The Savage Wild

by Roxie Noir

  She tells me about last summer at the research station, spent observing musk oxen in their natural habitat. That sounds like it was pretty dramatic too.

  We repack her pack. We find another backpack in the bins — not as big or as good as what we’ve got, but all right — and we pack that with stuff we’ve taken from the cabin as Imogen tries to memorize everything we’re taking so that, in theory, someday we can find the owners and repay them.

  I’m less concerned about that. I’m more concerned with making it out alive first, repaying them second.

  The second night we’re there, I wake up to pitch blackness and Imogen’s gone, the wood stove no longer burning. There’s a moment where I can’t remember where I am and for some reason I think I’ve been shot down over enemy territory, that they’ve put me in a tiny hole in the ground with no light and left me here to die.

  It’s a dream I used to have a lot, but that’s not this. Seconds later it comes rushing to me where I am, on a tiny bed under a pile of blankets, and then the door opens, a rhombus of moonlight falling across the floor, her shadow dim inside it.

  “I thought you left,” I say, my thoughts raw and unfiltered.

  She closes the door, steps lightly toward me. I hear her coat drop to the floor beside the bed, the thunk of her boots and then her weight is next to me on the bed again, still warm and sleepy like she must have been when she left.

  Imogen snuggles up. Imogen’s never snuggled, not even in high school, and definitely not since we’ve been out here. It’s always been me holding, her acquiescing. She’s still wearing her thin long-sleeved shirt and leggings, but I can feel every inch of her skin and curve of her body through them as she undulates lightly against me.

  I run my hand down her back, lightly, even though my heart’s pumping hard. Whatever’s happening, I’m not about to ruin it.

  Her hand moves down my side, stroking me from shoulder to hip, her fingers finding the notches in every muscle, her head on my other shoulder, her lips tilting toward my neck and suddenly I’m awake to the nip of her teeth on my collarbone, her fingers pulling at me, her hand on my back as I roll toward her until I’m on my side and her lips are in the hollow of my throat.

  Her hips push against mine, her hand still on my hip as she licks me, bites me, lips and teeth and tongue moving over my jawline until finally her mouth is on mine, hard and needy and ravenous.

  I wonder again if I’m dreaming, if maybe I’m actually going to wake up sleep-humping Imogen. I pray I’m not going to have my first wet dream in fourteen years, but this feels too real, too sharp to be a dream.

  It’s still black in here, so dark I can’t see more than the faint outline of the door, a few spots where there are cracks in the space between the plywood walls and the plywood ceiling. Imogen’s not making a sound besides her breathing, and all I’ve got to go on is touch. So I touch her.

  I slide my hands up her soft warm body, pull her shirt off, no bra beneath. I cup her shoulders in my hands, run my fingers over her collarbone, flatten my palms over her nipples and listen for the change in her breathing, a shudder, a quick hitch that tells me she got what she wanted.

  There it is, the soft sigh I was looking for, so I let my hands drift lower as she nips my neck again, lips on my chin, then finally on mine as she digs her fingers into my side, practically using me to pull herself up.

  She makes another noise, a soft squeak from the back of her throat, and I grin in the dark, catch her bottom lip between my teeth until she makes it again.

  Imogen grinds herself into my erection, her body moving with a ferocity I haven’t felt in a long, long time. The kind of ferocity that makes me glad Imogen’s always kept her nails short, otherwise I’d be shredded to ribbons in five minutes.

  She bites my lip. I grab her ass, squeeze hard, let my fingers dig into the muscle, through her leggings and she just makes a noise into my mouth, swipes her tongue along my lower lip.

  I slide my hand down, between her legs from behind, feel the jolt move through her body as my fingers find her lips, just barely reach her clit through the fabric, brushing over her as her nails rake down my spine.

  I tease her through her clothes, the fabric of her leggings slightly rough against my bare, hard cock, the friction delicious, the thought of what’s coming next intoxicating. I nearly ask her is this all it’s gonna take to make you come again, Squeaks, but I shut up for once, savor the silence and the darkness.

