Last Hope

by Jessica Clare

  “It might be the only food we have for the next week.”

  Well, that answers it. I guess I have to. I unwrap it and when Rafe makes no move to eat the second one himself, I snap it in half and offer him one portion. “I need you to stay strong, too, just in case someone needs to wrestle a gator.”

  A ghost of a smile touches his face. “Alligators are shyer than you think.”

  They weren’t the only ones. I take a bite of the bar and gag on the flavor. Peanut butter granola. Dry. Stale. Terrible. I eat every bite, though, and lick the crumbs off my filthy fingers. Rafe does the same, and then we wash it down with more rainwater.

  “Breakfast of champions,” I say dryly. “Nummy.”

  He brushes off his long fingers and I think for a hungry moment that he should have let me lick them clean. That’s the stomach talking, though. He’s probably touched all kinds of unsavory stuff out here in the jungle.

  Like his penis.

  Okay, I really need to get his dick out of my head. Focus, Ava. Focus. “So what do we do now?” I ask Mendoza, and then slap at my cheek, where a bug lands. Then I scratch my arm, because I’m covered in bug bites. I’m trying not to notice them but I feel bitten and itchy all over.

  They seem to like my paler, softer skin to Mendoza’s bronzed tan. Bastard. I swat at another.

  He approaches me as I slap the bugs, and then he holds his hand out. “Give me your arm.”

  I do, curious, and he examines my wrist and upraised welts. I’ve clawed at the bites all night and a few of them look pretty rough. “You haven’t broken anything. We could wrap it up, just to keep you from hitting things, but the swelling should go down. As for the bites . . . you’re going to tear yourself up, Ava,” he says. “We should mud up.”

  “Mud . . . up?” I laugh. “What, because we’re not dirty enough?”

  “To cover our exposed skin. Keep us from getting bitten even more.”

  I don’t like the thought of voluntarily getting even filthier, but just then another bug lands on me. I swat it away. “Let’s do it.”

  “Come on,” he tells me. “Let’s head for the river.”

  We pack up our small amount of things. Mendoza’s got our tiny bundle of firewood wrapped in the pilot’s old jacket and he’s used one sleeve with a knot at the end to hold our supplies. In it goes the extra clothing, the water bottle, and some halfway-wet wood. I hope it dries up tonight enough for a fire. I don’t think I can take another night in the cold, wet rainforest.

  The other sleeve he’s cut and torn into strips that he uses to create a sling for my arm. He lets me decide when to use it. When we walk, I find it helps to cut down on the jarring.

  I let Mendoza take the lead and I fall in behind him. He’s all peppy and full of energy this morning, and I am definitely . . . not. It was the worst night of sleep I’ve ever had. First, I was cold and sore. Then, Mendoza pulled me against him, and that fixed the cold thing. But every time I moved a muscle, he snapped at me. I spent most of the night afraid to move, his enormous dick pressed against my side. Snuggling for warmth should have been more pleasant than it was.

  And then, of course, there was the rain and the bugs and by the time dawn rolled around, I wanted to cry from sheer exhaustion.

  I don’t, of course. I’m stuck here and I have to save Rose. Crying won’t get me out of the jungle or stop the bugs from biting. So I’ll just have to suck it up and keep going.

  Rafe moves through the bushes, using a long pole to swat and skim at the ground, trying to flush out anything that bites. It makes moving slow, but safe. It also gives me a lot of time to study his back. And his backside. When his legs move, I can see a heavy bulge resting on one side of his pants leg, telling me that I need to change my initial speculation from “club” to “baseball bat.”

  God, I am such a pervert for creeping on a dude that’s trying to save my ass. I’m not a size queen, but I’m morbidly fascinated by a guy with such enormous equipment. I mean, if I had the world’s biggest tits, I guess I’d expect him to stare at those, right? Or ask questions? I think it’s only reasonable.

  I still feel like a jerk for thinking about it, though, so I try to think of something else. Anything. And my mind goes to Rose. My sweet, gullible friend with such a trusting nature and such shitty taste in men. I picture her pretty face, and the way she was tied up in those photos on Duval’s phone, and now I want to cry. I clear my throat and blink back tears. “So, hey, Rafe?”

