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.
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