  Imogen moves, wriggles, turns over and moves away and when she’s next to me again the leggings are off, her bare skin soft right next to mine as she hooks one leg over my hips, my cock trapped against her lower belly, the pressure making me growl.

  So I grab her thigh and roll onto my back so Imogen’s straddling me, invisible in the dark, but I can imagine what she looks like: pink lips in an O of slight surprise, brown hair tousled and down around her shoulders, eyes wide and then half-closed. Nipples hard as rocks, begging to be touched, so I reach out blindly and roll them both between my fingers and thumbs at the same time, probably a little too hard but Imogen gasp-moans again anyway.

  She’s over my lower belly, my cock against her ass, and before I know it she’s reached behind her and grabbed it in one hand, stroking me from root to tip slowly, surely, and God I wish I could see right now.

  Her hips flex against me. I take one hip in my hand, my thumb at the soft juncture where it meets her thigh, slide it in until I’ve found her clit and she’s made that noise again, grinding into me, her pussy leaving a wet spot on my treasure trail.

  Imogen gasps, moans, whimpers. I can tell from the sound she makes that she’s biting her lip against the sound, her hand stroking me the entire time, the constant pressure and friction of her hand on me driving me completely insane.

  She whimpers again, and I exhale hard, force myself not to open my mouth and beg her to climb on already, my cock aching to be inside her again after last night.

  Finally, she lifts her hips, arches her back, one hand lightly on my chest, and I hold my breath. Growl like an animal as she finds her entrance with the tip of my cock, then groan as she slides down me slowly, like she wants to make sure I can feel every fucking millimeter of this.

  I do. I feel every single one as she takes me, panting for breath, both her hands on my chest and her hips flexing, her muscles tight around me as I sink deep.

  There’s that sigh of satisfaction, her hand opening and flattening on my chest as she puts her weight on me, her fingers dragging over my chest like an afterthought. Another squeak of pleasure as she moves her hips and I push back, slightly, in that way I know presses me against every nerve and pleasure center she’s got, my hands curled around her thighs like it’ll help me control myself.

  She starts riding me, going so slow that at first, I’m not even sure she’s moving until I can feel her flex and clench around me, the sensation followed by a soft sigh, by the gathering heat in my lower belly.

  Fuck, I wish I could see her. I want to see the way her eyes are closed and her mouth is open, the roll of her hips. I want to see myself slide into her, her juices on my shaft. This is new, this slow and sensuous Imogen, this girl who seems like she knows what she needs from me and is willing to take it.

  And hell yes, I’ll give it to her. I meet every soft thrust of her hips with my own, angling myself into her, feeling her muscles tremble and shudder, the soft grip of her bare skin against mine.

  She shifts one leg, leans back, her foot suddenly next to my side and her hand anchored on my thigh, right above my knee. The angle changes and we both moan together, her full-throated and me between my teeth because I didn’t think this could feel better, but it does and I know she’s right there, her fucking glorious body stretched out where I can’t see it, her ribcage rising and falling beneath her skin.

  I’m clenching my fists on her thighs, grinding my teeth, fighting myself as Imogen takes me exactly the way that she wants to, and it drives me absolutely fucking crazy, but I don’t sto
p her even though I’m afraid I’m going to come first.

  I find her clit again with my thumb. She makes a noise, pushes herself down my shaft, taking me deep and hard as I circle her button lightly, trying to focus on anything but this.

  It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work because Imogen moans, she flexes, she pulls back and does it again but a little harder this time. She’s demanding this of me, using me for her own pleasure and in this moment there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than for her to do exactly this, use me and ride me and do whatever she wants.

  She gasps, whimpers, squeaks, moans. Her hips move faster, and through the dark I can see the barest outline of her form like a wraith in the dark and I have to clench my teeth again, force myself not to come before she does even as her muscles flutter and clench around me, getting close.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, focus all my willpower on holding off when suddenly she slows again, gasping. Her nails dig into my thigh as she pushes me deep and then suddenly she shudders, moans.

