The Virginity Mission

  The Virginity Mission

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  The Virginity Mission

  Cate Ellink

  An erotic new adult romance about old insecurities, new beginnings, and the things you can get up to in a tent…

  It’s lust at first sight when Mac sees Jason shirtless and sweating on the back of a truck. Jason is the army sergeant assigned to support the six-week scientific expedition that Mac is participating in, and might just be the perfect candidate for another journey of discovery that Mac is desperate to undertake — sex.

  Fraternisation between students and staff might be strictly prohibited, but everybody knows fruit always tastes better when it’s forbidden.

  About the Author

  Cate Ellink became intrigued by the erotic when her grandfather used to pass books to her father saying, “Don’t let the girls read page X.” Although her mother and sisters never bothered to chase those pages, Cate always did. Invariably, her imagination was better than what she read.

  While pursuing a career in science, Cate amused herself by writing about ordinary events and giving them an erotic twist. It’s taken more than a few years to bravely expose her mind to the public. While the events in her stories may have occurred, it’s highly likely that her imagination is far more exciting than the reality.

  Cate lives near the beach in NSW with her long-suffering husband. This is Cate’s first novella. She has two short stories published.

  Find Cate at www.cateellink.com

  Acknowledgements

  A book is never a solo journey — well, mine certainly aren’t.

  Special thanks to:

  Kate and the Escape team for giving this story a go.

  Mum and Dad who taught me to love reading and encouraged my imagination.

  Stephan, who believed I could write long before I did.

  GK for his assistance with this story.

  The Romance Writers of Australia. Without this group of generous, supportive, amazing women, and men, I’d still be thinking I’d like to write a book one day.

  Anne Gracie, Bronwyn Jameson and the Romance Intensive workshop that taught me I needed to learn a hell of a lot.

  RWA’s 5 Day Intensive Workshop and Sophia James, who taught me to believe in my stories.

  My critique partners, Mervet, Judy and Sandra, who’ve been on the journey from the start.

  Ainslie Paton, Anita Joy, Anna Simons, Judy O’Connor, Kaliana Cole, Lisa Ireland, Mervet McClintock, Peter McAra, Rhyll Biest, Sandra Linklater and Sheridan Kent for reading various drafts, offering great suggestions and never losing faith in this story.

  My friends, Marg, Joy and Helen.

  My sisters, their families and my extended family.

  My best mates, E and T, who dragged me from the computer begging for their walks.

  Last but never least, my husband, the writing-widower, who supports my insane dreams and proofreads at the last minute.

  Anne Gracie and Bronwyn Jameson,

  with thanks for Romance Intensive!

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also Available From Escape Publishing…

  CHAPTER 1

  My eyes are drawn to movement. Someone jumps onto the back of the truck and I blink. Once. Twice. My stomach and pelvic floor collide.

  Shoulders loom from a snug khaki singlet that ripples across his stomach as he moves. Camouflage trousers do nothing to disguise his tightly rounded butt as he bends over to grab the first backpack to stow. This military man is all lithe, controlled power. He climbs over the back of the truck holding someone’s gear as if it weighs nothing. Those shoulders are massive bunches of corded strength. His arms aren’t hugely bulging but deliciously defined. A sudden desire to have those arms wrapped tightly around my naked flesh burns my brain. Dear God, I’ve lost my mind.

  I’m on a scientific expedition. Learning is the key to the next six weeks in the north Queensland rainforest—it’s not a sex tour. I’ve never been to the tropics before and I’m eager to find out everything I can. I’m here to contribute, not drool, although if someone catches my eye I won’t say no. But the army men are here to work and they’re not allowed to fraternise with us. It was mentioned more than a few times in last night’s briefing.

  Standing in line while waiting for my gear to get packed into the truck, nothing can stop my eyes returning to the army guy. People around me are talking but it’s only background noise. My attention is otherwise occupied.

  His dark, close-cropped hair shines with exertion but he doesn’t break stride. He keeps lugging another piece of gear, piling it into the truck as if it weighs nothing. Each piece packed neatly and effortlessly.

