RisingGreen

Rising Green

Sabrina York

Chaos erupts for members of a
scientific expedition on a remote island when Sage, the team’s botanist, is
impregnated with the spores of an alien plant form. She’s always been the
crew’s “ice princess” but now something’s changed. Now something is driving
her, raging through her, compelling her to screw every man on the desolate,
godforsaken rock. Again and again and again.

What the very appreciative men
don’t realize is that each illicit interaction, each hedonistic commingling,
takes its toll on them as well. And no one can survive the torturous pleasure
unscathed.

Rising Green

Sabrina York

Dedication

For Mark Henry and Amanda Feral, who dared me.

Chapter One

“Take the gun.”

Sage froze as Dan’s gravelly voice intruded on her thoughts.
She glanced at the face of her watch, not because she needed to know the time
but because she needed a moment to prepare for this encounter.

She always did. With Dan.

She tightened her grip on the strap of her rucksack and
turned. He leaned against the doorjamb of her tiny quarters like a smug cat.

“I don’t need a gun.”

He studied her with those intense blue eyes of his, eyes
that always seemed to be saying something she couldn’t hear. He rubbed his face
with a broad palm.

Exasperation pinged from him like radar on overdrive. “Damn
it, Green. We all know you’re tough as nails but no one’s done a thorough
reconnaissance of the island. Take the gun.”

Sage shoved a water bottle into the rucksack and hefted it
to her shoulder. The last week had been interminable. Stuck in base camp while
a summer typhoon lashed at this desolate rock in the middle of the Pacific,
she’d been caged with the rest of the crew, snared in a swirling, snarling
cloud of testosterone. It was like living with a bunch of horny frat boys.

Horny, petulant frat boys.

She desperately needed to get away from camp.

Like now.

“I’ll only be out for a while. There’s an anomaly I want to
check.” She made a beeline for the door. For escape.

Dan stepped to the left. Blocked her way.

Damn it.

Her gut clenched and she skidded to a halt just short of his
rangy form. She tipped up her chin and glared at him. He hadn’t shaved again,
she noticed with a jangle of annoyance. Dark prickles dusted his cheek, his
chin. They danced down his long, thick jarhead neck. She set her teeth and
forced herself not to look away. She hated weakness. Especially in herself.

His eyes narrowed and those brows, those perfectly sculpted
brows, furrowed. He held out his Glock. “Kale thought he saw a bear.”

Sage glanced at the ceiling. A bear? Here? On this rock?
“Kale’s an idiot.” And then when a muscle jerked in his cheek, “Come on, Dan.
I’m only going to sector four.”

He thrust the gun at her. “Take it. That’s an order.”

“Oh, all right.” Sage grabbed the Glock, being ever so
careful not to touch him, not to so much as brush his skin. She tucked the
piece into the belted waist of her khakis and pushed past her commander, trying
not to notice how large and looming and warm he was. She didn’t have time for
that shit. She had work to do and the weather was finally clear enough to
escape this overgrown “man cave”.

“Oh, and Green?” The amusement in his voice stopped her in
her tracks.

“What?”

“Come home safe.”

Come home safe.

What an asshole.

As if she hadn’t been doing this for years. Sage had
collected and analyzed plant samples in some of the most treacherous corners of
the world. Her research papers on palynology and plant morphology were legend.
Well, in botanic circles at least. Her dissertation on propagation methods was
currently one of the top-one-hundred-referenced works.

Not that these Neanderthals would get any of that.

Why should they care about the amazing ways plants adapted
to reproduce and spread? Why, when they could guzzle beer and fart and watch
women’s wrestling on the satellite feed and tell raunchy jokes? Raunchy jokes
about the “ice princess” they were stuck with.

Hell. She wasn’t an ice princess. She wasn’t a princess of
any kind. She was simply more interested in pistils and stamens than cocks and
cunts and hadn’t bothered to keep it a secret. And if the occasional hot
commander should snag her attention, tickle her libido, well, she was damn good
at swallowing that urge as well.

Apparently, her lack of fascination with male genitalia made
her frigid.

Which was fine with her.

She glanced at her watch again, stroked the face with her
thumb. It had been a gift from her father. She hated her father. But she never
removed the watch. It was an ever-present reminder of why it was so important
to keep her distance, to keep the armor up.

