Entwined: Jane in the Jungle (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle: Part 1) (6 page)

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 long 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.

And the scent of her. He closed his eyes, drawing in the imagined essence once more…then he remembered, and lifted his hand to his nose. A tremor rippled through him when he smelled her on his hand, her scent mingling with that of his own.

Assaulted by the memories, the sensations, the smells, he sank into the images, sliding back into them in his mind, letting them fill his thoughts. His rod pounded once again, hot and hard and insistent.

Closing his hand around it, he did as he’d done in the past—he stroked, faster and faster, his fingers tighter and tighter around the throbbing shaft. Sticky moisture dripped from the tip, making his movements sleek and slippery and fast. He imagined his rod pressed against the woman’s warm, soft skin, sliding in the rich dampness between her legs, slipping into her tight, dark depths.

He cried out in triumph as pleasure and release bolted through him, hard and fast and deep. It went on for a long time, and when it was finished, his body still pulsing and throbbing, he slept.

And dreamt.

— VI —

“Did you find the glimmer-headed
tyra today, Papa?” Jane asked her father.

They’d just finished a dinner of baked fish and plantains and were sitting in the treehouse. Efremina had slid the movable wall away, leaving one side of the living space open to the view of the jungle from tree-height.

It was the most unique, comfortable parlor Jane had ever been in. Large, leafy branches spilled into the room. Birds, butterflies, and other winged insects flitted about just beyond reach. The scent of rich, sweet flowers filled the air. The sun was setting, coloring the sky with violent red and orange flames.

“We had no luck finding the tyra,” Jane’s father replied, puffing on a long, slender pipe. “But I did capture the perfect specimen of a red-beaded long-twine. Perhaps you’ll make a sketch for me tonight, love?”

“Of course,” she told him, and rose to retrieve her sketching tools. Since Jonathan disappeared, she’d hardly used her pencils and pastels. But it had been part of the arrangement with Papa—she was able to convince him that she should accompany him on this trip because he needed an artist to document his discoveries in pictures.

They could take photographs, of course, but not only did that require a large amount of equipment that took up much space, but setting up a darkroom would have been impractical in the jungle.

Unfortunately for Jane, the very act of drawing only served to remind her of Jonathan. More than once they’d joked that, after they were a married couple, they could travel the world together. He would write the travelogue, and she could sketch the images that would go with it. They would partner to create a book.

Now, Jane pulled out a thick sketchpad and her wooden box of pastels and settled to draw a picture of the long-twine. Her papa had pinned the poor butterfly to a small, thin wooden tile. As she looked at its flamboyant red and yellow wings spread helplessly, Jane couldn’t help recall her own imprisonment this afternoon.

Her belly did a little flip and a sudden rush of heat and pleasure rushed through her. Her nipples tightened at the memory of
him
—whoever he was—touching her with those large, dark hands. Despite the roughness on the pads of his fingers, his caress had been tender and tentative…and maddening. Maddening, because she’d craved more.

Her cheeks burned now as she remembered how she’d shuddered and cried out in front of that wild man, that strange wild man. How she’d wanted him to touch her—the naked, native, half-animal man. How she’d wanted him to
bury
himself in her. With a start, Jane realized her mouth was dry and her breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with her? How could she even
contemplate
such a thing?

Especially when, only last night, she’d firmly rejected—even fought off—a gentleman who sat here in this very room with her. He’d done nothing more than the wild man had done in the jungle—notice her bare breasts, and attempt to touch her. Albeit a bit more insistently than the wild man….