The Orchid Hunter

by Sandra K. Moore

  And though he didn’t say it or make any promises, I knew he’d still be there when I woke up.

  A light mist hissed on the hut’s thatched roof. I listened to the water splatting on broad leaves just outside, smelled the clean wetness, and thought, I’m okay. Sometime in the early morning while I slept, the clenched fist of anger and pain and grief had released its grip on my heart. The rain was steady, peaceful. In the distance, Yanomamo voices rose in muted laughter.

  I opened my eyes. Rick’s chest warmed my back, his legs lay comfortably against mine. I extended one leg to stretch and suddenly doubled up, pain knifing through my foot.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, instantly alert.

  “Muscle cramp.”

  He reached down and pulled my toes toward my shin. The hot knife in my instep stopped jabbing, but the ache reverberated through my foot and toes. He swung out of the hammock. “Come here and lie down.” He gestured to his pallet.

  “Why?” I scooted over and sat down, like he asked.

  He knelt.

  “Foot massage.” His strong fingers pressed into the bottom of my right foot. “You’ve earned it.”

  I gave a fleeting thanks that I’d bathed before he pulled this stunt. My boots plus my feet plus an all-night tromp through the jungle equaled nuclear-powered noxious.

  Then I forgot trivialities like baths when his thumb dug gently in just at my big toe’s joint. Pure bliss. His hand cupped my heel. His fingers pressed between my toes, rubbing each in turn, taking his time.

  I opened my eyes. He wasn’t looking at what he was doing. He was looking at me. His slow smile quirked his lips like I liked and shot my blood straight to my sweet spot.

  He switched feet. “How many miles do you think you’ve hiked since you got here?”

  “On this trip so far?”

  He nodded.

  “About forty-eight.”

  “That’s a long way.” His fingers traced circles on the top of my instep and a gentle warmth started easing through my body. “I admire you for that.”

  “You hiked nearly all of them with me,” I said.

  His fingers stilled, then squeezed my foot. “Let me appreciate you, Jessie. You don’t have to hold me at arm’s length.”

  I would have agreed to just about anything at that point, but it felt awkward, his praising me.

  “I know you don’t like hearing it,” he went on, and so did his fingertips, reducing me to something slightly less jiggly than Jell-O. “And I know receptivity isn’t something you’re good at—” here he gave me his bad boy smile “—but try just listening to me for a while. No protests. No sarcasm or smart-alecky remarks. Don’t push me away. Okay?”

  I was about to tell him he had his head up his ass, but he raised my foot and pressed his lips to the sensitive, ticklish stretch of my instep. My temp shot up about ten degrees. Centigrade.

  He gently set my foot on the pallet, then slid his hands up the sides of my legs, over my hips, to my waist. “May I?” he asked, his clever fingers poised to unbuckle my belt.

  I propped myself on my elbows to watch. “I thought there were too many people here.”

  “Right now it’s just us, isn’t it?”

  And for the moment, in this place, with a new day passing outside, it was.

  I nodded.

  He made quick work of the belt and slid my canvas pants down my thighs. When they were off, he folded them neatly and set them aside. What was this guy? A neatnik? He scooted around to kneel at my side and unbutton my shirt, brushing my fingers away when I tried to help.

  “Let me. I want to do this for you. Sit up.”

  His warm eyes darkened as he slipped the shirt from my shoulders. He paused, letting the shirt hang from my elbows, to gaze at my neck, then my shoulders, in my muscle tee. After a moment, he swept the shirt from my arms, folded it, and stacked it on the pants without taking his eyes off me for more than a second. He rubbed the muscle tee’s fabric between his thumb and forefinger before tugging it over my head.

  Down to my sports bra and panties, I wasn’t sure what he would do next.

  He slid his forefinger between the bra strap and my shoulder. He looked me in the eye again, then cupped both hands around my arm and stroked it from shoulder to wrist, taking his time. Then again. And again. Then the other arm.

  “Is this—?” I tried to ask, but he stilled my lips with his fingers.

