Chapter 4: A Savage Comfort

He broke the kiss only to get rid of the pathetic barriers between them. His hands found the zipper of her jacket, the sound a rough, tearing noise in the quiet den. He pulled the wet garment from her, his movements efficient and without ceremony. The cold air of the cabin hit her skin, raising a fresh wave of shivers, but it was nothing compared to the shock of his hands. They were hot. A shocking, almost painful heat that made the cold feel absolute.

He pulled the wet wool of her sweater over her head. He was all purpose, his focus a tangible thing in the air. Her bra came next, the practiced click of the clasp a small, obscene sound in the silence. He pulled it away, and his gaze fell on her.

Clara’s breath hitched. Her breasts were full, heavy, a secret shame in a world of lean, athletic perfection. It was the part of her she hid, the soft, undeniable proof of her body’s humanity. She waited for a flicker of something; disappointment, maybe.

It didn’t come. He looked at her not with a lover’s adoration or a man’s simple lust. His stormy eyes held the cool, detached assessment of an artist studying a form. He saw the weight of them, the dark color of her nipples, the way they tightened in the cold. It wasn’t a critical gaze. It was a hungry one, the look of a connoisseur who has just found a rare, perfect specimen.

His hands found the waistband of her pants. He shoved the wet, heavy fabric down her hips, taking her underwear with them. She kicked them away, a clumsy, desperate motion. She was naked now, a pale, shivering form on a pile of dark furs.

He crouched before her, his eyes tracing the dark patch of hair between her legs, then moving back up to her face. A cold thrill, sharp and intoxicating, shot through her. A stranger, a monster, was seeing her. All of her. And he was not just looking. He was memorizing.

He pushed her down onto the furs. His mouth was on her breast, not a gentle suckle, but a hot, insistent claiming. His teeth grazed the nipple, a perfect, agonizing focus of pleasure and pain that made her cry out. A low, helpless sound that was a betrayal to the screaming terror in her mind. His free hand tangled in her hair, gripping a thick handful at the root, tilting her head, exposing her throat. A gesture of total, absolute dominance.

His other hand moved down, a rough, calloused exploration. His fingers found her, already wet, and he didn’t hesitate. He pushed one finger inside, a shocking, solid pressure. Then two. He found her clit with his thumb, the motion rough, sure, and without artifice.

It was too much. The pain and pleasure of his mouth. The insistent friction of his hand. Her mind was a warzone. This is an animal. This is an assault. And her body, her treacherous, hungry body, was arching into it, a silent plea for more. The conflict was a fire in her blood.

Her hand, which had been fisted in the furs, moved. She reached for him. Her fingers found the thick, hard length of him, a pulsing heat against her palm.

A deep, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He took her action as his due. His rhythm became a punishing, perfect beat. The world narrowed to a feedback loop of pure, primal need. His mouth on her nipple, his fingers in her, her hand on him. It was a breaking. A cry ripped from her throat as her body convulsed, a violent, shattering release that left her boneless and gasping. The observer in her mind watched it happen, a horrified spectator at her own surrender.

He didn’t give her time to recover.

With a fluid, animal grace, he turned her, pushing her onto her stomach. He settled behind her, a wall of heat as he lifted her hips, leaving her exposed to his eyes. She felt the blunt, hot tip of him press against her entrance. He gave her no warning.

He entered her with a brutal thrust that tore a sharp cry from her lips. He was hot and thick, filling her completely. He immediately began to move, a frantic, savage rhythm driven by an overwhelming need. It was the rhythm of the forest, of the hunt.

It was terrifying. It was painful. And somewhere in the chaos, her body began to betray her again. His mouth found her shoulder, his teeth biting down, not enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. The pain was a bright, clean focus in the chaos, a sharp point of sensation that didn’t break the pleasure but clarified it. Her own hips, of their own volition, began to buck back, meeting his savage rhythm.

The betrayal wasn’t a betrayal. It was a surrender. A deep, hungry part of her that had been sleeping was now wide awake, and it wanted this.

“Please…” she gasped, the word a ragged stranger in her own throat. “More.”

He answered by pulling her hair, a rough yank that sent a sharp bolt of pain down her spine. A wave of pure, shocking pleasure followed right behind it. The old Clara had hated that, the casual, clumsy pull of a lover getting carried away. But this wasn’t clumsy. It was deliberate. It was ownership. And it was the hottest thing she had ever felt.

His control snapped. The rhythm changed from savage to frantic, a punishing pace that was all raw, animal need. A deep groan was torn from his chest, his hips slamming against her in a final, dominant surge. His release was a hot, pulsing flood deep inside her.

He pulled out, a sudden, shocking emptiness, and moved before she could catch her breath. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were dark, the storm in them focused into a single, possessive point. He placed the tip of his chaft, somehow still hard with animal vitality, against her lips.

“Open,” he growled, the words a rough command.

He guided her. forcing her to taste the evidence of their mingled release. The salt of him, the faint sweetness of her. The taste of them. It was a shocking, proprietary act. She gagged, a reflex of the woman she used to be. But the woman she was now, the one he had just broken open, didn’t pull away.

He pushed himself into her mouth, a punishing invasion that stole her breath. He fucked her mouth with a hard, dominant rhythm, his hand tight in her hair, holding her still. She was being used. The thought was a fresh spark of fire. He was using her for his pleasure, a final, selfish act. And she liked it. The total surrender, the fact that he was taking what he wanted, but only after he had taken her apart first. It wasn’t a violation. It was a reward.

A deep groan was torn from his chest, his hips slamming against her face in a final, dominant surge. His release was a second flood, hot and thick in her throat.

He collapsed on top of her, his heavy, sweat-slicked body pinning her to the furs, his harsh, ragged breaths the only sound in the sudden quiet of the den.