Entwined: Jane in the Jungle (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle: Part 1) (8 page)

After locking the door—which was only a matter of turning a piece of bamboo perpendicular to the door frame—Jane took off her skirt and shirtwaist and used a pitcher of water and its basin to wash up.

Although her bath in the pool had been interrupted earlier (she meant to look in Bellingworth’s book to determine which creature had startled her), Jane had finished her ablutions once back at the treehouse by taking advantage of a tub of water Efremina had filled with spring water. It wasn’t as pleasurable as swimming in the churning pool, but she’d at least been able to wash. Her hair still smelled of lavender and lily, and as she took it out of its pins, the scent wafted anew into the air.

With a sigh of relief, she unhooked her corset and it fell away, leaving her dressed only in the loose, light chemise. She picked up the hem, ready to lift the garment up and off.

For some reason, she glanced toward the open window. Leaves swayed gently in the breeze, dancing against the bamboo and timber frame of her chamber. A variety of animal sounds—coos, caws, cries, growls—sang in the night. Rustling sounds told her that something moved nearby. A bird. A rodent. A monkey.

A man.

Was he out there somewhere?

A little shiver coursed down her spine, ending in a flicker of heat deep inside.

Was the wild man watching her this very moment, from some high perch?

She turned from the window, still undecided about whether to pull off her chemise. Surely he’d disappeared into the depths of the jungle, back to wherever he lived: a cave, a tree, some sort of crude house….

Who was he?

Where
did
he live?

Had he ever seen Jonathan?

That thought settled in her mind. It seemed obvious that the wild man had been living on his own in the jungle for some time—he was completely uncivilized and could hardly communicate. He must have been away from other humans for years, perhaps even since he was a child.

If Jonathan had somehow managed to survive in the jungle after being “lost,” perhaps the wild man had seen him.

Jane looked back out through the window, moving close enough that she could feel the breeze. But it was a vast, dark, dangerous jungle.

She shook her head. It would have been unlikely that the two men crossed paths—if indeed there was a path to cross. Likely…oh, likely, Jonathan had fallen to his death or been otherwise killed when he was separated from Kellan.

She must accept that fact.

Making a decision, she tugged off her chemise and slid beneath the light coverlet on the bed. Then she got back up and pulled down the mosquito netting Efremina had tacked to the top of the window. That would, at least, keep out any small insects.

Jane settled in bed again, all at once very tired after a day filled with such activity. Hiking, swimming, running, struggling….

Pulsing.

Throbbing.

Exploding.

Mmmmm.
Aware of the smile curving her lips, Jane closed her eyes and relaxed. The sounds of the night were a wild but soothing rhythm as she slipped into repose.

She must have slept, for all at once she was awake.

A hard, warm body covered hers. Hands grasped her hips, shoving her against the wall. Long, soft hair brushed against her as she opened her eyes to find the wild man there. Against her.

His mouth was everywhere: on her breast, sucking and pulling her nipple taut…on her neck, his tongue sleek as it slid along the length of the sensitive tendon there…then he was covering her mouth, warm and strong and demanding.

“Woman,” he groaned.

Jane could hardly breathe, but her body was hot and alive. She felt a cool stone wall against her back, the heat of his body burning into her from the front. His hands held her in place as he devoured her, sucking, kissing, nibbling. Her head sagged back, her knees giving way as heat and pleasure trammeled through her. Her quim burgeoned, swelling and filling, throbbing like a huge organ between her legs.

She tried to grab at him, to slide her hands over his warm, solid muscles, but she couldn’t seem to find him, to touch him. Everything was a whirl of heat and wet and dark.

Then he pushed her facedown on the bed, his powerful body settling behind her, pulling her legs apart with firm, measured movements. Her thighs were wet and his fingers slipped through her juices as he spread her wide. He was like an animal, with growls, grumbles and soft keening sounds coming from the back of his throat.

“Man,” he grunted, roughly, sharply arranging her with her legs open and her rump lifted. Her face was buried in the mattress, her arms somehow helpless and unmoving on top of the blanket. “Woman. Fuck woman,” he growled.

