Atlantean's Quest Volume 1 Page 5

  He had the urge to mark her as his own. Claim her for all time. His hard cock jumped within its confines, demanding the freedom to seek her warm channel.

  Not until after the ceremony. The seer’s warning echoed in his mind.

  Eros ran a lone finger along the edge of her lace panties, then pulled out his knife, lifted the seam and sliced them off. He brought the material to his nose, inhaling again, then quickly tucked the ruined panties into a pouch in his loincloth. His finger delved among her slick folds and into her wet slit, gently separating the petals that hid her fiery pearl.

  Rachel mewled.

  Her juices gushed over his hand. He brought the finger to his mouth and slipped it inside, tasting her for the first time. His mouth exploded in sensation, savoring, relishing, and filing her unique flavor for future reference.

  Exotic like forbidden fruit, she was truly a gift from the goddess.

  He pulled the finger from his mouth, maneuvering his bulk to the end of the cot, before slipping both hands onto her rounded thighs, carefully separating them enough until he could press his wide shoulders between her legs. Her breathing came out ragged with anticipation.

  Eros pulled her down until her bottom hit the lip of the cot. She was exposed and dripping, longing for what he would give her.

  She murmured, seemingly unable to form coherent words.

  He slipped a finger inside her velvet sheath. “Do you like this, little one?”

  A long, needy moan pushed past her lips. Eros worked his finger in and out of her. The muscles of her hungry channel gripped him, beckoning him, pulling him back inside. He added another finger.

  She was tight, very tight. She would need much preparation before she’d be able to accommodate his massive cock. He removed his fingers from her moist folds. He needed more. Eros lowered his head between her legs and stuck out his six-inch tongue, stiffening it in preparation for entry. His eyes met hers a second before he plunged inside her passage.

  She gasped and whimpered. Her body rippled. He fucked her with his tongue, lapping at her folds in between each thrust, branding her. His thumb found her clit. He applied pressure to the hidden treasure with each circling pass.

  She cried out softly, her heated flesh singing beneath his masterful touch. Her body began to tremble and quake, riding on the razor’s edge of desire. He continued to plunder for a few minutes more, devouring her juices. Her muscles tensed.

  Eros paused, his arms quivering from restraint. He met her eyes and waited for the word he needed to hear her utter. Say it, he willed her to obey.

  She gasped, making keening noises deep in her throat, then tilted her sex to entice him to finish.

  He remained firm, even though it killed him to do so.

  “Eros, please…,” she whimpered.

  The sound of her uttering his name rocked him to his core. How many years had he waited? Longed for this moment? Eros dove back between her legs, twisting and spiraling his tongue, his mouth frenzied, drunk with the taste of her impending release.

  Giving one last shudder, Rachel came hard, her body rippling with aftershocks as she gripped his tongue.

  Eros fed deep from her endless well, savoring this first encounter.

  He licked her flowing juices, trying to catch every last drop. Satisfied, but far from satiated, he prayed that the memory would last until he could feast upon her once again.

  Mindlessly, Eros stroked the soft down between her legs, petting it for a job well done. His eyes followed her pebble-like nipples moving up and down, until her breathing slowed. The rise and fall of her chest mesmerized, lulling him with its calming rhythm.

  His chin was wet from her release. Eros wiped it with the back of his hand and brushed it off on his loincloth. His cock was painfully hard. He thought it would burst before he’d get a chance to fill her. How he’d last until after the mating ceremony, Eros knew not.

  “Sleep little one.”

  The creatures of the jungle were starting to stir. In a few hours it would be dawn. With great effort, he rose up, quickly buttoning her shirt and moving her back onto the cot.

  Her eyes were drowsy from being sated. He placed a slow burning kiss on her mouth. His teeth nipped at her lower lip, until she allowed him full access, until she surrendered.

  Eros’s heart leapt in triumph.

  He plunged into her deep recesses, tasting the honeyed nectar within. In a dance as old as time itself, her tongue tangoed with his, turning, dipping and rotating, voracious in its demands for a deeper connection.

  Reluctantly he pulled away from her, fighting the primal urges coursing through his body. He replaced the netting around her cot and slipped out the same way he’d come.

  See you tomorrow, my Queen.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  Dawn’s pink tentacles stretched across the vast blue sky. Animals scurried in the underbrush, crunching leaves and small ferns beneath their clawed feet. Filling the air with a dissonant symphony, macaws and parrots squawked, each vying to outdo the other.

  Rachel rubbed her bloodshot eyes. It felt like someone had dumped a pound of sand in them during the night. The strange cry had echoed in her mind, refusing to let her drift off until the wee hours of the morning or at least that’s how it felt. Her head pounded, threatening to roll off her shoulders, while her muscles ached. If she didn’t know any better, Rachel would swear she was hung over.

  To make matters worse she’d had the most erotic dream of her life, similar to the ones she’d had back in New York, but different. More vivid. Last night she’d finally seen her dream man’s face...and he was magnificent. Rachel had spent weeks dreaming about what he’d look like, but hadn’t come close to imagining the true beauty of his masculine features. If anything his sensual face made him even more godlike--or sinful. Her ultimate fantasy. Unlike the times in New York, the dream last night had felt real. Sizzling flesh upon flesh. And that tongue, mmm. Just the thought sent a jolt of electricity slicing through her. She flopped over onto her side. That’s what she got for pulling that stunt at the stream.

  No more masturbating until I return to New York.

  She shook her head, trying to clear the fogginess and inhaled. It was impossible to get a deep breath. The tent smelled like a spice rack had been emptied in it. She sniffed again, then sneezed. Awareness tingled at the back of her mind. Rachel had detected the same aroma last night in her dream. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe the odor was coming from outside and had somehow filtered into her subconscious. She wasn’t going to find out lying here in bed.

  Rachel got up and removed her pajama top. As she folded the cotton she noticed the buttons were off by one. She examined it, then shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d buttoned her sleep shirt the wrong way. Besides, she’d been all thumbs after her impromptu exhibition and the scare down by the water.

  The top hit her bare abdomen as she folded it once more. Rachel glanced down. Where was her black lace underwear? She looked at the cot. Had she gotten so caught up in the dream that she’d slipped them off during the night? She shook out the sleeping bag, then tossed it aside and searched the cot. When that failed to yield results, Rachel lifted the cot and looked underneath. Where could she have put them? She’d heard of vivid wet dreams, but this was ridiculous.

  Her stomach gurgled. Surely not. Rachel had heard of people doing strange things in their sleep, but she refused to believe that she’d somehow eaten her underwear. It wasn’t like she’d gone to bed hungry. That slip of black lace had to be here somewhere. Her gaze landed on her pack, which was tucked on the other side of the tent. She snagged the canvas bag off the ground and searched through her folded clothes. Still no undies. Confused and more than a little embarrassed by her obvious lack of control, Rachel donned clean clothes and pulled her hair back, securing the mop under a New York Yankees baseball cap. As she rolled her sleeping bag and folded all her things into her pack, she vowed never to tell anyone about last night. Jac and Brigit woul
d never let her live it down.

  She pulled a rose colored lipstick out of one of the shirt pockets, then quickly applied it without the use of a mirror. No sense roughing it too much. Rachel was about to untie the flaps on the door when a flash of sunlight out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She walked to the back wall of her tent, and saw that a thin line of light shown through. Her brow furrowed as she examined the fabric. The slice was clean, as if it had been cut, not ripped.

  Just like the back of the equipment tent.

  Fear gripped her in a tight fist, sending the air rushing from her lungs. Rachel ran her hands along the rough edges of the three-foot opening. Her heart began to pound frantically in her chest until she thought it might crack a rib. With trembling fingers she pulled the area apart. It opened to the jungle.

  She looked into the heavy underbrush. Her eyes scanned the thick growth, searching for anything that could put an end to her growing panic.

