The Erotic Expeditions - Complete Collection (38 page)

There was a knock at the door.

“Doctor’s here, Boss,” Annan said from the other side.

“Good,” Clark called back. “Be right there.”

He looked back to Jean.

“Dr. Kinchai’s good,” he said, moving toward the door, but she’d taken hold of his hand.
 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said quietly, taking her hand in both of his. He lightly stroked it as he laid it on the bed next to her. “Let’s see what the doctor says. I’ll be right outside.”

• • • • •

In the confusion, it’d been easy for George to slip away. As the staff rushed to and fro, George had simply walked through the middle of them. He’d taken special note of the large greenhouse behind the main house as they’d passed it on their way back from the processing building.
 

He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, moving down the long corridor to the back of the house. Though the mansion was large, there were actually only three people that he’d seen. He’d catalogued their movements since they’d arrived. Most were accounted for in other places right now, mostly centered around Jean.
 

He smirked.

Perfect timing.

He might not ever have a better chance.

The back entry wasn’t as grand as the front but it was centrally located in the simple floor plan. He went straight to it and glanced quickly over his shoulder. In moments, he was outside. The rear of the house was like a small village. There was a large plaza fronted by several buildings. The long, two-story greenhouse, with its expansive panels of opaque white glass was obvious.

Jean’s forensic analysis of the accounts had included the security measures employed on the plantation–shockingly few. Perhaps Clark thought their relatively remote location provided some measure of protection from corporate espionage. Whatever the reason, it made George’s job easier. He was about to become a
very
wealthy man and Clark Peterson was going to be ruined.

George hurried across the grassy plaza and took the paved path to the greenhouse entrance. He glanced left and right–still no one in the vicinity.

Like the main house and other buildings, the greenhouse seemed transported from another time. Beautiful and ornate, the second story was smaller than the first, like a tiered wedding cake. The curved steel girders were painted white, matching the opaque glass. When he’d first realized that he’d be breaking into a greenhouse he thought it could hardly be easier. It was just a bunch of glass. But he’d later learned it was a great deal more than that, big enough to support the glass above, even in monsoon weather.

At the keypad entry, he entered the numbers he’d memorized. Although Jean’s audit hadn’t revealed the key code, it’d revealed the brand of security system that was used. It’d been a simple matter of calling the company to find out how to reset it if the code had been lost or forgotten.

He quickly punched in the series of characters and numbers: ***00000099#*.

A loud click came from the door handle.

With a brief glance over his shoulder, George grasped the knob, turned it, and opened the door.

Jean dressed in the clothes that Clark had left at the foot of the bed as he walked the doctor to the front door. Dr. Kinchai had been very nice, as Clark had said he would be. He’d taken her vitals, a family history, and even a blood sample. After spending nearly an hour to make sure she had recovered, his medical opinion had been clear and simple: heat prostration. The temperature, the humidity from the storm, and clothes that didn’t breathe had combined in a dangerous way.

She looked at herself in the mirror over the dresser. The sleeveless cotton blouse and lightweight cotton shorts were almost a perfect fit. She breathed a sigh of relief at their comfortable feel. The neckline of the blouse plunged a bit lower than she generally wore but, since Clark had left it, she didn’t want to disappoint. She stepped into the flat sandals as well.

There was a light knock at the door.

“Come in,” she said.

Clark came in and stopped, staring at her in the clothes. She slowly turned in place for him.

“They’re wonderful,” she said.

“You look great,” he said, not bothering to hide his gaze, and she felt her cheeks flush immediately. “How are you feeling?”

“So much better,” she gushed and almost finished with ‘now that you’re here.’

She caught herself just in time and cleared her throat. Clark was watching her with a new intensity. Though her experience with men didn’t amount to much, she at least knew the look. There was something she’d wanted to say but now the thought completely escaped her.

“Dr. Kinchai said you recovered quickly,” Clark said, taking a step closer. “And that’s a good sign.”