Sage picked up her step as she made her way through the
cramped dining hall and into the yard, ignoring the hoots and whistles from
Kale and Davidson. The fuckers. Those two were the worst. They were
mercenaries, but not the decent kind who went to fight illegal wars in
third-world countries. These scumbag mercs had been hired by the company to
guard a small coterie of scientists. On a rock. In the middle of the ocean.

Seriously. What kinds of threats could there possibly be
here?

Hell, the biggest threat was that Kale and Davidson would
devour every scrap of food in the storeroom before the job was done.

She passed them with less than a snort, striding along the
crushed rock path to the gate and out onto the rocky escarpment surrounding
their prefabricated camp.

It was a relief to get away from the billet. A relief to
breathe fresh air.

Air that didn’t smell like man farts.

She made her way across the stone-strewn landscape, toward
the field that had caught her attention, following the glowing orange blip on
the infrared scanner. The meteor they’d come to study had landed a couple of
klicks to the west, so the rest of the science team was focusing its efforts
there. This anomaly would be of little interest to the geologists.

Not so for Sage. Hell, this was practically party time for
her.

She saw the splash of green woven into the gray rocks long
before she got there, and she picked up her step. A tingle, a wave of excitement,
shot through her as she drew closer. She stopped at the edge of the strange,
verdant carpet.

Damn, it was odd. Not just because it was here, out of place
on a volcanic billow with little other life. But it was just…odd.

Unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Long, leafy tendrils twined and vined around boulders, a
splash of incongruent color among incessant gray. She knelt at the edge of the
leafy nest to take a closer look and noticed each vine was finely furred and
had tiny backward-facing thorns. She thumbed one and found it soft, pliable.
She plucked a leaf, unrolled and examined it, noting the turgid ridge down the
center and the fat veins skating outward. The leaf was lightly furred as well.

From the middle of the thicket, a thick stalk topped with a
bulbous bud rose. It was reminiscent of
Pinguicula grandiflora
, but
instead of purple it was a blood-red hue with bright-yellow streaks.

Sage set down her rucksack and pulled out her sample kit.
Carefully, she sliced several cuttings into vials and dropped them into the
sack. Then she pulled out her camera. She started with several long shots and
then moved closer, stepping carefully on the leaves and vines for a tight shot
of the flower. Its petals were tightly folded with a waxy velvet sheen. They
shimmered in the weak sunlight. Smelled like poppies.

She stepped closer. Stroked.

It was silky-soft.

As though reacting to her touch, the petals began to curl
back, unfurl. Sage stared in fascination as the stamen was revealed, long and
thick, bright yellow and heavy with pollen. A swollen pustule throbbed at its
base. She leaned closer, pulling her camera up for another shot.

And the bud exploded.

In a great puff, it ejaculated a cloud of tiny seeds. A
thick haze surrounded her. Seeds crawled up her nostrils and clung to her lips.
Her hair was dusted with them.

“Shit,” she said under her breath as she backed away.
Coughing and sputtering, she brushed the spores from her shoulders, her chest.

A strange flutter danced through her belly, followed by a
wave of dizziness. Her vision blurred and weakness washed through her. Her
thighs trembled and she stumbled, unable to negotiate her own feet. Fighting
unconsciousness, she dropped to her knees.

And then she fell into the embrace of a soft bed of leaves.

She awoke to a dream. A misty, murmured haze.

Struggling to rouse herself out of the muddled cloud, she
shook her head. The infinitesimal motion made her reel. She closed her eyes
against the miasma, the exotic thrill skating through her. Her heart beat,
distinct thuds pounding in her ears among a rushing tide.

Somewhere through the haze, she sensed movement. She wasn’t
sure if she was moving or if the world moved around her. She felt as though she
were floating, suspended, lighter than air.

A soft, questing tendril stroked her ankle. She tried to
look at it but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move at all.

The tendril tightened and another licked at her, on her
other ankle.

A nip, gentle and oh so soft. Warmth blossomed at the spot,
blossomed and rose within her until it flooded her being. A feeling of
excitement—and impending doom—swamped her.

The tendrils at her ankles twined slowly, making their way
up her calves. With each pass, they nipped again and the warmth expanded. A
vague awareness of myriad movements captured her attention. Other tendrils
twined slowly over her body, everywhere. They were on her face, her torso, her
abdomen. They crawled and curled under her shirt, questing.