  “Yeah?” he says, pushing aside a big leaf so I can walk under it.

  “You think Rose is still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” he says bluntly. “They might kill her, or they might keep her alive if she has use to them.”

  I wince. “Thanks for softening the blow.”

  He glances back at me and then grimaces. “Sorry. The truth is always best, even if it stings. False expectations only lead to dashed hopes.”

  Well, he’s got a point there. I go back to ogling his butt (because really, it’s a nice one) and nearly run into his back when he stops abruptly.

  “Caiman,” he tells me. “Don’t move.”

  Caiman? I squeak and hide behind him, since he’s the one with the knife. “Like a crocodile caiman?”

  “Two different things,” he says in a calm, low voice, eyes scanning the distance. “Just stay still.”

  “Okay,” I say, and press my body up against his back, because I’m terrified. I slip my hand out of the sling and wrap my arms around his waist. His back is broad enough that if I hunch down, maybe hungry caimans won’t notice me. I press my cheek to his spine and close my eyes.

  Minutes pass. Long, long freaking minutes. I get nervous, because I hear splashing, but we’re still not budging. Under my cheek, I hear Rafe’s heart racing, but he’s not moved a muscle. I open my eyes again and try to peer over his shoulder. “Are they gone?”

  “Soon,” he says, and his voice is a bit strangled.

  “Can I see?” I whisper in his ear. “Is it safe?”

  “Shh,” he says, and quietly removes my arms from his waist, careful not to touch my bruised hand and wrist. He’s pulling me away from him, and I can guess the reason why. Hands at his belt are too close to below the belt.

  For some reason, that annoys me. Not again. Are we going to have to go through this constantly? Pussyfooting around the fact that he’s got a big dick and he’s attracted to me?

  Can’t a girl climb on a man in terror without him getting wood?

  We need to get past this. I refuse to sleep another night afraid to move a muscle because Mendoza gets a stiffy the size of a rowboat. Something has to change. We have to become more comfortable with each other if we’re going to survive. It’s stressing me out and I feel stressed enough as it is.

  “It’s gone,” Mendoza says after a long moment. I’m still stewing, so I don’t respond. He prods the ground in front of him and then gestures for me to follow. “Come on.”

  I make a face at his back, but I follow.

  I’ve heard the river in the background all night, but this is my first chance to see it. Churning brown water filled with logs and debris meets my eyes. It’s wide and looks deep, and trees overhang on both sides. The banks are muddy and steep. It looks rather forbidding. “Please tell me we’re not going swimming in that,” I say faintly.

  “Can’t,” he says. “Piranhas.”

  “Oh good,” I say sarcastically. “Thank God there are man-eating fish in the closest body of water. That sure makes me feel safe.”

  “Stay here,” he says, and moves toward the riverbank. “It’s steep so I’ll get the mud for us.”

  “Not moving,” I say, hugging my arms to my chest. Piranhas, caimans, bugs, and bird-eating spiders. Boy, camping sure is fun. Boy, I never want to leave the city ever again.

  Rafe slides a leg toward the steep riverbank, using his walking stick to brace himself on the side of the bank. He gets a handful of mud and then climbs back toward me. “Here, I’ll do you.�
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  “Please do.” Damn it, even that sounds ridiculously oversexed. I turn my back and lift my hair, and he slathers wet mud on my neck. And I can’t help it. I squeal and shudder a bit.

  I hear him inhale sharply. He pauses, and then his hand brushes across my shoulders brusquely. “Hang on,” he says in a flat voice. “I’ll get more mud.”

  I turn and look as he heads back to the river, and sure enough, he’s sporting another erection. This can’t continue. We need to be a team. And not in a sexual way. Just comfortable with each other if nothing else, and it isn’t going to work if he’s constantly worried about touching me. Right now? He could grope my tits and if it was for my safety, I wouldn’t care. It wouldn’t be a turn-on, but I wouldn’t lose my shit.

  I’m not so sure about Mendoza.