Jean remembered what she was going to say.

“I’d like to pay for the house call,” she blurted out.

“Nonsense,” Clark said, shaking his head.

As the doctor had been leaving, it had occurred to her that the plantation was running on a shoestring.

“I insist,” she said. “Really.”

“Dr. Kinchai’s a friend of the family,” Clark said, smiling down at her.

Without heels, she had to look up more than usual. His smile was infectious. She not only found herself smiling in return but she took a step closer.

“The doctor was nice,” she said. “He said your quick action with the ice helped to prevent heat stroke.” She paused and looked down at the remaining distance between them. “So it would seem I have you to thank.”

An alarm went off in the back of her mind. She was standing too close. And yet she didn’t seem to be able to back up. Her heart was pounding as though she’d broken some rule.

“So, thank you,” she breathed.

Startled, she realized the gap between them was narrowing. Clark was moving toward her and leaning in.

“Don’t thank me,” he said lowly as his fingers tilted her chin up.

His dark eyes stared hard into hers but his gaze quickly drifted down to her lips. He slowly and deliberately closed the distance and paused just before their lips met. Her heart fluttered wildly and, for a moment, he seemed as though he’d changed his mind. But then his eyes closed and he kissed her.

• • • • •

Clark squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden sensation of Jean’s lips on his. It couldn’t be happening–
shouldn’t
be. He’d given her Linda's clothes to wear without realizing what it would be like to actually see her in them. His shock had quickly turned into an aching that shot through him. As she had turned for him, though, something else familiar but long forgotten stirred inside.

Her lips clung to his, tentative but inviting at the same time. Guilt and betrayal rose in his chest, even as his mind pushed them down.
He
was alive and, at this moment, that felt incredible.

Jean’s lips were full, soft, and…completely irresistible. His hands found the nape of her neck. Her skin was as soft and smooth as it looked and he let his thumbs drift down along her jaw. As the moment lingered, he savored it, sank into it, and the past slowly faded. But when she opened her mouth to him, it was as though he woke up. His mouth easily enveloped hers, covering it with the sole purpose of owning it. He traced the curves of her lips with the tip of his tongue and captured her plump, lower lip between his. The soft give of it under his tongue was luscious.

His hands drifted down her back, drawing her closer. He felt her arms wind around his neck and, as her jaw dropped, his tongue tested hers. Warm and moist and giving, it seemed to dance with his. He might have explored her mouth more deeply but then her breasts brushed against his chest.

• • • • •

Clark's lips left hers so suddenly that her eyes involuntarily fluttered open. Jean gasped as his mouth quickly ducked under her chin. Whatever had held him back at the beginning was gone. It was as though something had unlocked inside him that was taking over. He kissed her throat, repeatedly, tenderly, constantly moving downward. Though his lips were gentle, the sudden urgency of his movements took her breath away. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes as he leaned forward. Her breath came in rasps and his tongue gently lapped at her skin, setting it on fire. He held her weight lightly in his hands as though he thought she might break.

“Jean,” he murmured against her throat. “You’re so beautiful.”

For a moment, his voice broke the spell. She gasped at the realization of what she was doing, where she was, and who she was with. But even as the reality of it hit her, his lips reached her breasts. His mouth and chin nuzzled between them as the soft flesh welled up in her bra. She gasped again as her back involuntarily arched and his tongue delved into her cleavage, probing downward with more force. Tension coiled in her abdomen, mounting higher, and growing tighter with each burning stroke of his lips. The response of her body shocked her as she struggled to gain some control over it. But as he gently sucked on her breast, there was only one word on her lips.

“Clark,” she whimpered.

At that, he pulled her upright and his lips left her skin. That was
not
what she’d intended but as she opened her eyes, his hands went back to the nape of her neck, and he fixed his eyes on hers. What she saw there shook her: pain, desire, and…
was that regret?
His emotions flashed by so quickly.

