Entwined (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle: Part 1) Page 4

  When he looked at her, she kept talking. “You must understand, it’s not at all proper for me to be standing here in the all together in front of you. And you’re nearly as naked as I am. My reputation would be utterly ruined if anyone back home saw this. Not that it matters to me,” she added wryly. “I don’t care what Abigail Lincoln or that busybody Denna Yarbrough thinks of me. After all, I was the first lady in our set to wear Bloomers and a bathing dress! And I’ve even joined the Dress Reform Society—as a charter member.”

  It was a good thing he didn’t understand what she was saying, Jane thought in a moment of absurdity. She probably sounded like an utter fool.

  Turning her attention to the man, she realized he was staring at her again, examining her with his eyes. A whisper of sensation swept over her, raising tiny bumps on her flesh, as if he were brushing his fingers over her skin. Yet he wasn’t touching her…merely looking.

  But the look. The expression in his eyes was something so avid, so dark and deep and wild…and yet filled with wonder. Curiosity. Even…awe.

  Jane could hardly breathe. She watched him drinking in the sight of her, bit by bit…as if he had forever in which to do so. The weight of his attention and examination was so thorough that she felt his gaze as it traced over her…from her right foot, over her ankle and up along her leg, slowing and pausing at the juncture of her thighs as if to bestow a brief caress…and then smoothing over the soft curve of her belly, that pale skin traced with a delicate blue vein…then slowing once again as he stared at her breasts, round and full and nipple-taut….

  Her skin prickled, her nipples tightening more under the steady heat of his gaze. She could almost feel the sensation of light fingers brushing over her sensitive flesh, sending warm tingles down her spine, spreading over her torso and down….

  She struggled to keep her breath steady, but something was happening inside her. Something warm and insistent was unfurling like a long, slow roll of heat.

  He moved and made a soft noise deep in his throat…husky and rough, and the very sound made the fluttering and unfurling stronger and faster. Demanding.

  Jane realized her lips were parted and her knees and arms were trembling…and that her attention had fastened avidly on the hands that hung at his sides: motionless, large, brown, capable.

  Touch me.

  She smothered a gasp that was halfway between shock and want. Good heavens, what am I thinking?

  But Jane couldn’t stop staring at his hands. She wanted them on her, touching her, sliding over her skin, curving under the weight of her breasts…slipping between the full, swollen folds of her quim.

  My God, what’s wrong with me?

  Her skin prickled as these thoughts, these images flooded her mind. She felt hot and trembly and lightheaded. She wanted to close her eyes and hide in shame, she wanted to open them and arch toward him and beg him to touch her…

  And then at last, he reached out.

  Jane stared at his hand, her breathing growing shallow and fast as his fingers came closer. They were fanned open, and she saw, through the haze of anticipation, that they trembled slightly.

  When he touched her, his fingers light and gentle against her belly, a shock of awareness jolted through her. Jane gasped softly, stunned by her violent reaction. Her skin leapt and trembled beneath the skim of his fingertips…but she was so aware, it was as if she could feel the texture of every ridge on the pads of his fingers.

  She looked up at him and found his eyes fastened on her face, wary…yet with blazing heat in their depths. Jane couldn’t speak. She could only breathe shallowly, trapped by his gaze, as his hand moved over her belly…over the curve of her hip…and then up over the swell of her breast.

  His thumb brushed her taut nipple, and then—to her frustration and surprise—his hand, rough and calloused, continued up, brushing over her chest and along her throat. Jane swallowed hard as he used the back of his hand, a softer side, to trace the long, sensitive length of her neck. The warmth of his body emanated, heating her skin across the distance between them. She smelled spice and citrus and some undefinable essence clinging to him. Something she wanted to bury her face in, to inhale and take deep inside her.

  As he lifted his arm so he could touch her cheek, she was faced with a sleek, bulging bicep, a forearm sprinkled with hair and a strong wrist wrapped with a primitive twine bracelet. His palm was warm and his fingers sure as they slid into her hair, gently rubbing a curling lock between them.

