The jungle breathed, not with lungs, but with a primal rhythm—vines swelling and contracting like heaving breasts, flowers blooming with soft, moist sighs, the air thick with the musky scent of arousal distilled into nectar and earth.
Mist curled around their ankles, warm and clinging, like the breath of a lover whispering filthy promises against sweat-slicked skin, making nipples harden, thighs grow slick, pulses race with unwilling need.
Kota was already ten paces ahead, his lean, scarred body tense but steady, his sleek black strap-vest hugging his torso, his tight pants outlining his hardening cock, straining against the fabric as the jungle's heat stirred his arousal.
He stood unmoving, his dark eyes calm, his breath even, a pillar of resolve amidst the seductive chaos.
The rest followed, their bodies exposed in the jungle's cruel garb, each step a test of will:
