No. No!
I get a hold of my beast with both hands and drag him back. I am not that male. I am not one of those feral beasts. I am not ruled by instinct and impulse and blood. I am her protection. I will be her protection, or so fucking help me.
“I’m sorry.” She’s whispering it. Stricken. Her eyes dart away from mine. “I didn’t mean to watch you. I…was shocked.”
And then I get a nose full of her.
Fuck.
Her pussy is wet. She’s turned on. I can smell it on her, warm and salty and female. My mouth fills with saliva, and my already rock-hard cock gets even harder.
No!
Fuck!
Her breasts look bigger somehow. The lace of her bra is damp, and her breasts strain against it with every breath she pulls in; her nipples are hard ripe cherries beneath the fabric. She’s breathing fast, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pulls that do nothing at all to help me.
“You’re turned on,” I tell her.
It isn’t an accusation. It’s just a fact. I’m shocked by it.
She licks her lips, a slow drag of her tongue. Then she shakes her head, the gesture loose and unconvincing. “No… I…um…no…”
“Don’t deny it.” My voice comes out low and even. “You’re wet, and?—”
The sound hits us both at the same time.
A crash, somewhere in the undergrowth. Close. Not an animal. Too heavy for that, too deliberate, with none of the skittish randomness of jungle wildlife. Then another. Then a third.
I go still.
At least three of them just landed and are now moving through the brush, and they’re not bothering to be quiet about it,which means they either haven’t picked up our scent yet or they don’t care.
I press one finger to my lips and look at Carla.
She nods once. Her face has gone the color of chalk. Her terror makes something in my chest pull tight.
I scoop her up, one arm under her knees and one behind her back, and start moving. My feet find the soft ground, the grass between the roots, the paths of least resistance. I make almost no sound at all. She doesn’t either. She goes rigid in my arms, one hand gripping the back of my neck, and she presses her face into my shoulder.
I need to make for the fig tree. It’s the best we’re going to get right now. If those males swing this way, the hollow inside gives us a fighting chance of going undetected. I could take three of them. Probably four if I had to, but the noise would carry. It would draw more of them, and then I’d be dealing with a different problem entirely.
I get her to the opening and lower her to her feet, angling her toward the gap in the trunk. She goes in first without being asked, and I follow, pulling a few vines across the entrance as I go. I do it with care, because any more than a gentle tug would rustle the leaves and make exactly the kind of sound I’m trying to avoid.
Fuck.
It’s not enough. I know it isn’t. The mud on her wore off while she slept, and she smells too much like herself again. Like warm skin, unmistakably female. We have another problem right now.
Her pussy.
She’s still wet. Wet for me, which is information I don’t need right now, and it’s there anyway.
Carla is wet for me.
Holy shit.
I am in so much fucking trouble.
I keep very still and focus on the sounds outside instead of on her. Carla is plastered against me, and she’s shaking. She’s fucking terrified. The thought dulls my lust to something more manageable. I lower my mouth to the shell of her ear.
