A wild man with primitive desires, will anyone be able to tame him? Find out on the 4th of February!
A handsome English aristocrat raised in the jungle by apes, self-sufficient, thriving on danger and with a head full of unanswered questions. Where is he from? Why is he different? What will satisfy the hunger that eats away at the very core of his being and finally feed his appetite for something other than food and shelter?
A delicate American woman, expected to be the best she can be and marry well, but with a craving for adventure and exploration as well as a hope in her heart to find true love with a man who can sweep her off her feet.
When the two very different souls collide, in deepest, darkest Africa, only one thing can happen, and it’s raw and feral. Lust a common language, satisfaction the ultimate goal. But will the gentleman outshine the savage-man? Is virtue to be honoured? And when faced with a civilised decision, can Tarzan do the right thing?
Reader Advisory: This book contains one scene of dubious consent.
Tarzan’s cock surged again. He curled his toes and gnawed at the inside of his cheek. The anticipation of Jane removing her camisole was the greatest torture imaginable. Worse than waiting for prey to walk into his path when his stomach was rumbling, and much harder to bear than the years without knowledge of his species. He watched nervously, excitedly, as she swept her gaze around the treeline, as if checking for spying eyes. Then, apparently content that she was entirely alone, she furled her fingers beneath her camisole and slid it, slowly, inch by agonising inch, over her head. With a flick of abandon she tossed it onto the rock that was holding her other, neatly folded clothes. Then she pushed her hair from her face, throwing it over her shoulders as she arched her back and closed her eyes.
It was all Tarzan could do to stay in that tree, for his body was primed like a bull, each one of his perfect muscles taut and ready for action. Jane was exquisite and his desire to touch her, taste her, there on her chest, was almost overwhelming. His cock tingled with want, his bollocks drew up tight into his body. A glistening bead of sweat formed and trickled from his temple down to his jawline where it sat, unnoticed by him.
Jane opened her eyes and stroked a hand over her right bosom, removing a tiny insect that had been attracted to her flowery scent. She then hooked her fingers into the waistband of her embroidered white drawers and pushed them to the floor.
Tarzan felt as if his breath had been stolen from his chest. His heart beat as though he’d been racing through the jungle, his pulse thrumming madly in his ears and clattering dangerously against his rib cage. The neat triangle of blonde hair at the juncture of Jane’s thighs was all he could focus on. If the urge to kiss and touch her beautiful breasts had been powerful, then this feeling was almost violent. He salivated at the thought of kissing her there, between her legs, touching her, testing her tightness with his fingers. He wanted, more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life, to sink his rigid cock into the clutching wetness he knew would be waiting for him in Jane Porter’s body.
It was sheer iron will that kept Tarzan in the tree—but it should be remembered that even iron has its snapping point.
After laying her drawers on the rock that held her other clothes, Jane turned, naked, to the lagoon and took the couple of steps down the bank to the water’s edge. She hesitated, toes dipped into the water, and glanced at the cascading fall to her left.
Tarzan stared at her, captivated by her pert behind. Two globes of the palest flesh, each one about the size of his hand. In many of the stories in One Man’s Urge, Cecil liked to palm and squeeze his women’s behinds and Tarzan could now see why. Jane’s bottom looked thoroughly squeezable, and certainly he would like to stroke its contours, learn the shape and texture of every delectable curve.
As a butterfly flitted around her head, Jane waded into the water, moving from the shallows to where it came up to her waist. She gasped at the coolness then sank her shoulders under, her hair floating behind her, and took several strokes toward the falling water. When she reached it, she stood again, exposing her upper body, and faced the bank where she had left her clothes. She tipped her head back, into the waterfall, shut her eyes and smoothed her hair until it became a shade darker with wetness and clung in one long rope down her back.
Tarzan jumped silently from the tree.
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