When he rammed inside her, Jane cried out in pleasure and pain. He filled her, deep and thick. Her quim closed tightly around him, wet and welcome, already throbbing with release. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow. He pounded.He had no mercy, no care as he slammed deep into her, over and over, his hands curled around her breasts, his face in the back of her neck, hot and fierce. He growled in her ear, his sounds like the animal he was, deep and wordless. Feral.

Jane lost herself, her place, her words as pleasure and heat flooded her. She curled her own fingers into the bed, holding tightly as the hot pulsing pleasure rose inside her, filling her high and fast and hard. Her vision was red and dark, her body dripping and swelling everywhere. His hands, his cock…she tightened around him, her body seizing up and at last she shattered….

Awake.

Jane’s eyes flew open. She was gasping for air, as if she’d been running. Her blanket was on the floor, and her body was hot and damp
everywhere.

And she was alone.

Gasping, she stared up at the bamboo rafters, trying to come back to reality, to pull herself from a dream that had been both frightening and compelling. “Oh my God,” she breathed, whispering into the darkness, the back of her hand settling over her eyes as she fought for sanity.

She shivered at the memory of the wild man, fucking her savagely in some den-like cave. She’d wanted it. She’d
wanted
it.

Shamed and mortified by her thoughts and the path of her dreams, she shifted, her hand falling away. Her gaze moved toward the window.

He was there.

Jane barely stifled a shriek. She closed her eyes and opened them again…yes. He was there.

He crouched on the edge of the window, holding onto the frame, his knees against his chest. The mosquito net hung uselessly to the side.

The curve of his muscles and the square width of his shoulders were outlined by the silvery celestial light of moon and stars. A soft breeze ruffled his springy curls and danced all the way over to Jane’s hot, moist skin. He was positioned such that she could see only a hint of his features: the bare outline of his mouth and the slender length of his nose. One hand curved around the window frame next to him.

Their eyes met and even from the distance, in the faulty light, she read the heat in his. Desire blazed there. His chest was rising and falling just as quickly as hers had been.

Something hot billowed inside her, rushing from her chest up her throat to her cheeks, and down over her belly to the very alive and awake little pearl hooded in its quim. Her heart slammed in her ribcage. She couldn’t swallow, her mouth was dry.

“Woman,” came a very hoarse whisper from the shadowy figure. His arm moved, sleek and muscular, gesturing toward her. Then his hand shifted, settling back into the shadow of his torso as if pointing to himself. “Man.”

Jane was still struggling for breath—a combination of arousal, shock, and mortification. But it took only a moment for her to realize that, surprisingly, she wasn’t frightened by his appearance—nor did she feel threatened as she had done with Kellan Darkdale.

She licked her lips nervously. She knew what she wanted.
Oh, dare I?
His gaze held hers and she felt anticipation pounding through her in time with her heart pounding.

Her fingers trembling, she raised her hand toward him. “Man,” she said, and then gestured. “Come.”

If she’d expected him to leap from the window and launch himself ravenously upon her, she was bound to be surprised. For a moment, he didn’t move, and she thought perhaps he didn’t understand.

But he’d stilled, as if holding his breath. The chamber became very quiet. Expectant. As if something sparked or sizzled.

At last, he climbed from his perch on the window, smoothly and gracefully, into the room, bringing with him a faint essence of spice and freshness. He stood for a moment, looking down at her pale body sprawled among twisted, rumpled sheets. Her hair was plastered to her damp skin like the vines that had entrapped her earlier. She heard his breathing shift, as if he allowed himself to draw in a deep breath at last, and she felt, rather than saw, him inhale her essence, sniffing, as a wild cat would do when scenting its prey.

His prey
.

A little shiver skittered over Jane’s belly and arms, lifting the hair there in expectation and anticipation. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

He knelt next to the bed, and she suddenly realized she wanted to sit up; she
should
sit up, take on a position of control—

But he raised his hand and, palm flat, fingers wide, he gently but firmly pressed her back down.

Jane knew he could feel her heart pounding beneath his hand, and her chest rising and falling. She had no illusions about this at least. Surely he could read her emotions, just as an animal could read the fear and apprehension in its prey.

