4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
London
C hristmas
The paradox of experiencing immense pleasure and excruciating pain simultaneously is beyond comprehension—almost as if they are two sides of the same coin. I’ve become numb to the pain from being on this island; my body fails to register it. My grief from losing Maison is so real, yet the fire I have for Micah burns so strongly that it overwhelms it. I’m still alive because of Micah, and I only remain alive because he chooses to let me live. And there is something so incredibly sexy about the power he has over me.
I’m happy for the first time in a long time. And it pains me beyond belief to admit that. It kills me inside because I miss Maison so much and shouldn’t feel this way. Micah managed to find us a home out here—even through all odds. He found a place for us. And for the first time in a long time, I have a home. It’s like the person who built this place never wanted to truly leave it. The land around it is so isolated and cold. Their energy is still here, whoever they are—they saved us. I hope the person who owns it won’t come back. But then I picture the three feet of snow trapping us in, and I remember we don’t have to leave yet. No one is coming for us.
I constantly worry about the others—Jade, especially. I doubt they are as warm and comfortable as we are, although Micah assures me that he left them with everything they need to survive. In the rare times of my day when I’m not fully consumed with the boy whose lips are constantly on me, I think about them, and a tiny wave of guilt breezes over me. For the first time since being on this island, I can truly relax.
I’m not sure how long Micah has been kissing me as I slowly slip into consciousness. His lips are most certainly on my neck, his hands around my waist, and his hard body pressed firmly against mine, my wolf blanket covering me. The scent of snow I’ve come to cherish over these past couple of weeks seeps through the cracks of the roof, reminding me that it’s still falling out there, only the whistle of the wind in an otherwise silent, dark void that is the wilderness of Alaska.
Even the wolves, it seems, do not howl as much in the winter.
The fire is out, but the heat lingers.
“Wakey, wakey, sweetheart.” Micah’s deep whisper tickles my ear.
I turn to him and touch his face as I always do, and although I can’t see him in the veil of the night, I can picture his expression as I’ve now memorized every part of him. His dark eyes, his tousled hair I keep threatening to cut, his lips I can’t get enough of, his shadowed face under his black hood. Somehow, he inches closer to me on our small bed, and any chance of sleep is now gone until he’s had enough and merely falls asleep himself.
I’ve come to learn he can never get enough of me. It’s simply a pause for him… To eat, to sleep the bare minimum, before he’s ravishing me once more. So I wait for his approval by being the good girl he wants me to be.
“Again?” I murmur in a drowsy state. Unlike Micah, I enjoy sleep and need it. However, I’d never tell him the true reasons why I sometimes prefer my state of unconsciousness, and it has nothing to do with my lack of senses. If anything, my senses are heightened. I remember things in a way I can’t when I’m awake and with him.
Because when I’m awake, it’s only him.
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.
It’s always dark in Alaska.
“What makes you say that?”
“The notches on the wall and my estimation of how long we’ve been on this island. It’s close, it must be.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t get you anything. ”
I clear my throat. “Well, there is one thing…”
There’s a moment of silence before he groans.
“Please, Micah, it’s Christmas. And it’s all I really want.”
He nibbles my ear. “So, it’s suddenly Christmas morning, is it?”
I wrap myself around his waist. “Yes… and I love Christmas. Don’t be like that,” I say as I press my lips to his cheek. “Please, Micah.”
I beg because that usually works. I plead when I need to, and often.
He softens beside me. “Please, don’t tell me you’re the kind of person who decorates for Christmas on November 1 st ? Because I fucking hate those people.”
I scoff and bristle beside him. “Well, I am, so deal with it.”
He slides out of bed, leaving a cold draft behind. I can hear him fussing with the fireplace for light, and smug satisfaction hits my lips. I’ve won this battle. We don’t run the fire all the time because, just like with the food, our resources are limited. It’s dark this far north. It’s night more often than it’s daytime. We only have four hours of sunlight right now, and we cherish that time when we have it.
I often have no idea at all when the sun will rise. We’re not living like normal people, and winter has really settled in. The deep freeze started a week ago, and we couldn’t go out there, even if we wanted to. We usually just sit in the dark; we talk, eat, sleep, wake up, and fuck.
The fire blasts to life, and Micah’s tall, lean frame hovers in front of it. There’s enough light for me to grab my backpack and pull out The Great Gatsby as I wait for him, but not before I admire him for a moment. I rarely get to see him.
He runs his hand over the back of his neck before he looks at me. Sometimes, in the right light, in the right moment, he looks like Maison, and I catch my breath, remembering he’s not. I toss on an old sweater, making sure it’s not the one with the wrong number on it—even though Maison’s sweater is my favorite and probably always will be.
Micah brings me a bit of dried meat from some small animal. I hardly care which one anymore since they all taste the same to me now. He comes and snuggles in next to me as I take small bites. He barely eats, letting me have most of it.
Finally, it seems I’ve satiated him for the moment, and now I get to have the softer side of him I love just as much. When he chooses to show me this side, it’s my favorite side of him.
He watches me, and I notice his throat bobs as if he’s nervous about something. “Close your eyes,” he tells me when I’m done chewing.
I smirk. “What for?”
He arches a brow, indicating that he isn’t messing around. “Do it… Please.”
Did Micah just say please?
I snap my eyes shut, realizing he’s being serious. This must be important if he said please. He places something small and wooden in my hand. “Okay, open them,” he whispers.
My mouth gapes open when I take in what he just gave me. A wooden carving of a flower, so expertly done that it looks real, the petals so intricate. I have no idea how or when he did this, especially since he only has that big knife. He looks at me awkwardly, almost blushing.
I’m speechless. It’s unsurprising since he is talented at basically everything, but this?
“Micah,” I whisper, more breathless from this gift than anything he has ever done. It’s his love language, I realize, doing these small gestures. He’s done it from the beginning—the wolf blanket, the spears, the music he managed to find when it should have been impossible to have music in the wilderness.
He leans his head on his elbow, watching me with an amused expression as I inspect it. “I guess, since you’re my girlfriend now, I am supposed to buy you flowers, and since I can’t do that, I made this for you instead. ”
I look at him, and my eyes widen, figuring out that he’s just admitted he’s never been in a relationship before. I just assumed with the number of women he’s fucked…
My eyes draw down to the carving, still marveling at how expertly crafted it is. My lips burst into a smile. “Micah Matei… Am I your first?”
His moment of vulnerability is over. He looks at me with a cool expression and merely shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
Tilting my body toward him, I press my lips against his, pouring all my love into him. “It is a big deal. I’m your first girlfriend.” I say those words out loud with pride, but a slice of guilt cuts through me. I said those words recently—to Maison.
Girlfriend.
I can’t pretend Micah is my first. He isn’t… not even close.
He runs his muscled arm over my chest, and I swallow a lump in my throat. “Do you like it?”
I turn away from him as tears burn the back of my eyes, and hopefully, I can hide the hint of emotion on my face so he doesn’t catch it. We still have a zero-Maison policy in this relationship, and if he guesses I was thinking of him…
“I love it, Micah. When did you make this?”
He cuddles in next to me, placing his hand over my injured one—a protective gesture I don’t think he realizes he does. “You tend to sleep a lot, baby,” he jokes.
And he rarely does.
He grabs the book, hands it to me, and sighs. “Alright, London. Where did we leave off?”
I turn to face him and smile. “Oh no, we are starting from the very beginning again.” I pick up the book and open it to the first page. “ Chapter one …”