Chapter 33: Feral Honeymoon
The heavy cabin door slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Pine resin and woodsmoke, the comforting scent of home, filled my lungs, but all I could smell, all I could taste in the back of my throat, was her. Gena. My wife. The silver ring felt like a brand on my finger, a constant, burning reminder of the claim we’d made in that dusty chapel. The minister’s bewildered face, the hollow vows – they were already ash.
Gena took a step towards the hearth, maybe to stoke the low-burning embers. The ivory chiffon dress whispered against her thighs. The sight of her back, the vulnerable curve of her neck where I’d bitten her, where my mark pulsed beneath the skin… something primal snapped.
I moved. Not walking, not thinking. Lunging. My hand shot out, fingers tangling in the dark silk of her hair. Not gentle. A claiming grip. I yanked her back sharply against me. She gasped, a surprised little sound that turned into a low moan as my other arm banded around her waist, locking her in place. My mouth found the spot just below her ear, the pulse hammering wildly against my lips.
“Amy—” she started, breathless, turning her head.
“Shut up,” I growled, the vibration rumbling through both of us. My teeth grazed the sensitive skin, not biting, just promising. Possessing. “No talking.” The need was a physical thing, a roaring beast inside my chest, clawing its way out. The chapel’s chill was gone, replaced by a furnace heat radiating from my core. I needed now. Not later. Not after pleasantries. Now.
I spun her around, using my grip on her hair and waist. Her violet eyes were wide, dilated pools of dark desire, mirroring my own frantic hunger. There was no surprise, only raw, answering need. She understood. She always did.
With a strength that surprised even me, fueled by decades of hauling packs over mountains and this new, terrifying love, I propelled her backwards towards the wide, quilt-covered bed that dominated the small sleeping area. She stumbled, but I held her up, my arm a steel band. We hit the edge, her knees buckling. I shoved, hard. She landed on her back on the thick quilts, a soft ‘oof’ escaping her as breath left her lungs. The chiffon dress rode up her thighs, revealing smooth, toned flesh disappearing into shadow.
I was on her before she could recover, pinning her wrists above her head with one strong hand. My knees bracketed her hips, trapping her. Her chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the delicate fabric. I stared down at her, my short, sweat-dampened hair falling into my eyes. “Mine,” I rasped, the word guttural, undeniable.
She arched her back, pressing her breasts against my green shirt. “Yours,” she breathed, her voice thick, sultry. “Always. Fucking yours, Amy.”
That did it. The last thread of control vaporized. My free hand, the one not holding her wrists captive, dove beneath the rumpled hem of her dress. My nails, short and ragged from rock climbing but sharp, scraped up the soft skin of her inner thigh. She cried out, a sharp, needy sound. Higher, higher I slid, over the curve of her hip, across the flat plane of her stomach. Her skin was like heated silk under my calloused palm. I felt her muscles jump and tense beneath my touch.
I sank my nails into the firm flesh just above the lace edge of her panties. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to brand, to claim territory. She gasped, bucking her hips up against my restraining thighs. “Fuck! Yes!”
My fingers slid lower, tracing the damp lace, feeling the scorching heat radiating from her core through the thin barrier. She was soaked. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet and utterly intoxicating, hit me like a drug. My own cunt clenched in desperate sympathy, slickness gushing between my legs, soaking through my trousers. I needed to taste it. To devour it.
With a brutal tug, I ripped the flimsy lace panties aside. The sound of tearing fabric was obscenely loud. She didn’t flinch; she moaned, long and low, throwing her head back, exposing the glorious arch of her throat.
“Look at you,” I snarled, staring down at the glistening, swollen folds revealed. Pink and slick, her clit a hard, demanding pearl. “Look how fucking wet you are for me. Already.” My voice was barely recognizable, shredded with lust.
I released her wrists, but she kept them above her head, fingers curling into the quilt. Submitting. Waiting. Trusting. It fueled the fire. My hand plunged down, not inside her yet, but spreading her open with two fingers, exposing every inch of her pussy to the cool cabin air and my ravenous gaze. I rubbed my thumb hard over her clit, a rough, demanding circle.
“Oh, God! A-Amy!” she screamed, her body bowing off the bed. Her hips jerked, seeking more friction, more pressure.
I leaned down, my mouth replacing my thumb. I didn’t tease. I licked her, broad and flat and hard, from the tight furl of her asshole all the way up through her dripping slit and over her clit. The taste exploded on my tongue – salt, musk, an addictive tang that was uniquely her. Heaven and sin. I groaned against her flesh, the vibration making her shriek.
Then I feasted. My tongue speared into her cunt, deep, fucking her with it, lapping hungrily at her juices. I sucked her clit into my mouth, hard, worrying it with my lips and tongue, flicking it relentlessly. My fingers found her entrance again, two plunging in deep, curling, searching for that spongy spot inside. Her inner walls clenched around me like a velvet fist.
“Fuck! Fuck! Right there! Don’t stop! Oh, please, don’t stop, Amy!” Her pleas were ragged, punctuated by gasps. Her hands flew down, tangling in my short hair, holding my face hard against her pussy, grinding herself against my mouth. “Eat me! Eat my fucking cunt! Make me come!”
I redoubled my efforts, sucking, licking, fucking her with my fingers, my nose buried in her dark curls. Her taste, her smell, the desperate little sounds she made, the way her body writhed and bucked beneath me – it was a feedback loop of pure, unadulterated lust. I felt her tightening, the muscles in her thighs trembling violently against my shoulders.
She came with a guttural cry that tore from her throat, her whole body seizing. Her cunt spasmed wildly around my fingers, gushing hot fluid that I lapped up greedily. Her fingers clenched in my hair, almost painfully, holding me in place as wave after wave of ecstasy ripped through her.
I didn’t let up. I kept licking, gentler now, cleaning her, soothing the hypersensitive flesh, drawing out every last shuddering aftershock. Her moans softened to whimpers, her body going limp, spent.
Slowly, I lifted my head. My chin was slick, glistening. I met her dazed, violet eyes. They were hazy with pleasure, filled with a love so deep it was terrifying.
I climbed up her body, my hands rough on her waist, her ribs, shoving the ruined chiffon higher. My own need was a pulsing, agonising throb between my legs, impossible to ignore. I straddled her hips again, my damp trousers grinding against her wet, trembling core. I looked down at her, my breath heaving. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her dark hair fanned out like a halo on the quilt, the silver ring on her finger catching the firelight.
“My turn, wife,” I breathed, the words thick with promise. My fingers went to the button of my trousers. The hunger in her eyes flared anew, dark and eager. The night, our wedding night, had only just begun. The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls, witnesses to the raw, desperate union sealed not just in a chapel, but now, irrevocably, on this bed.