  He wasn’t a dream, the little voice in her mind screamed.

  “It’s not possible,” she said aloud. “I made him up.”

  Rachel dropped the flap and headed to the front of her tent. This was not happening. There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe the tent had been like that when she went to bed last night. Or maybe one of the guides had cut it like they’d cut the back of the communications’ tent. It took her three tries to get the flap unzipped. Her hands refused to stop shaking. Rachel rushed outside before full-blown panic could overtake her.

  People bustled around the fire. The wet jungle air surrounded her, enticing, beckoning, and thankfully calming her rising anxiety. She had to get a grip. She scanned the faces around her, searching for an inkling of familiarity and found none.

  Last night she’d let a stranger caress her, kiss her, and make love to her with his tongue. Was it the same man who had watched her at the stream? Had she issued an unspoken invitation when she’d put on the erotic show? It had seemed so harmless at the time.

  She shook her head in denial. The jungle was already making her crazy. Making her see and do things she wouldn’t normally do in her everyday life. Or at least making her think she had done them. Rachel rubbed her forehead.

  Was it possible to get jungle fever in a day? Rachel didn’t think so, and besides sudden onset illness didn’t explain her missing underwear. Pull it together.

  The smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling permeated her senses, bringing her back from her reverie. Her stomach growled. This time with true hunger pangs. Rachel considered reporting the incident, but if her dream man was real—doubtful--he was probably long gone by now. There wouldn’t be anything the Professor or the guides could do.

  Rachel walked to the table where breakfast had been laid out. She grabbed a slice of bacon and popped it into her mouth, eating it while she took in the rest of the offerings. She spied a corn muffin, reached for it and took a big bite. It crumpled in her mouth, the sweet taste blending deliciously with the saltiness of the bacon. She found a mug and poured herself a cup of the black java and took a sip, testing the temperature. The bitter liquid washed the muffin down.

  It was amazing how being out in the middle of nowhere changed your perception of what tasted good. And changed your perception of reality. Rachel frowned and took another sip, catching a few grounds in the process. The coffee might work as paint thinner, but it would never be Starbucks.

  Donald Rumsinger exited a tent with his khakis on. A young native man peered out through the flaps behind him, shoulders slumped, a hollow look upon his face. The Professor shoved some money into the man’s outstretched hand, his lip curled with disgust. The native raced from the tent and straight into the jungle without looking back.

  Rachel glared at the ”talking walrus”. The man was a parasite. Part of her hoped they went home empty-handed just so he’d be embarrassed. The Professor just smiled, spreading his arms wide and patting his stomach as if nothing was amiss.

  She took her coffee and walked to the fire. Already the jungle’s temperature spiked near eighty and it wasn’t even six yet. Rachel sipped her coffee, watching the rest of the camp come to life.

  Men started moving belongings to the center circle and taking down the tents. Equipment was packed in heavy-duty crates and loaded, some into the plane and others onto strong native backs. Their busy movements reminded Rachel of an ant farm, coordinated, precise, and organized.

  “You have time to go down to the stream if you want, Dr. Evans,” Donald called out.

  Rachel shuddered.

  She didn’t know if she wanted to go back to the stream after what had occurred last night. It would be like returning to the scene of the crime, a painful reminder of her one wild hair that had gotten out of hand. A picture of her gun flashed in her mind.

  On second thought…

  She finished her coffee and headed in the direction of the stream. In the daylight the trail was much easier to traverse. Soft vegetation and century old trees wrapped around each other trying to choke the life from one another in a fight for survival. She reached the water’s edge and searched the area—the pistol was nowhere to be found.

  Rachel skirted the rim of the trees, pushing aside plants and shrubs, but still no gun. She was about to turn and head back up the trail when something caught her attention.

  She crouched and moved the lush grass aside. In the mud, as plain as day, was a smudged footprint. A very large, oversized man’s bare footprint. She stood and placed her own booted foot inside the impression.

  The print dwarfed her foot by at least eight inches.