  Imogen tightens around me like a fist as she comes, a moan escaping her throat as she rocks back and forth, getting every last ounce of pleasure that she can from me and I give it up, willingly, angling myself so I hit that spot over and over again as she comes wordlessly but loudly.

  I follow her. There’s nothing else I can do when I feel the slow, hard pressure of her release, no way I can fight it. I pull her down hard, sliding against her skin-to-skin as I come inside her, the thrill of something we’ve never done before spiking white-hot pleasure through my brain.

  I let it wash over me, over us. I feel like we’re in a slow-motion film because I’m sure I’ve never come this hard or this long before, until we’re both trembling, shaking, beads of perspiration on my chest despite the cold.

  She moves her leg, hinges at the hip, leans over and kisses me. Her tongue is in my mouth and I’m still inside her, feeling the aftershocks rock through her as we kiss like we didn’t just fuck but like we’re about to.

  Slowly, she moves off me, back to my side. She curls against me, and I put my arm around her shoulders, pull her head into my shoulder, her arm going around my belly, and suddenly I understand something.

  This is what I want. This is what I wanted all along, these quiet moments in the dark, this feeling like you share a body and a soul with another person. This feeling that, even though you’re deep in the wilderness and might be doomed, everything is fine because she’s here.

  This is what I wanted. This is what I missed, what I fucked up back when I was too stupid to see it.

  Imogen’s breathing slows, evens out, but I keep holding her tightly, staring into the pitch-black dark of this tiny, ugly hunting cabin.

  I have to keep this, I think to myself, over and over again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Wilder

  Ten Years Ago

  Imogen crosses her arms in front of herself, feet planted shoulder-width, chin jutting forward.

  She’s serious. I can’t believe that here, after all this time — months — she’s serious. For fuck’s sake, I’m not even wearing a shirt, and she comes in here with this?

  “No,” I say, crossing my own arms, leaning against the hotel room’s dresser, mimicking her stance.

  “If you don’t, I will,” she says.

  I just laugh.

  “I will,” she insists, her chin jutting out a little more. “I swear to God, Wilder.”

  The fire behind me crackles. Jesus fucking Christ, there’s a fire and everything, even though it’s a warm May night. Relatively warm, anyway, warm for northern Idaho. The room’s free because the skiing season is over, so I can have my run of the place again.

  Fuck, I can’t believe I finagled this room just for Imogen to come in here and act like she’s the morality police, for her to give me this bullshit ultimatum out of nowhere.

  She thinks just because we’re fucking she can tell me what to do?

  I just laugh at her, putting every ounce of scorn and derision I can manage into the sound.

  “And you think she’s gonna believe you?” I ask. “You think that, if you, Imogen Gustavo, tell literally anyone in the whole school that you’ve been screwing me, they’ll believe you?”

  She swallows hard, and I can practically hear the gears in her brain grinding, trying to think of some proof she has.

  But I don’t think there is any. It’s more an accident than on purpose, but we only ever texted or emailed about class stuff, and we spent plenty of time together in public, studying.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she finally says, looking at the floor. “I can’t—”

  Her voice cracks and she turns around, paces to the door, into the bathroom, paces back out, still won’t look at me. Instead she stares at the wall.

  Here she is, tearing my heart into pieces and she won’t even fucking look at me.

  “I can’t watch you be with her and know that she doesn’t know about us,” she finally tells the wall. I think she’s crying, but I look away instead of at her. If she won’t look at me I won’t fucking look at her, that’s fine.

  “She doesn’t care,” I insist, even though I’m pretty sure I’m lying.

  “She doesn’t care because she doesn’t know!” Imogen says, and starts pacing again.

  Still no eye contact.

