#desireeholtMeet Tarzan and Lily, a hot combo
Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs and Lily Harlem
Thanks so much for inviting me over today as your guest. I’m really excited because as part of Total-E-Bound’s Clandestine Classic range – http://www.total-e-bound.com/prodtype.asp?CAT_ID=306&sb=bt&so=all&ntt=1I’ve teamed up with Edgar Rice Burroughs and added steamy jungle scenes to TARZAN OF THE APES. This is one of several classics brought to life by various Total-E-Bound authors and inserts the sexiness that readers previously had to use their imagination for.
A wild man with primitive desires, will anyone be able to tame him?
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?
So Tarzan of the Apes did the only thing he knew to assure Jane of her safety. He removed his hunting knife from its sheath and handed it to her hilt first, again motioning her into the bower.
The girl understood, and taking the long knife she entered and lay down upon the soft grasses while Tarzan of the Apes stretched himself upon the ground across the entrance.
Here she lay, gazing upward at the crude roof of the shelter, and mulled over the extraordinary day that had unfolded, and the wild man who had stolen the first kiss from her lips. Although Jane was an innocent woman she was not naive in the ways of married couples. What went on behind closed doors and beneath the covers was something she was completely intrigued by and she’d sought to quell her curiosity in the only way she could. For Jane, like Tarzan, adored reading, and fashionable books about love and romance that hinted and suggested at the many delights to be had between a woman and a man were her most favourite material—she’d been thrilled to find two such books within the primitive cabin.
She sat and began to unlace her shoes, her hair just skimming the greenery above her. As her small and nimble fingers unweaved the soft leather laces her gaze settled on Tarzan’s broad, golden back as he lay, facing away from her, staring into the line of trees. The gutter of his spine was deep set and flanked with columns of strong muscle. He had a few scars and imperfections around his shoulders, marks of his wild lifestyle, and at the very base of his back, just before the doeskin-like loin cloth he wore, were two dents, almost dimples.
Jane couldn’t help but linger over the task of removing her shoes, the sight before her was simply too engrossing. She had never seen a man wearing so little clothing. The scrap he wore around his modesty barely covered his buttocks, indeed she could make out the very groove of his cheeks through the material. Her gaze roamed downward, committing to memory his powerful thighs coated in sandy hairs, calves sinewy with tendon and muscle and long feet that she was quite sure had never been within spitting distance of a shoe until now.
Footwear finally removed, she pushed them outside her small shelter.
Upon hearing her movement Tarzan turned, his body twisting, his face a mask of concern.
“I am quite all right,” Jane said, gesturing to her shoes. “But I really can’t sleep in those.”
Tarzan looked at the shoes, then sat and reached for one. He held it up, turned it over, examined the base and the inside, poking and prodding. Finally he lifted it to his nose and inhaled, long and deep.
“No,” said Jane, snatching it away. “Really, that is most untoward and really quite rude.”
Tarzan tugged his hand back, fingers clenched, his expression evidence enough that he knew not what he had done wrong.
Jane, seeing his confusion, took pity on him. For she understood that he was trying very hard to make her feel at ease, and she should surely return the favour. “I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand that was in a fist at his sternum. “It is just that they are the only shoes I have, and I, well, I fear I may not have been able to keep them as fresh as I would like.” As she spoke she squeezed his big hand in hers. His skin was a little sticky from the copious amounts of juicy fruit they had shared, but even so a current of pleasure shot up her arm and settled in her belly. His hand, nearly twice the size of hers, was so masculine, and so strong. Unlike Clayton’s neatly trimmed nails, Tarzan’s were unevenly short, no doubt from wear and tear, and he had a twisted strip of vine around his wrist, a kind of makeshift bracelet, it was like nothing she had seen before.
He allowed her to keep holding his hand and tipped his head, his gaze boring into hers.
“It is just,” she went on, “that bathing facilities since we landed ashore have been considerably less than adequate. What I really long for is fresh water to sink my entire body into, to make me feel refreshed and rejuvenated and get some relief from this tropical heat.” Knowing he understood not a word, she tutted and released his hand. Frustration ploughed lines across her brow.
Tarzan raised his eyebrows and wiggled his fingers in a ‘carry-on’ gesture.
“Oh,” she said with a sigh. “What I really want to be able to do is wash.” As she spoke she cupped her palms and raised them to her face, mimicking splashing water on her cheeks.
Tarzan’s face lit up. He knew instantly what Jane was trying to say. She wanted to clean her body. Tarzan understood that desire very well, for he too liked to bathe frequently to keep his body free from irritations and unpleasant aromas. He had also read about it in his books. Civilised people set personal cleanliness in very high esteem.
Eager to show Jane his comprehension of her request, Tarzan jumped up and pointed in the direction of Cumba, the small rocky inlet just yards to the right of their camp. It was a safe and shallow bathing area that he had used since being a small boy. He was sure it would be perfect for a woman, for his woman, Jane.
He made a grunting sound which his ape family would have recognised as ‘come this way’ and stepped toward Cumba.
“Do you understand me?” Jane asked, amazement in her tone and her eyes wide.
Tarzan stepped further away, urging her to follow with frantic hand gestures.
“You want me to come with you?” Jane asked, crawling completely from the shelter and standing barefoot on the roughly textured grass.
Without realising he was giving the correct signal, Tarzan nodded.
“Okay,” Jane said, pressing down the creases in her dress and tilting her chin in a very confident little gesture given her precarious situation. “I will. Please lead the way.”
Tarzan grinned, flashing his neat teeth, and strode across the clearing. In order to keep up Jane quickly realised that she must move at a near jog. Though once they reached the denseness of the forest this was impossible, and Tarzan slowed in order to move branches and bend bows out of her path.
Jane was thankful when after a couple of minutes of thick undergrowth another clearing emerged. This time one with a large rock pool fed from a sparkling waterfall. She heard it first, the tinkling sound of water falling on stone, and when she finally laid eyes on it, she paused to marvel at the sheer beauty of the small lagoon.
High above the sky was turning pink. Dusk would soon be upon them. In the tallest branches, bright red and blue parrots were preparing to roost. The rocks around the waterfall were the colour of elephant skin, and the water, a rich navy, sparkled silver where the cascading water added to its depths.
“It is beautiful,” Jane said, her fingertips sweeping over the petals of a crimson orchid that bobbed its long neck to her right. “Simply exquisite.”
Who is Lily Harlem?
Lily Harlem is an award-winning author of contemporary erotic romance and lives in the UK with Mr Harlem and a host of rescued pets. She loves to spend her days dreaming up naughty stories that have a happy ever afters. When you read her books be warned though, the bedroom door is always left wide open!