  By now, she was fairly vibrating, still in the grip of the vines. She felt as if she were alive, awake and aware of her own body as she’d never been before…and yet in the midst of some slow, erotic dream. Her insides were overwhelmed by sensation, fluttering and tickling, hot and pulsing, and her quim lips had begun to swell and moisten. Her arms ached as she pulled against the imprisoning vines, shaking the trees and bushes above her.

  “Please,” she whispered desperately. Oh please!

  “Please,” he said, his response low and guttural and not at all desperate. His voice was taut and he moved closer to her, reaching out with his other hand.

  Jane trembled, hardly able to breathe, as he cupped her face with two large, powerful hands, then slid them down along her neck and over her shoulders. She held her breath, waiting for them to cover her tight, aching nipples…waited for him to slip over their sensitive tips…. But he merely curved his palms beneath her breasts.

  Watching closely, he lifted them one at a time, as if measuring their weight, experimenting how they shifted and moved and balanced in his hands. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Jane arched toward him, trying to fill his hands, wanting to push her painful nipples against his palms, to rub them against him and find some pleasure. Please.

  He made a sound of surprise when she did this, and moved his hands away…down. They traced the curve of her waist and hips, slowly traveling down and up…down and up…sending tickling sensations over her until Jane was shaking with impatience and wanted to scream.

  She was hot and wet and swollen and her legs were spread just enough that she could apply no pressure to her needy quim and the little pea throbbing there.

  “Please,” he said.

  Jane dragged her attention from his tortuous hands and looked at him. Desire blazed in his face. He drew in a long, slow, deep breath, as if attempting to inhale all of her essence in one gulp. His sapphire eyes had gone as dark as a midnight sky, and his mouth was so tight it was white at the corners. The intensity of his expression made her knees give out and she sagged amidst the ropes. He wanted her. Why didn’t he touch her?

  His chest, firm and smooth, rose and fell rapidly, as if he’d been running. There was a slight sheen over his almond-tanned torso and she could see the rise of his cock beneath the front flap of animal skin.

  Her mouth went dry when she realized what was there, beneath that covering. How close it was, how short a distance she would have to arch toward him in order to brush against it, to feel its long, hard length against her pounding quim. Inside her dripping quim.

  She shifted, trying to move, then groaned in frustration when she realized her bonds were too tight and she couldn’t reach him.

  Her cry must have spurred him into movement, for something changed. The hesitance evaporated and all at once, he was covering her breasts again. But this time, he touched her with purpose…curiosity, intent, desire.

  He cupped her breasts, then skated his fingers up and over her nipples. Sliding over the tops of them, he gently pinched and tweaked and, when she moaned in relief and need, he paused. Then, experimentally, he brushed the tip of his finger over the very top of her nipple.

  Jane shivered.

  He did it again, making little circles there, sending sparks of pleasure darting down through her insides. She arched and trembled, and he began to play with her other nipple in the same way. And while his breathing quickened, he seemed to be more interested in experimentation and examination than indulging in pleasure.

&n
bsp; “More,” she whispered in frustration, her eyes closing as she tried to capture every bit of pleasure, to claw her way up to where she needed to be. She twisted, undulating, trying to get closer, to touch him, to brush her hot skin against his, to feel pressure where she needed it the most. The swollen heat of her quim was becoming unbearable, little tremors hardly more than a tease of what she wanted.

  When his hands moved from her breasts, Jane’s eyes flew open in chagrin. No, she moaned silently.

  But when he knelt at her feet, his hands settling at her waist, his eyes level with her full and throbbing labia, Jane could only whimper and hope.

  “Please,” she begged, staring down at the top of his head, looking at the soft brown coils of hair, the broad dark shoulders…watching those large hands on her creamy skin.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. His attention was fixed on the thatch of hair that covered her. Jane curled her fingers into her palms, waiting, desperate, for him to do something.