  “I’m looking. Don’t interrupt.”

  “But you have the advantage.” I glanced meaningfully at his pants where his gloriously cut abs disappeared into the waistband.

  “Take this off,” he said, tugging at my bra strap. “Turn around first.”

  I did as I was told, wondering why he could make me do that when no one else ever had. I pivoted to face my pillow, reached cross-armed, and swept the bra off as elegantly as a heavy-duty piece of underwear could be swept. I heard cloth rustling against his long legs. Then the inevitable folding. He folded my bra, too.

  I wondered what his place looked like. Did he have an apartment or a house? A condo, maybe? What kind of furniture would he have in it? Was he a leather-and-glass kind of guy? Probably all hardwood from sustainable farming efforts if I had to put money on it. But light, like teak, or dark, like cherry? Mahogany, maybe?

  “Lie down.”

  I stretched out on my stomach, now wearing only my sturdy and resolutely unsexy panties. I was still pondering whether he’d have solid or plaid cushions on his sofa when his thumbs found the small of my back, either side of my spine, and pressed.

  Raw and entirely sexual energy exploded deep inside me. The little circles his thumbs made sent warmth flowing like a river of light up my back. I couldn’t move, pinned to the soft pallet partly by the weight of his hands, partly by the intense sensations spiraling up my spine.

  Why had I never tried massage before?

  I lost time and space. All I can say is that his hands worked over every inch of my back, my shoulders, my neck, my arms. Wherever he touched, my body heated up until I was humming like a high-tension power line. His bare knee settled between my thighs as he moved closer, occasionally pressing up against me when he reached for my shoulders and neck. When his fingers started a deeper massage, really kneading, I thought I’d pass out from the pleasure.

  “I was wrong,” he murmured after a while, fanning his hands, sliding them down my back in long strokes. “You’re very receptive.” His fingers slid beneath the elastic on my panties, set my heart to pounding, then retreated. “Turn over.”

  Had he taken off his briefs as well as his pants? Had he left them on? I didn’t know which I wanted, but I was about to find out. Anticipation surged in my core.

  I rolled in place. When I saw the heat in his eyes, I quit thinking about his briefs. Drowning in his gaze. That was the way to go.

  He put his right hand on my stomach just above my panties, barely touching me. Keeping eye contact with me, he slid his hand slowly up the center of my body to stop between my breasts. Moments passed while he knelt there, touching me, not moving.

  “What are you doing?” I finally asked over my skin’s nearly audible hum.

  He smiled. “Synchronizing our breathing. You have so much energy.”

  Then his left hand made the sensuous journey from my panties and he started massaging the top of my chest, leaning over me, his left knee firmly pressing between my thighs, his body heat radiating onto my rib cage. I wished he’d stop playing around and get down to some serious action—my breasts were, after all, right there—but he seemed happy to just stroke and tease and keep me in a high state of hum. If you’d poured water on me I swear it would have sizzled.

  “No, look at me,” he whispered when my eyes closed.

  I did. His brown eyes, so deeply dark, so warm, welcomed me in. Our faces were close enough his breath warmed my cheek. He smelled faintly of sandalwood. His fingers slid up my neck to gently massage the spot under my left ear.

  Kiss me, I mentally begge
d. When I lifted my head slightly to steal a kiss, he caught my face in his hand and smiled.

  “Not yet,” he whispered.

  He lowered my head to the pallet, all the while pressing his knee between my thighs. Evil, evil man.

  Then he stilled, looking at my neck. His finger stroked his pendant.

  “I forgot to give that back to you,” I said. “Here—”

  “Keep it.” His lips tucked into a smile. “It looks good on your skin. Very pretty. I’m going to make love to you,” he went on, keeping up the pressure as he leaned back and trailed his fingertips down my neck, across the top of my chest, and lightly skirted my breasts. “I bet no one’s ever done that before.”

  “I’ve had some great—”

  “I’m not talking about sex. Anyone can have sex.” His fingers made lazy circles around my breasts. “You deserve better than that. And I want more than that.”