One of the tendrils found a nipple. As the soft, furred vine
passed over the sensitive tip, it pebbled. The tendril froze. Returned. Made
another pass.

Sage moaned and tightened her muscles, trying desperately to
move away. But she was frozen, frozen in place, a statue. A sacrifice.

She relaxed as the tendril at her breast moved away but then
gasped for breath as it wormed its way under her bra and returned to her
nipple, to stroke bare flesh.

The vine curled around the nub and tugged. Pinched. A deep
draw. A prick. A flooding warmth. Her breast swelled. Her body wept.

She longed to wriggle, longed to writhe. But couldn’t.

Other tendrils joined in the dance, covering both her
breasts and searching for tender spots. Finding them. Taunting them. The
torment made her thrash and moan, though her efforts were impotent, muted.

The heat burning through her rose to a fever-pitch. She
didn’t know what it was, had never felt like this before. It was a raging
hunger. Her body hummed with…wanting. Her entire being focused on the exquisite
pleasure being drawn upon her.

The tendril searing her thigh rose higher, questing,
dragging its heavy head back and forth over her skin. It passed across her
mound, swiped softly over dampened cotton, across a budding, aching nub so
engorged it thrust out, past slick lips, pouting.

Delight shot through her at that casual caress. Sage
whimpered. Every muscle clenched.

The tendril froze. Froze and tracked back to the cascading
heat of her cunt. It pressed against the cotton, several agonizing attempts
pulling her panties tighter against her clit. Then, with a silky shimmy, it
felt around and eased beneath the elastic of her underpants. Almost cold
against her superheated flesh, a leaf unfurled over her clit. It rubbed her
there. Right there. Thick, bulging veins created a hellish friction against raw
flesh.

Sage cried out. Her mind reeled. Her womb clenched. She
desperately tried to arch up into the caress but her body would not obey her
commands. She was helpless. Utterly unable to move.

It teased her, that wicked tendril, scraping against her
sanity, pinching and stroking and tugging the tight bundle of nerves.
Relentless. Determined.

An agonizing bliss.

A tiny shoot nudged at her opening. Sage cried out at the
gentle invasion of her urethra and then she sobbed as a feeling of fullness, a
harsh burn, settled in her pulsing clit.

At the same time, the tendril curling around her other thigh
snaked back and licked at the tight pucker of her ass. Sage howled. Hot shivers
of delight rode her as the slender vine slithered over her flesh like a curling
tongue. Slowly, it eased its way inside her.

Somehow she found the strength to lurch away, a panicked
attempt to avoid this titillating invasion, but it didn’t matter. The vine
rooted firmly within her. It undulated. Distended. Anchored her.

All the while, other tendrils plucked at her aching nipples,
teased the vulnerable skin at her neck, nibbled at her earlobes. They found all
her hot spots and stroked them relentlessly. A red tide descended, blurring her
vision.

A raw hunger, a ravaging thirst arose, snarled through her.
Seared her soul.

Another vine made its way up her leg, twining with the one
still sucking on her clit. This one was thicker, with a bulbous tip. Sage felt
its passage along the super-sensitized skin of her thigh. It left a thick,
sticky dampness in its wake.

Following the path of the first tendril—the scout—this
thicker vine made its way under her panties as well. Pleasure skittered up her
spine as it dragged across her slick cunt. And she was slick. She could feel
the moisture seeping from her lips, oozing down her slit.

The thick stalk rubbed around, spreading her cream,
lubricating itself. It pressed against her resistant opening. Once. Twice. A
pause, and then the vines holding her ankles slowly separated, spreading her
legs wider.

The bulb, fat and wet, rippled against her slit and slowly
slipped inside.

The fullness was excruciating, divine. Sage shivered,
clutching the walls of her cunt to hold it tight. When it eased back and out,
she wanted to scream, the emptiness was so profound. But it eased forward once
more, this time deeper, until it seated itself at her core, the very mouth of
her womb.

Within her, the bulb stilled and then slowly expanded. Sage
could feel thick knobs rising on its surface, hundreds of tiny tongues lashing
out, flailing frantically, massaging the tender tissue.

Pleasure prickled through her from her clit to her womb as
the bulb settled into a rigid rocking motion, caressing the aching walls of her
pussy with relentless precision.