  When he at last brushed his hands along the insides of her thighs, she nearly cried out with relief and frustration. She shivered, shifted, tried to bring herself into his touch, trying to get him to understand she wanted…needed…to be touched there.

  He took his time, his hands light and careful on her skin, gently parting her thighs, sliding up to the heat and wet she had for him.

  Oh, God, please…. She bucked and arched sharply toward him and finally, finally, he touched her there. A light, feathery, slippery caress. She was so hot and swollen that this little bit of pressure sent pleasure shuttling through her, exploding into a hard, sharp orgasm.

  Jane jolted and cried out her release. He yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned.

  “No,” she pleaded, her eyes squeezed tightly in desperation. “No. More, more!”

  “No,” he repeated. His voice was hard and tight and there was no longer any warmth from him touching her skin. She was bereft and incomplete and frustrated. “No,” he said in a softer, bewildered voice.

  Jane opened her eyes. “Please,” she said again, holding his gaze from where he looked up at her. She shifted her hips toward him, right at his mouth. Oh, God, the thought of his mouth on her hot, swollen quim, drinking in her essence had her trembling and tight and desperate all over again.

  Still crouched there, he raised the hand with which he’d touched her, bringing it to his nose. As he smelled her on his glistening fingers, his eyes narrowed in dark pleasure, his nostrils widened like a feral animal. He bared his teeth, dragging in a sharp breath as if fighting some deep urge, and Jane struggled harder.

  How could she make him understand? She gave a little cry, twisting and shifting and trying in vain to tear at the vines and free herself.

  But he drew himself to his feet, stepping back woodenly, as if he were being dragged off some stage by a large hook. “No,” he said.

  He said the word, shook his head in negation—but his eyes were hot and avid and she saw the way his fingers were curled tightly into his palms.

  Jane squeezed her eyes closed tightly again, then opened them.

  She was just about to say something when the man stilled. He lifted his face, sniffing the air, tilting his head as if listening intently. Jane didn’t hear anything but the rustle of wind through the leaves, and the soft click of branches as they swayed against each other high above her head.

  When he turned his attention back to her, she recognized a different, intent expression. Without hesitation, he moved to one of the large trees from which some of her entangling vines hung. To her surprise, he produced a slender implement—a knife?—and with one stroke, sliced through one of the vines.

  All at once, the collection of ropes that imprisoned her loosened and fell to the ground in a messy heap. Jane stared, wondering if it had been chance that he’d selected the correct one…or had this been some sort of trap he’d designed?

  Either way, she was about to be free, for the vines were falling away. She’d easily untangle herself and step from them, but before she could do so, the man did something else that surprised her.

  He reached up and grabbed a thick liana, and as she watched in open-mouthed astonishment, he began to climb it. One moment he was there, and the next, he was scrambling up into the dark, leafy trees—just as Mr. Bellingworth had imagined it. The last thing she saw was a flash of legs as they swung through the air, high above her head, to a different tree. And then he disappeared into the jungle.

  Jane stared up after him for a long moment. Her mouth was dry from panting and gasping, and her arms just now had the sensation tingling back into them. Her knees were still weak and the little pearl tucked in the hood of her swollen quim throbbed with remembered pleasure…and disappointment that it had been so quick and unsatisfying.

  Then she heard a shout in the distance.

  “Jane?”

  Dear God. It was Kellan Darkdale and her father. They were coming toward her.

  And she was naked!

  But before she could scramble off into the jungle to find her clothes, something whumphed down from above, knocking into leaves and dislodging small twigs as it fell. Jane gave a soft exclamation of relief and surprise when it landed on the ground. Her clothing and small satchel.

  How had he retrieved it so quickly?

  Not that it mattered. She looked up into the branches and vines, but the thick, dark leaves obstructed any view of the wild man. He was gone, she was free from the tangling vines, and she had her clothing.