  I wasn’t in any position to argue, so I didn’t. I was too busy trying to keep from panting. My skin tingled all over, on the verge of bursting like overripe fruit.

  “The men you’ve had, they haven’t really appreciated you, have they?” He lowered his head and blew on my nipple. “Not really.” Before I knew what he was doing, his tongue dipped out and licked where he’d just blown.

  I groaned. “Nothing like this.” And that was God’s honest truth.

  “A little more massage then,” he said, his eyebrow cocked and Mr. Bedroom Fantasy present and accounted for. When I opened my mouth, he said, “Don’t complain or I’ll make you wait even longer.”

  I clamped my mouth shut.

  His hot hands slipped down my waist and burrowed between my panties and my skin. I lifted my hips obligingly. He eased the panties down over my thighs and calves, over my feet. I looked. He folded them. I sighed.

  He stood then and looked down at me. He wasn’t a huge man, but standing over me while I lay naked on the floor, he looked fantastic. Every lean, sculpted muscle slid beneath his tanned skin as he moved. His smooth chest went to a cut waist and abs, which below his navel went to a single dark arrow of hair aiming at what I wanted. His thighs and calves, which I hadn’t noticed much before, weren’t the gargantuan tree trunks of a bodybuilder but as long and lean as the rest of him, covered with fine hair. His body wasn’t built for brute strength over short distances, but for endurance and versatility.

  I took that as a good sign.

  He slid his thumbs under the waistband of his black briefs and paused. I realized suddenly he was taunting me, teasing me visually as much as he had sensually. My gaze roamed all over him as I hadn’t allowed it to the two other times we’d been naked together, drinking him in. That satisfying bulge wasn’t all I wanted, I realized. I wanted to run my hands over every inch of his body the way he had touched mine, to give back what he had given me.

  I studied his face and the overnight scruff darkening his cheeks and chin. I locked gazes with him and instantly felt the heat surge inside me. He lifted the waistband up and over his erection, slid the briefs down, and stepped out.

  Fold all you want, I thought. Take your time.

  He did. He let me look. And look. He moved the folded clothes from their place on the floor to the duffel bag. He straightened and peered outside for a long moment before making sure the door—a lightweight blanket he’d brought in his gear—was hung properly across the doorway. He walked from the door to the pallet’s foot, then came to kneel next to my left hip.

  I ached with imagining him inside me. What would it take to get this man where I wanted him? He stroked my centerline from chest to my stomach twice, then on the third time, passed my tummy and kept going. His right hand cupped me gently, put a little pressure on, paused, made a little circle, and so on until I thought I’d die.

  “I want to touch you,” I said.

  “You have gorgeous breasts,” he replied. His fingers kept moving, slowly massaging things I didn’t know you could. “I haven’t stopped thinking about them since I first saw them.”

  “I thought you couldn’t see without your glasses.”

  “I can see large objects well enough,” he murmured, sending a shudder down my thighs. “You should walk around in a wet T-shirt more often.”

  “You didn’t seem very interested at the time.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I wanted to do with you behind that waterfall.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  His fingers paused as he said, “I wanted to do this instead. Back then, it would have been just…physical.”

  “But you were ready.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to act.”

  I gathered enough breath to say, “I’m glad you waited.”

  “It wasn’t easy.” His attention drifted to my breasts again. He looked hungry.

  “Aren’t you going to touch them?”

  He nodded. His fingers caressed. “Eventually.” His left hand stroked down to my navel and rested on my tummy. “There’s something special I want to do for you first,” he whispered.

  Two fingers slipped inside me. It was like plugging me into an electrical socket—the hum, the tingling, exploded into full-fledged heat emanating from someplace deeper than the sensitive nub he hadn’t even touched yet. I could feel him exploring, testing, searching. His left hand, settled firmly on my tummy, made leisurely circles, somehow building up the heat from deep inside. My back arched. Then his left hand slipped lower. His outside fingers, teasing, found my sweet spot at the same time his inside fingers made a “come here” gesture.

