Entwined: Jane in the Jungle (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle: Part 1) (5 page)

The man reached out and she braced herself, not sure whether to expect greedy, grasping hands like Kellan Darkdale’s, or impersonal, efficient ones like Efremina’s. But instead of either, he touched her chest, just above her breasts, right below her throat, with his forefinger. He made a low, growling, rusty sound: “Uh-mun.”

She didn’t move. What was he saying? Was he
claiming
her? Warning her in some native language?

He looked at her, and she could see concentration in his expression. Fierce concentration, and then determination. He touched her again. “Wuh…mun,” he said, more clearly this time and with less effort. Then, “Wo…man.
Woman.
”

Jane sagged in relief, then felt a spark of empathy for the man. He was trying to communicate with her. She could see intelligence in his eyes as his mind worked quickly and with determination. For a moment, his expression reminded her of a schoolboy, concentrating on spelling chrysanthemum, or reciting a half-remembered passage from Shakespeare.

Before she could think how to respond, he thumped himself on the chest. “Man.”

Yes. You are definitely…
man
.

The thought popped into her mind with great force. She shivered, not unpleasantly—and wasn’t certain why. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said, and tried out a wobbly smile.

“Woman,” he said again, the word surprisingly clear and intelligible as he touched her once more. “Man.” He touched himself. This time he smiled.

Jane’s breath caught as a wholly human, completely
male
expression of pride and arrogance accompanied the grin. Aside from that, it had the effect of turning his long face into a pleasing, handsome one with surprisingly bright teeth and attractive creases at the corners of his eyes.

“Yes,” she said, swallowing hard and nodding as she kept her smile in place. “Perhaps now that we have that settled, you’ll…er…assist me?” She gestured as much as she was able, trying to draw his attention to the fact that she was still tied up. “All the blood has rushed from my arms, and they’re going numb.”

The smile faded as he tilted his head to the side, like a bird or dog, cocking an ear as if trying to understand. She saw furrows of concentration in his forehead, and then he winced slightly, as if something had flitted just beyond his grasp.

Jane would have spoken again, but he reached toward her once more. She stilled, holding her breath, as his hand went above her head and she waited for him to loosen her wrist….but instead, he touched her hair.

With a gentle caress, he smoothed his fingers over one of her imprisoned curls. Then, as if growing more confident, he stroked the whole length of it, sliding the lock between two fingers.

“Fahr,” he said. “Fah-er.” His brows knitted in concentration as he stared at his fingers caught in her hair. “Fire.
Fire.
”

Jane wasn’t certain why the wonder in his voice, and the accomplishment reverberating there, made her feel her own sense of pride for him. And why the deep, rusty sound of his voice made odd fluttery feelings come to life inside her belly.

She sensed this man didn’t mean her harm. That he was studying her just as her father studied the delicate tropical butterflies.

Then it occurred to Jane that she, just like the insect specimens in the British Museum, was pinned in place, on display. Imprisoned and vulnerable. Naked.

A wave of apprehension jolted through her with such force that she startled visibly. This seemed to draw the man from whatever reverie he’d been in, apparently mesmerized by her hair. His hand fell from her head to hang at his side once again.

Jane drew in yet another deep breath. She wondered if he would understand this time. “Please,” she said once more. “Help me get free.” And she pulled more violently at the vines, trying to get him to understand her meaning.

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.

“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.