  Another thought occurs to me as he returns to my side and slathers more mud across my shoulders and down my good arm. What if the erections are a reaction to discomfort at being around me? I make him uncomfortable and his body responds in an embarrassing way? Kind of like dick Tourette’s? I feel a stab of sympathy for him. He’s so big and tough in every other way that I can’t imagine him being so uncomfortable around me.

  An idea flashes in my head.

  I’m a firm believer in taking this sort of thing head-on. So once he finishes smoothing the mud down my arm, I turn around and start to remove my shirt.

  “Ava? What are you doing?”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I tell him, hauling off my shirt. “Let’s get it all out in the open, okay?” No more wondering, no more speculating. I’ll see his dick will be normal-sized and I can stop staring at it. He’ll see me naked and realize that I should lose about fifteen to twenty pounds. Plus, I’m covered in bug bites.

  We’ll have a good laugh at each other’s parts and then we’ll be comfortable around each other. End of story.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RAFAEL

  She’s taking off her shirt. Holy mother of God. Her tits are barely covered by some lace that is almost the same color as her skin. She’s got nipples the size of erasers that are barely covered by a seam in the fabric, and the juicy flesh looks like it is ready to burst out of its restraints. As all the blood in my body drains south, I sway like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. I can’t walk or speak. I can only stare.

  My pants are so tight I’m afraid I’m going to pass out from blood loss.

  I lick my very dry lips, imagining what it would be like to take one of those fat nipples in my mouth and run my tongue around the dusky areola. My hands itch to cup the abundant breasts and see if they overflow my own big hands.

  I swipe the back of my hand across my mouth, forgetting I’m coated in Amazon mud. As the slimy, gritty sand coats my lips and tongue, I’m roused from my lust-induced trance. I conjure up the image of the last woman I laid hands on. See her blood, hear her screams. Remember the horror and fear and disgust that everyone around me wore. Spitting the sand to the ground, I snatch up her shirt and shove it to her. “What the fuck are you doing? Put this on.”

  “No, we’re having it out right here.” She jerks away and the motion makes her breasts jiggle.

  If possible, Godzilla swells even larger. A menacing rumble echoes between us. Her eyes widen when she realizes it’s from me. I shake the shirt in front of her. My desire for her is overriding all the shame and self-loathing I can muster.

  “Put this on.” I enunciate each word so she can’t mistake my meaning.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rafe, you are acting like a maiden aunt who’s never had sex before,” she jokes.

  I freeze, just for a second, but she sees it. She sees my hesitation and I know the minute that she connects all the dots because her eyes widen and her mouth forms this perfect fuckable circle. Not one that I could get my dick into.

  “Holy shit,” she breathes. “How is that possible? Look at you? You’re gorgeous. I mean, surely you’ve had offers? Is it a religious reason? Are you a monk? Like a warrior monk?”

  I lunge at her but with my jacked-up eye and a forgotten pool of mud that I was using to cover her at my feet, I misjudge the distance and slip. She grabs for me but she loses her balance, too. I clutch her to me and twist so that her fragile, unprotected, naked skin isn’t touched by the dirt or rocks or branches. When her legs fall around my waist and she places her hands on my chest to push upright, I nearly come.

  I’m dry tinder in the middle of the desert at noon and she’s the spark. My whole frame is seized with lust and my judgment is choked to death by desire. That’s the only explanation I have for digging my mud-caked hand in her dark hair and pulling her roughly against me.

  She yelps in surprise when her mouth meets mine, but her lips part and her tongue darts out to lick the seam of my lips. I open under her assault. And then I can’t remember who started what, only that her mouth is wet and hot and her tongue is aggressive.

  I open my mouth wide as if by doing so I can suck every ounce of pleasure out of her. I trace each lip with my tongue and then delve inside to stroke the insides of her cheeks, the roof of her mouth. I drag my tongue across the surface of hers as if I could tattoo my taste buds with her flavor.

  And she kisses me back.

  I drive my tongue into her mouth again and again. She curls her little tongue around mine, licking me with each stroke. I grab her ass and move her until her pussy is riding my cock. I know it’s huge. I know I could cleave her in two by trying to shove inside her body, but God I want to.