The wild man’s hand slid down over the valley between her breasts, his fingers just brushing an aching nipple, then skimmed over her belly. Her skin shuddered and leapt, tightening and trembling at the light, warm touch that moved down, down…closer to where she ached and throbbed.

Jane smothered a groan, biting her lip as his hand slipped down over her mound and then into the full, slick wetness of her quim. She struggled not to cry out as his fingers slid over her hot, sensitive lips, making soft, sticky wet sounds that cried of her arousal.

His touch was light, too light, as if he were exploring tentatively. Jane shifted impatiently, and immediately he pulled back, rearing away onto his haunches like a pet being corrected.

She moaned in frustration and reached out, snatching his hand and bringing it firmly, sharply, to her quim. His wrist was wide and warm, and his fingers, long and slender. She curled her hand around his, showing him how to touch her, how to move sleekly through the folds of her hot, juicy labia. Stroke, slip, slide, rub…
rub
….

It didn’t take long for him to learn how to tease and tickle, playing with her little tight pearl and fingering her swollen opening. When he slipped a digit deep inside, Jane arched in surprise and pleasure, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

He paused for a moment, but she lifted her hips and he understood, plunging his finger in deeper, up to the knuckle, sliding right along beneath the sensitive hood of her little pearl. She shifted and moved, riding him, reaching for his arm to hold onto, wondering where his cock was…wanting to feel and touch him somehow in the blaze of red heat that had her writhing and shuddering against him. She found his shoulders, wide and muscular, damp and warm, clutching them. He tightened beneath her touch, his muscles bunching and shifting as she pulled him closer…holding on for dear life. Her tiny pearl was ready, hard and exposed, bumping against his hand, and she ground against him, panting, gasping for release.
Please, oh please, ohplease….

When he drew away his hand before she finished, Jane wanted to scream…but her cry was choked off when he planted his hands on her thighs and held her in place. Open. Her fingers fell away from his shoulders as he bent his head toward her.

She heard his breathing change—become faster and deeper—and she held her own breath, waiting. Her quim seemed to fill and swell, her tiny pea expanding in anticipation and need. She felt him draw in a breath, inhale her, and the image excited her. His fingers closed tighter over her thighs as if to anchor them there.

Jane shuddered in frustration and shifted, trying to lift her hips and quim closer to him. When at last something touched her there—quick as lightning, hot and sleek—she had to stuff a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out.
Yes!
She pulsed and throbbed harder, hotter, and again he swiped out tentatively with his tongue…just quick enough to set her to quivering, but leaving her raw and sensitive and crying.

“Please,” she moaned behind her hand, her eyes squeezed shut, her hips thrusting up as much as his grip would allow. “Man…fuck…woman.”

He stilled for a moment, but didn’t, as she’d hoped, pull away and shove himself inside her. No, he paused, as if trying to understand her, then, as if comprehending that whatever she meant to say, she wasn’t warning him off, he bent back to her again. This time, his tongue was wide and thick, swiping and teasing and lapping at her juices as her quim surged and filled.

His strokes were slow, maddeningly slow,
tortuously
slow, as if he meant to explore and memorize every fold and crevice of her…and yet Jane had never felt such intense pleasure as she felt herself burgeoning red and hot and desperate. She twisted and bucked, writhing and urging herself as he held her in place, tasting and sucking on her ready, full flesh.

“Oh,” she cried into her fist as she suddenly found the peak, arching and coiling up and over into a hot, loud, splintering orgasm.
Ohhhh.

She collapsed flat back on the bed, gasping for breath, her insides full, her quim quivering and pulsing, her limbs weighty and still.

He seemed to understand that he could release her now, that he could slip his light, gentle fingers over the sated, full lips of her quim. She gave a little shudder, sighing softly, and trembled a bit as he trailed his touch along the inside of one of her thighs.

When his touch left her, Jane opened her eyes at last. He knelt next to her bed, close enough for her to see his eyes, dark and blazing with desire and…pride. Such pride that she gave a little shiver at the pure maleness of it.