Page 13 of Wicked Little Island

And when I sleep… I get Maison.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Again.” He grabs a bottle of water from the floor by our bed. He must have filled it with melted snow before we passed out earlier. “Here, baby, drink this.”

I grab it from him and take a big gulp, then another before wiping the hair out of my eyes. Pushing myself under the covers, I pull down the band of his sweats, taking him into my mouth.

Never in my life did I think I would ever give this many blow jobs or be as skilled at it as I am. I’ve mastered every trick to get Micah off; I’ve memorized every twitch, every hair tug. I’m well acquainted with how he reacts when I go fast or slow or cup my hands around him and pull while I do it. And even then, it’s never quite enough for him.

Since being here, alone and secluded, our relationship has turned into something I can’t describe. I’m sure there is a word for it, and it’s nothing I thought I’d ever willingly be into.

The bruising was just the start.

He completely controls me now.

He even controls my thoughts.

While I lack a proper diet, Micah takes care of me. He feeds and cleans me, forces me to exercise, rations food, and makes sure I sleep enough and drink water. He listens to me while I chatter, as I realized I enjoy talking after years of thinking I didn’t. Perhaps because I’ve never had anyone I can talk to the way I can talk to him. Even though he barely speaks, he listens to me while he works away in his corner, usually carving something.

When we fuck, he takes over, giving me various amounts of pain, knowing it intensifies my pleasure. He makes me beg and say his name over and over. Although we haven’t explicitly discussed it, I’ve found myself assuming a submissive role because I enjoy being nurtured by him and it seems to make him happy.

I realize this is toxic, and it’s all very confusing, but it’s what we both need right now to survive—mentally, at least.

I’m trapped in Alaskan winter, in the middle of nowhere, with an athlete in peak physical condition during his sexual prime. And he is slightly, if not overtly, unhinged on so many levels and, potentially, the horniest person on the planet.

I take my time licking and playing with his cock before he reaches down and pulls me up. I crawl over him, sink onto his cock, and start grinding. “Fuck, baby. I can never get enough of you.” He grips my hips and matches my motions while I clench around him. His fingers dig into the bruises on either side of my pelvis. He created these buttons on my body and only presses them when I do something he likes, usually intensifying his pressure right before I climax. He’s able to control when that happens, too.

Despite our circumstances, we’re healthy and thriving. I constantly wonder if he had an option of leaving, if he would even take it, or if I would, either. He’s in his version of heaven here.

Hunting, fucking, wilderness, and isolation.

Me.

He flips me around so he’s on top, taking no time to press inside me, grabbing my good wrist and holding it over my head so I can’t move as he finishes in his usual aggressive way.

Considering this is the fifth time we’ve had sex in twenty-four hours, I’m hoping he’s tired enough to let me rest after this. He finally pulls out of me, lying beside me and pulling me close. His breath is heavy against me.

“Micah,” I whisper after a few moments, calming myself down from the euphoric high he just brought me to. The soft sound of his breathing tells me he’s still awake. “I think it’s Christmas.”

He plays with a strand of my hair, which usually lulls me to sleep, but I’m too wired for sleep right now, even though it’s still dark outside.