“Tell me to stop,” he said lowly, “and I will.”

She felt the rise and fall of his chest against her, his warm breath against her lips, and a jolt of anticipation raced through her.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

JUNGLE FEVER

An Erotic Expedition Novella

PART 2

By Hazel Hunter

Dr. George Liew worked quickly. Although there was no reason for anyone to suspect what he was doing, eventually someone would realize he was missing, even in the tumult surrounding Jean.

He and Jean Willis had wormed their way into the Peterson Rubber Ranch in Thailand for very different purposes. She was under the impression that she was auditing the company. But the consortium that George Liew represented wasn’t interested in giving Clark Peterson money. They were interested in what they could take from him. Jean had merely been camouflage for them and a pretty distraction for Clark. The real purpose of the trip was here, in the greenhouse.

The heat and humidity of the vast glass building was not much different than the environment outside. The jungle of Phuket Island was ideally suited to the growth of rubber plants. But these particular plants couldn’t be left to their chances in the elements. In the greenhouse, even a monsoon wouldn’t be able to get to them. And, of course, the greenhouse didn’t just provide protection from the elements. George knew it was also intended to protect them from corporate espionage agents like himself. Despite knowing the door had closed behind him, he glanced back over his shoulder and then glanced down at his watch. With any luck, he’d have the cuttings and be gone before anyone in the main house noticed.

The arched, green, glass roof soared high above, easily two stories tall to accommodate the future height of these rubber trees. The wood-rimmed, raised beds were waist high to allow the roots ample room and also relieve the back stress of whoever tended them. They ran in wide rows away from the door. George looked left and right. All of the rows looked the same and the older and taller trees were at the far back. He started down the row in which he was already standing.

He prowled down it looking for likely candidates. All of these young trees would be the best of the best. They were the Holy Grail of rubber plant breeding–something that even genetic engineering had failed to produce. They were a variant with a shorter maturation time, more drought resistance, and a higher latex yield–much higher. The breeding program begun by Clark Peterson's father decades ago had finally paid off.

But not for Clark.

George examined a likely candidate, a sapling about three inches in diameter. The small trees were placed about a yard apart and had grown to nearly six feet in height. The dark soil was nutrient rich and the loamy smell of earth was everywhere. As he lifted one perfect, green branch after another, he looked for buds–the small bump that signaled the beginning of a new branch.

There!

He took the grafting knife out of his front pants pocket and unfolded it. Carefully, he used the pointed tip of the blade and scored a vertical line a half-inch to the left of the bud and about three inches long. White beads of latex immediately appeared at the cut. He created an identical score half an inch to the right. Then, he pressed the razor-sharp edge of the curved blade horizontally into the bark about an inch above the bud. Using one hand on the handle and his fingertips near the tip of the blade, he pushed inward. The gleaming silver metal penetrated the bark and then went past it into the wood, intersecting the two vertical lines. He angled the blade, carving downward and inward, in a short arc.
 

Sweat trickled down his left temple. If he screwed these up, the whole trip was for nothing. There would be no second chance.

Once the sharp edge was behind the bud, he changed the angle of the blade, curving it back toward him as it moved down. As it neared the surface, an oval segment of the pliable beige bark, about three inches long, an inch wide, and about a quarter inch at the thickest spot came free.
 

Perfect
.

Quickly, he reached into the back pocket of his pants and withdrew the carrying case. By design, it resembled a cigar case but it was nothing of the sort. He snapped it open, the two halves hinged at the edge. A clear, tacky, nutrient gel coated the one side. He placed the cutting there, bark side up, at the far left. He’d just be able to squeeze three cuttings in–three cuttings worth roughly ten million dollars apiece. Gingerly, he closed the case with a tiny click.

The heavy, thick glasses that he’d only worn as props began to slide down his sweaty nose. He took them off, set them down, and quickly retrieved a handkerchief and wiped his face.