp on the counter, I relaxed into my restraints. I moistened my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue, and assessed my nudity, my body. He had piled the wood stove high again so that I wasn’t cold uncovered, and the bed was soft, his comforter I was resting on a squishy down. My ankle still ached. My nipples were still tight. My fingers tingled from being up over my head. I felt more free and sexual than I ever had, the position forcing me into total awareness of my vagina, my own damp desire.
So I said nothing. I waited, each minute that ticked by driving me further and further into arousal, a heightened sense of arousal and anticipation, never knowing when he might return to the bed. I shifted my legs restlessly so that I could feel my inner thighs rub together. I rolled side to side so the cool air would rush over the curve of my ass. I bent my knees for the same reason, to give my hot vagina some air, exposing my private desire to the stranger if he chose to look. But mostly to be aware of it myself. I felt sexy, in tune with my body.
Alive.
He had kept me alive and now he made me feel alive.
I bit my lip to enjoy the sting. I flicked my tongue over the salty flesh of my shoulder. I bent my injured ankle, up, down, to feel the pain wash over me. I dug my fingernails into my palms, and I lay there, open to him. Open to experience, to a thrill. A languid, slumberous arousal settled into my body, my eyes half closed, my thoughts unfocused. I felt a little stoned, on anticipation, on desire, on exposure.
More minutes went by, I lost track. Then he came over to me with a smile. It was a genuine smile of affection, like he was pleased I was there. With him. Pleased by my behavior. “You hungry?” he asked.
I nodded.
He untwisted the panties from my ankles. “You don’t need these.”
I thought he meant for the moment, but he actually turned and opened the stove and tossed them into the fire. I made a sound of protest. Those were my only panties. He hadn’t recovered my luggage. But even as I felt a knee-jerk panic, the “I have to have those,” my legs, now free, fell open for him. It was time. He was going to climb over me, push inside me.
But he didn’t. He reached up and yanked the rope on my wrists free. His face came so close to mine I had to close my eyes so I wouldn’t grow dizzy. His lips brushed over my eyelids, one then the other. It was tender. His fingers massaged my wrists where the restraints had been.
Then he was gone, standing up. “Come eat.” He tossed me a T-shirt and sweats, casually.
Like I hadn’t just been tied up. Like I wasn’t wet and aching with need for him. I sat up, stiff, hair spilling over my shoulders. I couldn’t think of anything to say. So I just swallowed the excess saliva in my mouth and put the shirt on. When the fabric brushed over my tight nipples, I was disappointed to cover up. Same with my pants. When I covered my sex, it only made me even more acutely aware of how unsatisfied I was. Maybe that was his intention.
I went over to the kitchen and moved in along side of him as he put stew in bowls. He was still only in his underwear but he was wearing socks. It felt intimate, like we were truly lovers. I wanted to wrap my arms around his waist from behind. Hug him. I needed to touch him. My heart and body ached with the need. With every need. I imagined leaning my head against his warm back, eyes closed, breathing in his scent. His strength.
Instead I crossed my arms over my chest, before asking, “Can I help?”
I couldn’t. I knew I couldn’t. I was useless here. I didn’t know what anything was or how to use anything in his cabin.
He gave me another smile. It was small, mysterious, but it reached his pale eyes. “Just be you.”
“That’s not enough,” I said before I could stop myself. I leaned against the counter, feeling too exposed. Which was insane. I was wearing oversized clothes now. Why did I feel more vulnerable than I had ten minutes earlier, tied to his bed naked?
“Of course it is. I don’t need help doing any of my chores. I did them before you and I don’t expect you to have to help with manual labor. But you’re keeping me company.” His hand brushed down the back of my hair. “I wasn’t lonely but I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?” That made me ridiculously pleased. He was being very sweet.
“Really.” His fingers twisted in my hair and he pulled so my head turned. “Let me see your face.”
I gazed up at him, the position awkward. “What?”
“Lovely Laney,” he murmured, gaze raking over me, caressing me. “I just want to look at you.”
That felt more real than any flattery I’d ever received before. Michael’s compliments always managed to sound mechanical. Rote. “What’s your name?” I asked, because he seemed tender. Open. I thought he would tell me.
He laughed softly. Even as his grip tightened on my hair, firmer and firmer until there were tears in my eyes. He jerked me upright. “Call me Sam.”
I knew immediately that wasn’t his name. “Why would I do that if it’s not your name?”
He let me go and I stumbled back a few inches.
“Eat your food, Laney. And tell me what brings you to Alaska.”
I fell silent, staring at him. I couldn’t tell him about Michael. I could say I was
visiting a friend, but was that believable?
The silence drew out too long.
“Exactly. You don’t want to tell me any more than I want to tell you.” His hand came out, slid under my shirt. “Forget the past. It doesn’t exist. All that matters is here. Now. You. Me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Forget the past? It was enticing, seductive. “Who am I then?” I whispered.
“You’re mine.”
I dropped my gaze, unsure. “I’m keeping you from eating. I’m sorry.” I reached around him, picked up both bowls he had placed on the counter, and started to carry them over to the table.
“I can get these. They’re hot and your arm isn’t healed. And put some socks on, doll. The floor is cold.” He took the bowls from me.
“Thanks.” His concern, such as it was, made me warm inside. It wasn’t a hug, but it was more than I’d been expecting and I liked it. “Can I get you a drink, Sam?”
He sat down and looked up. He rubbed his beard scruff and smiled. “Sure. Water, thanks.”
I found the glasses and filled them from the water cooler. I set them both on the table then went to his dresser. I felt strange digging through his drawers but he didn’t object. I fished out a pair of socks and sat on the bed, pulling them on. He was already eating. My ankle was stiff, but improving. I was hungry, and when I joined him, I plowed through the stew quickly for a half dozen spoonfuls.
“I have to cut down a tree tomorrow,” he said. “It’s dead and I think it might fall if I don’t. It’s too close to the cabin to leave it. It might take me awhile.”
“Okay. Is there anything you want me to do while you’re gone?”
His eyes lit up with curiosity. “Do you know how to make cookies? I always say I’m going to but I never have time. I wouldn’t mind a good chocolate chip cookie.”
So he liked cookies. Even the Alaskan man could be softened with sugar, apparently. I didn’t entirely trust my memory but I figured I could experiment and get pretty close. “Sure. Do you have the chips?”