  “Melissa likes you,” she says. “Like, she really likes you, Wilder, the other day she was telling me that she hoped you guys went to the same college and stuff—”

  I snort, and finally Imogen shoots me a look. It’s tear-stained and acidic, but at least she looks at me.

  “—And that she really sees you together in ten years, and how sweet you are for never pressuring her about having sex, and how that’s why she’s thinking of maybe letting you do stuff with her, because you’re such a fucking gentleman.”

  “You’re jealous,” I tell her, letting a smirk settle onto my face.

  I’m determined to stay cool, stay calm in the face of Hurricane Imogen. She doesn’t get to decide what happens here, I do, and fuck her for thinking she can make me do what she wants.

  “Of course I’m jealous!” Imogen yelps. “Everyone thinks you’re with her! You hold hands in public! You kiss her in the cafeteria, you tell people she’s your girlfriend, she’s met your parents…”

  “No,” I say slowly. “You’re jealous that you might not have this to yourself anymore.”

  I gesture at my dick.

  Imogen makes a very unladylike snort.

  “You’re not going to fuck her,” she says, and she’s so certain and so cocky about it that it makes me want to prove her wrong.

  “Why not? She’s my girlfriend. That’s who most people fuck.”

  Imogen opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again and looks away like she’s hoping for backup from somewhere, but obviously no one’s coming to her rescue.

  “No,” she says, like she’s astonished. “If you fuck her we’re over. Are you kidding me? No.”

  I just shrug.

  “I didn’t know it was an option until now,” I say.

  I’m being deliberately cruel and I know it, but it feels good to watch Imogen cry after she came in here, all high and mighty, demanding that I tell Melissa the truth about us.

  Imogen thinks that this is how she gets me. She thinks I’m going to break up with Melissa — my picture-perfect cheerleader girlfriend — for her, the weird nerd.

  And it’s not even that. She thinks she can fucking tell me what to do and how to do it.

  She swallows, shakes her head, crosses her arms in front of herself again.

  “If you don’t tell her about us I will,” she says again, stubbornly. “She doesn’t deserve you doing this to her.”

  “She won’t believe you,” I warn, still smirking at her. “I’m telling you, Squeaks, no one’s going to fucking believe you.”

  Her mouth settles into a hard line as another tear drips down her face. The sight of her in tears pleases me i
n a terrible, hard, bright way. At least I know I have this power over her, even if she’s got the power to rip my heart out of my body by basically telling me we’re over.

  I’m not stupid. We’re not going to survive this fight. Imogen and I are fucking done for as of tonight, even though she clearly thinks that I’m going to roll over and break up with Melissa to date her.

  Hell no. Imogen can barely string two sentences together when she’s in a group of people. I can’t tell my friends that she’s my girlfriend, I can’t take her on dates and shit. No one would ever talk to me again.

  “Yes, she will,” Imogen whispers, and then she turns on her heel, grabs her backpack, and she’s gone through the door.

  I just stand there, staring at it, long after it closes. I’m still shirtless because my plan for tonight was to light this fire, wait for Imogen on the plush faux-fur rug, and then have her sit on my face for as long as she wanted.

  It didn’t fucking happen, clearly. It’s never going to fucking happen again, and that fact twists my stomach into a pretzel of regret and sadness and ten thousand other bad feelings I can’t even begin to identify.

  But it won’t work. She can tell Melissa all she wants, but I know about Imogen’s reputation in ways that she doesn’t, and she’s a quiet, strange, off-kilter girl who’s super smart, a little delusional, and has an enormous crush on me, the guy she tutors in biology.

  I haven’t done much to dissipate that reputation, for the record.

  So she can tell Melissa anything she wants. It doesn’t matter. At worst, Melissa will come to me, crying prettily, and ask me if it’s true and I’ll say of course not. I’ll wipe away her tears and it’ll be everyone’s word against Imogen’s, and in a couple of months maybe I’ll get up her short little cheerleading skirt.

  Done and done.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Imogen