  Chills rolled down her spine and up her arms, leaving goosebumps. She felt the blood drain from her face as she gazed at the deceptively peaceful looking jungle. The giant shadowy figure from last night flashed through her mind. Who was he? And why had he visited their camp?

  She glanced down at the print and shivered. Whoever he was now had her gun.

  Rachel returned to the camp, her nerves on edge. She walked straight across the clearing to Dr. Rumsinger. “I need to have a word with you.” She pulled off her ball cap and ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair.

  Donald scowled. “Can’t it wait, Evans? I’m busy.”

  “No, Professor it can’t.” Her voice firmed as she eyed the ruddy-faced man with disdain.

  He waved his hand in an impatient gesture. “Well then, out with it and make it snappy. We should have been gone from here an hour ago.”

  Rachel took a deep breath before launching into her cause for concern. “I found a footprint down by the water. And last night…I think someone entered my tent.”

  The Professor shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Really, Dr. Evans, that’s no surprise. A dozen or so men have already been down by the water doing their morning ablutions.” He curled his thick lips back. “As for your personal habits, I don’t want to hear about your secret liaisons.”

  “Liaisons?” Rachel clenched her fists. “This isn’t a joke, Professor. I’m serious.”

  “Was it an animal?” He glanced over his glasses. “You know there are a lot of species here in the jungle.”

  “I realize that.” Her voice rose in pitch as her patience fell away. “It wasn’t that kind of print. I’m sure of it.” Rachel brought her hand to her forehead, rubbing it back and forth as she considered the possibilities. The print had been smeared, but it definitely looked like a human foot. Was she overreacting? Was it one of the natives?

  “Would you like to know what I discovered?” Donald’s eyes sparked fire, then he frowned and pulled Rachel’s pistol from one of his pockets. “You’re irresponsible, Dr. Evans. And you are wasting my time.”

  Rachel flushed with embarrassment. Just her luck, of all the people who could have found her gun, Donald was the one. Before she could reach out and grab the pistol, the Professor snatched it back and slipped it into his pocket, patting the barrel for good measure.

  “You were saying?”

  Rachel cleared her throat. “The p-print was
large.” She twisted her fingers. “About two and a half to three sizes larger than my foot.”

  The Professor glanced down at Rachel’s feet, then at her face and sniffed. “It wouldn’t take much to be larger than your feet, Dr. Evans. Now, I really must get back to work. We’re out of here in ten minutes. Stop acting like a hysterical female. I expect professionalism on this expedition. If you can’t handle that, then I suggest you go back to New York.” With that said, he turned on his heel and left her standing with her mouth agape.

  “Asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that, Dr. Evans?” he said over his shoulder.

  “Nothing.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Rachel’s palms hurt from her nails digging into them. She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. It was no use taking anything to the Professor. It was like talking to a stump. She returned to oversee the dismantling of her tent, but not before flipping the bird at the bastard’s arrogant backside.

  * * * * *

  They had been hiking through the jungle for three hours when the Professor called for a break. Rachel was grateful, but would never tell him. She couldn’t stand the ”I told you so” look that would cross his pudgy face.

  The pack on her back seemed to get heavier by the hour, like a leaded weight. Rachel shrugged it off her knotted shoulders and set it down on the ferns growing about her feet.

  The tops of the trees swayed gently, rustling with a breeze, but the light wind didn’t reach the jungle floor. Down here the air was musky, heavy with humidity, and damn near suffocating. On the occasion that it did stir, Rachel caught the scent of orchids and lilies, although she had yet to see any of the elusive blooms.

  Vines and lianas tangled their corded lengths around the tree trunks, in thick black ropes that looked like sprouting hair. Primordial tree ferns grew rampant, adding to the overall denseness of the jungle. One wrong turn and she could be lost out here forever.

  Rachel stretched her weary muscles. Her back hurt and her bones cracked as she moved her hips side to side. Her feet were aching from the blisters that had formed, worse than the time she’d tried to break in a pair of stilettos on Madison Avenue.