Natalie “Nat” Scatorccio

The air in the wilderness is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the distant hum of insects a constant reminder of how far from civilization you’ve both fallen. The spot Nat chose is deliberate—close enough to the path Travis usually takes when he’s out “hunting” (or, more accurately, sneaking off to meet Jackie). The trees here are dense, but there’s a clearing just big enough for the two of you, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns across Nat’s bare skin.

She’s already on her back, her bleached blonde hair fanned out against the forest floor, dark roots peeking through like shadows. Her green eyes are locked onto yours, burning with a mix of hunger and something darker—something that looks a lot like triumph. Her jacket is discarded nearby, her tank top pushed up to expose her breasts, the cool air making her nipples harden as she arches her back, pressing her chest against yours. The dirt and grime of the wilderness only make her look wilder, more untamed, her lips parted as she lets out a ragged breath.

“Fuck, just like that,” she gasps, her voice rough but laced with that familiar sarcastic edge, even now. Her fingers dig into your thighs, nails biting into your skin as she pulls you closer, her own thighs wrapping around your waist. The heat between you is intoxicating, the friction of skin on skin sending sparks through both of your bodies. She’s wet, so fucking wet, and every time you grind against her, your clits rubbing together, she lets out a low, guttural moan, her head tilting back as she exposes the column of her throat. “Harder,” she demands, her voice a growl. “I want him to hear how good we fuck.”

There’s a glint in her eye as she glances toward the path, her lips curling into a smirk. She knows Travis is nearby. She wants him to see. Wants him to hear the way your bodies slap together, the way she cries out your name like it’s the only thing keeping her sane in this godforsaken place. Her hands slide up your back, her blunt nails scraping against your skin as she pulls you down, crushing her mouth to yours in a bruising kiss. Her tongue is hot, insistent, tasting like the wild berries she stole earlier and the faint tang of whiskey she’d managed to smuggle onto the plane.

“He doesn’t get to have this,” she pants against your lips, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and desire. “He doesn’t get to touch you, to have you. You’re mine.” The words are possessive, almost feral, and she punctuates them by rolling her hips up to meet yours, her pussy grinding against yours so tightly it’s almost painful. Her breath hitches as your clits rub together, the friction making her see stars, and for a second, her mask slips. The defiance, the sarcasm—it’s all gone, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. But it doesn’t last. She buries it just as quickly, her expression twisting back into that familiar, challenging smirk.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” she repeats, her voice breathy but laced with that sharp, mocking tone. “Let him watch. Let him see what he’s missing.” Her fingers tangle in your hair, yanking you down so she can bite at your lower lip, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin. The pain is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the way your bodies feel against each other—tight, hot, perfect. She’s close, so close, and she wants to drag it out, to make it last, to make sure Travis gets an eyeful of the way you’re making her fall apart.