  Jane was safe.

  — V —

  He was in agony. His rod was so tight, so stiff and full and sensitive that he could hardly concentrate on clambering up into the trees, leaping from one branch to another to retrieve the items he’d stashed up there.

  He knew the moment he touched himself, there would be a surge of pleasure and pain.

  But he ignored the howling of his body long enough to drop the bundle down to her, and to watch as the woman retrieved the strange coverings she wore over her skin. The strange covering…what was it called again? Dess? Dress. Yes, that was the word. Her dress.

  There was a glimpse of her fire-red hair, the small bright patch hardly visible through the thick branches as she pulled on the dress. And then he waited just long enough to see that the other two men—the short, round one who appeared harmless, and the tall one who’d tried to mate with her last night—appeared. His ears, sharp as a wild dog’s, had heard them coming in the distance long before they could have heard him. They were there now, and she was no longer alone.

  Though he wanted to, he couldn’t stay any longer. He’d touched her…there, where a thatch of fire-like hair covered her full, slick heat…and she’d cried out, sending him spinning away in shock and confusion. The expression on her face had been one of pleasure…he thought.

  But she’d told him, “No! No more!”

  Those were words he recognized from some long ago memory—words that must be obeyed.

  He bared his teeth in a frustrated growl. Last night, the foul man in the nest with the woman hadn’t obeyed, and from his perch in the trees, he’d seen the expression of fear and anger on her face. He didn’t want to see her look at him in that way. Ever.

  The pounding of his rod had eased slightly and so he gripped a wrist-thick vine and launched himself from the branch on which he stood. He swung in a smooth arc, brushing past leaves and flowers to another sturdy vine. Gliding through the air among the birds and butterflies, he transferred his hold from vine to vine to vine as easily as he walked, as if he were swimming through the air.

  Silently and smoothly, he made his way thus back to his own nest where he could tend to himself in private.

  There had been many times before when his rod had acted so—stiffening and throbbing. Often, those times were accompanied by vague, hot images in the night. Once, far from here on one of his explorations, he’d seen a group of women with skin dark as the soil, swimming in a stream. They wore no coverings and he’d watched them for a l
ong time, fascinated and intrigued by the shape and movement of their bodies. He saw very few men or women animals like himself, and never any with skin as light as his own. They were the same, but different.

  There was only one time before when he’d seen men who came in the big nests—ships; they were called ships—that floated on the sea. Men who seemed familiar to him just as the woman and her companions did. The way they talked and the way they dressed….there was something he recognized, something comfortable about them.

  But when he tried to remember, to put words to objects, to understand of what they spoke, his head hurt and he felt ill and confused.

  That was a different pain than what he felt now, when all of his thoughts, every part of his body seemed concentrated in one place: the thick, purple-red rod thrusting from beneath its protective covering.

  As he moved aside the heavy brush hiding the entrance of the cave he used for a nest, he also stripped away the flap of antelope hide he wore. The mere brush of his fingers over the swollen, turgid flesh beneath made him groan aloud.

  But now, he was safe and private and alone, and he could allow his body to react. He closed his fingers around the shaft, moved them once, and immediately lost control. Everything surged to that place, hot and hard and fast, and he cried out as it exploded.

  His powerful knees went weak and he sank to the ground, onto the pile of tiger and cheetah skins he used for a pallet. His heart was pounding, his flesh was hot and clammy, and he felt better…almost.

  But it had been too quick and fast, and his rod, it appeared, wasn’t satisfied. It persisted, stiff and insistent.

  She’d been the most beautiful, compelling creature he’d ever caught in his trap of made of vines. As he lay here, feeling the softness of fur against his arm and torso, he was reminded of her skin. So soft, so warm, so different from his own, from any animal or living creature he’d ever touched. Soft, with a delicate dusting of hair, like the palm-sized petals of the curling pink flowers he had named lyseta…but her skin was alive and supple.