  More than anything I want to rip down her pants, spread her legs, and plunge inside what I presume will be the hottest, tightest, wettest snatch in mankind.

  Get off her, I yell at myself, but my mind isn’t in control right now. All thoughts of the curse, of the pain I inflicted in the past, of the warnings of my mother, of the beatings that she inflicted to make me learn my lessons, are subsumed by the blood that pounds heavily in my veins.

  My cock strains against the zipper and she writhes against me. I don’t let her go for a minute because I know if I do, she’ll jump away from me and look at me as if I’m a freak. Even though I’m dying to tongue her nipples, which have hardened into tight points that are drilling themselves into my chest. Even though I would like nothing more than for her to sit her bare cunt on my face so I can eat her out. Despite all this, I won’t stop. For some reason she’s in her own lust fugue state and I’m keeping her there.

  She moans against my mouth, and the vibrations she sets off inside my body are indescribable. My toes actually curl and my legs tense up. I’ve jacked off enough to recognize the signs of an impending orgasm but fuck if I know much about women. I can’t tell by her moan how ready she is.

  I’ve watched porn. I’ve seen chicks squirt all over the camera but I know that shit is fake. Faker than a hooker’s love. I don’t have enough fucking experience to know if she’s going to fucking come.

  My impending failure at pleasing her brings a clarity that I didn’t have before and that I don’t much appreciate. Why don’t I just put my knife into her heart? It would be an easier way for her to die than with the devil in my body. I loosen my grip on her hair but to my surprise she doesn’t climb off or move away from my embrace.

  “Touch me,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “I’ll die if you don’t.”

  Conflict wars inside me. Does she really need me that badly? I place my hand on her back.

  “No, here.” She grabs my hand and places it at her waistband. I may be inexperienced but I’m not dumb. Trembling, I wipe the mud off on my cargo pants. Her skin feels exceptionally soft and very bare. “Keep going,” she whispers as I halt at the place where ordinarily there’s hair on a woman. Instead I encounter no resistance; no soft nest, just bare, bare skin.

  Maybe I’m in a porno. Maybe I’m back on the island and I’m having a really intense dream about spy games and planes blowing up and a gorgeous woman wanting me to finger her. At l
east that’s what this dream girl is indicating. This has to be a dream. Has to. Because it’s too goddamned good.

  I close my eyes then so I can keep dreaming, so I can forget, and I let myself slide my fingers lower and then curve them between her soft thighs. She’s sopping wet under the cotton and it’s so easy to press one finger inside her.

  We both suck in a sharp breath when I ease my long finger inside her. And then we groan as it is sucked in.

  “Another,” she pants.

  I slide another finger into her wet, hot depths, and then when she nods, I use one more. The third meets resistance but she bears down and her walls soften to accept me. I brace the heel of my hand against her clit and then slowly thrust my fingers inside. She moans and shivers and whispers encouragement.

  It’s just my fingers. I’ll just touch her with my fingers. Nothing else and she’ll be safe.

  “Yes, right there. Oh, Rafe, that feels so good.” I curl up and mouth her jawline and then her long, elegant neck down to the erotic curve where the neck becomes shoulder. I can feel her walls tighten and pulse against my fingers. Her own dig into my pectorals, which is its own kind of pleasure.

  I move back up to lick the hidden space behind her ear, and her breath hitches and her cunt walls squeeze my fingers tight.

  “Faster, Rafe. Harder,” she instructs.

  I obey. I plunge my fingers inside hard and fast, setting up a fierce rhythm. She bucks against me, her hips moving rapidly in time with my fingers.

  A stronger man than me, one with more experience or maybe just one who had more control, may have been able to withstand all that rubbing and moaning, or the slick feel of her cunt walls squeezing my fingers so tight I wonder if they’ll break off. Then again, if they do, then they’ve been sacrificed at a worthy altar because, Christ, she feels like heaven. And I can’t take it anymore.

  I plant my feet flat on the ground and thrust upward, completely out of control. She rides me and my fingers like we’re a bucking bronco ride at the seediest cowboy bar in the most remote part of West Texas.