Caveman (Wild Men 1)

But he holds himself just far enough that even though my back arches off the wall, we don’t touch. He doesn’t kiss me, doesn’t allow me any freedom of movement. As if he’s gone backward in time, undoing all the trust we’ve shared.

“Zane…” Frustrated, I twist my hands, trying to break free.

His hold tightens, grinding my bones together, making me yelp. God, he’s strong. “My way.”

Then he’s grabbing my hips and spinning me around, so that I’m facing the wall, and I turn my head not to crash my nose into the plaster.

“Zane, stop.”

His hands still on my waist. I can feel the heat of his body, even though no other part of him is touching me. He’s like a wall of fire, kept at bay by an invisible barrier. A barrier about to shatter at any moment.

Seconds drag by. His breathing is harsh and uneven. His hands tighten under my ribs. “Are you sure you want me to stop?”

His voice is low and rough, and it does crazy things to my insides. His breath washes over my neck, lifting the fine hairs there, and Jesus, his hard-on presses into the small of my back, searing hot through my dress.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice rumbling in my ear, his firm chest covering my back.

“Let me turn around, Zane.” I want to see him, touch him. Can’t do this…

“You know it’s me, don’t you? You can tell. You can trust me.” He releases my waist and places his hands flat on the wall, on either side of me. I can see the colorful ink on his arms, covering his skin all the way to his wrists. And I can see… Shit, I can see fine, silvery scars on the inside of his forearms.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Rough day.” His voice breaks a little on the two words, and although that’s not what I was asking—those scars, oh God, I think I know what they mean– my heart hurts for him.

“What happened? Is your sister—?”

“Don’t.” His hands tighten into fists on the wall, his knuckles white. “Not now, not tonight. I can’t.” He shudders. “Please.”

His arms shake.

Crap, is this about him, or about me? Because I can’t force myself to do it this way? Can’t force myself to put faith in anyone anymore?

I feel my resolve crack. This is a challenge, and I’ll take it. After all, I wouldn’t be a survivor without being a fighter, would I?

I push back against him. “Do it,” I breathe. “I trust you.”

“Dakota…” He presses himself closer to me, his cock a line of fire on my back, his mouth on the sensitive skin of my neck.

His cock becomes more insistent in the small of my back, and I moan helplessly. With my sensitized breasts squeezed against the wall, my hands splayed, right next to Zane’s, I can only feel as he trails his mouth on my bare shoulder, along my arm. It makes me want his touch, his mouth on other places where I throb with need.

His hands are back on my body, smoothing over my sides. I gasp when he lifts my dress and tears my panties clear off me. He strokes the curve of my ass, dips his fingers between my legs, thrusting into me, and I shiver all over, about to come apart.

“I know what you need,” he whispers as he pumps his fingers in and out, ratcheting up the pressure inside me. “Move with me. Ride my hand. Come for me.”

“Oh God.” My hips roll. I can’t believe I’m about to come like this, standing, braced against the wall of his living room. My body is a roaring rollercoaster of pleasure, the pressure mounting to the point of pain, and something inside me uncoils.

I sob as the pleasure takes me apart, shatters me to a thousand pieces. My knees buckle, but he’s there, holding me up, his arm around my waist—crushing me to him so that I can feel how excited he is. He groans, and I clench again, gasping with aftershocks.

“That was so hot,” he whispers, and I can hear the sound of a foil crinkling.

That’s it, I think, my thoughts still hazy. He’ll enter me here and now, fuck me against the wall, and strangely the thought excites me, although a

tiny voice in my head whispers that it’s probably how he fucks all those girls in bars and clubs. That now I’m turning into one more anonymous fuck for him, faceless. Run-of-the-mill.

But as if reading my mind, he whispers in my ear, “There’s no one like you.” He shifts behind me. “I know you, too. Your scent. Your taste. Your hair. The moth on your back.”

His hand nudges my legs apart, lifting my ass, and I squirm uneasily. “I trust you,” I whisper. “But I still want to see you. I want to see your face when you come.” And Jesus, I’ve never said things like that to anyone before. Never felt things like that.