  And I did. Deep waves washed over my entire body, drowning me in sensation. My skin glowed with heat. I’d never believed in the G-spot until that moment, when he must have hit it and hit it good. The waves rode higher and higher with no end in sight. I clutched his hard forearm. His muscles rippled as he rubbed me. I forced my eyes open.

  Rick’s intense gaze rested on my face, and I had the crazy thought he was getting almost as much pleasure out of my orgasm as I was. He was doing something beyond touching me—it was like he was feeding that tingling heat into me, cycling it through his fingers into my body and back to himself. I was at his mercy, I realized, and he wasn’t having any on me.

  I raised up on my elbows, still overcome. A single drop glistened on his tip where he rested, hot and pulsing, against my thigh. I wanted that, but I didn’t want this to end, either. My head fell back. The hut’s thatched roof swam and blurred. Would it never stop? I felt I could keep going forever, flame waxing and waning through my body.

  Then his fingers began to slow. It took a while, but I started to slow, too. When he finally slid his fingers out of me, I felt light, clean. Ordinarily I’m like a man—I want to roll over and go to sleep afterward—but this time my mind was clear. Even the physical fatigue of the long night and long hike had fallen away.

  Nice massage.

  Rick stretched out next to me on his side and pulled me close. Nice man. I struggled to catch my breath.

  “Feel better?” he asked, his lips brushing my ear.

  “Much,” I managed. “What was that?”

  “Healing massage.”

  “It felt like orgasm to me.”

  “That was a bonus.”

  I turned my head to look him in the eye, intending to be pert. The moment I met those deep browns, I felt the heat surge in me again. Had he so much as thought about touching my sweet spot, I would have come again.

  “It felt…different,” I said, unsure how to talk about what had just happened, how it made me feel.

  “We connected.” He ran a hand down my centerline. “Our energies are in sync.”

  “Does that mean I get a kiss now?” I asked.

  He leaned in and took my breath away. How could he fire me up so easily? And that was my last coherent thought for a couple of minutes while he kissed me thoroughly amid sandalwood and his own musky scent. His hand found its way to the back of my head, threaded through my hair. I wanted more, but he didn’t seem to want to gi
ve it to me. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me, letting his hardness rub tantalizingly against my hip. His lips teased mine until his mouth broke away and he nibbled his way to my neck.

  “Please,” I gasped. Desire spiraled down through my chest and stomach. “Don’t.” I dug my fingers in his hair to drag his mouth back to mine. He obliged, then his teeth nipped my neck just beneath my ear. “Stop,” I whispered.

  He pulled away slightly to study me. “Was that three sentences or one?”

  “Just one.”

  “All or nothing, Jessie. Which are you going to give me?”

  I met his gaze. He was asking for more courage than I had, but I wasn’t sure I had the courage to walk away, either. I guessed it came down to the fact that being afraid wasn’t a good enough reason not to do something.

  “All,” I said. And as his eyes warmed and he leaned down to kiss me again, I opened my heart and gave him everything I had.

  “How do you do this?” I reached down the tangle of our bodies and stroked him where we met. The charge of energy I’d spent the midafternoon riding had ebbed faintly but wasn’t gone, not by a long shot. And Rick still hadn’t finished. He rested, nice and thick, inside me.

  He quirked his eyebrows at me, as if I’d asked him to share a secret. “Orgasm and ejaculation aren’t the same.”

  “What?”

  “They’re not the same.”

  “You didn’t come.”

  His smile faded into heat as he gazed at me. “I didn’t ejaculate. There’s a difference. A man can score a goal without having to leave the playing field.”

  “How eloquent. What are you talking about?”

  He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Tantra.”

  “This is one of your yoga things, isn’t it?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He nuzzled my neck, sending a charge spiking into my breasts. “The important part is the connection we make. The intimacy.”

  Intimacy I could understand. What had happened with Carlos, that was screwing. What was happening with Rick—there wasn’t a comparison. Words didn’t do it justice. Screwing, I realized, had just fallen off my list of fun things to do.