  Each movement is fluid. Every muscle bending and flexing in perfect accord. He’s like a sleek black panther—all coiled muscle ready to pounce. It’s so damn sexy I can’t look away. My mouth is drying as I watch and every drop of moisture is heading south.

  I’m seriously attracted but my mind is overriding my body’s reaction. Hey, dimwit, do you think he’s interested in you? Heck, he must be thirty and you’re a kid. He’ll be married. Far too experienced. He’ll never notice you. He’s a panther—stunning but unattainable. Hands off.

  My self-doubting mind keeps up a constant barrage of disparaging remarks while my body gives in to lust. Moisture is slick along my thighs as I wriggle from one foot to the other, hoping to mop up the excess before my lust becomes obvious to all. I keep looking away, trying to regain my sanity but my gaze flicks back to that truck. At times my breathing is normal but then it jams in my throat, usually when a muscle flexes, or his butt is in profile or his shoulder muscles bunch. The closer I get to handing him my backpack, the more riotous my mind and body become.

  My mind is telling me I’m an idiot at the same time my imagination is running riot. What would it be like naked against his body when there’s so much sweat on his skin? Would we slip against each other easily? Tangled together as one. Would his sweat taste of strong musky male?

  My knees almost buckle beneath me. My mouth is dry and I can’t even wet my lips. I make myself stop imagining.

  The line moves closer.

  I stare into the distance, pretending to be riveted to the changing colours of the mountains as the sun rises but I can see him from the corner of my eye. I want to feel those muscles for myself. Would they be as hard as they look? Would they ripple like silk, or feel like corrugated iron? Would his skin be salty as I lick my tongue over those shoulders and dip into the hollow of his collarbones?

  Stop! I’m damn near hyperventilating.

  The truck is so close now I’m watching each bead of sweat run down his face and drip from the tip of his nose or the point of his chin. Could I catch those salty droplets on my tongue? Taste the essence of him? Stop imagining. Stop looking. Staring at those mountains is not a patch on the Panther Man. They may be tall, rugged and craggy but they’re so inanimate, inflexible.

  I take ten deep, slow breaths as I move closer. By the time it’s my turn to load my gear I’m breathing normally but sweating terribly. My eyes are level with the heavy black leather of his boots and the tucked-in ends of his camouflage trousers. My heart’s in my throat, swelling painfully. I don’t think I can look up. He might be too beautiful up close.

  I decide to hand my pack differently to everyone else, to make his job easier. I heft my pack, straps towards him so he can g
rab them quickly. It’s not so easy to hold, but I grab the front straps and keep it balanced on my knee. It’s going to keep my body and mind occupied so I don’t do something stupid.

  I’m at the back of the truck next. I balance my pack but I didn’t think this through. I have to look up so I know when to let go. I realise I’ll see him up close. His whole face—not just his boots. Those shoulders, that stomach, that neck. Hyperventilation is happening again. Stop. He’ll probably be disappointing. But what if he’s not?

  He’s here.

  I gulp, too loudly, too deeply.

  I look up.

  He’s stunning. Rounded face, smooth tanned skin, strong jaw, dark eyes.

  He grabs the straps and I let go. Then he does the damndest thing. He looks right at me. He breaks his rhythm, stops and looks straight into my eyes.

  My heart jams. Every drop of blood freezes and then my stomach plummets and starts break dancing. My mouth drops open. I must look like a goggle-eyed goldfish.

  “Thanks.” That’s all he says as he turns away, yet warm fuzzy feelings fill me. He strides to the gear stack and adds my pack. I walk away in a daze.

  He spoke to me. He stopped moving and spoke to me.

  One word.

  That’s all he said and my body overreacts, hovering near cloud nine hundred and ninety nine. My traitorous mind starts beating up on my body’s reaction. Get real. He probably said thanks to everyone. He’ll never have noticed you.

  But I’m sure he didn’t stop those fluid movements for anyone else. I’m sure something happened. Something momentous. I replay the brief seconds, remembering the deepest chocolate depths of his eyes, the crinkling at the corners of his lips when he spoke, the dark hint of stubble against his strong jaw, the closely cropped hair dripping sweat down his face, the deep melody of his solitary word.

  I have to do something to mark this moment. For once my mind doesn’t berate. It comes up with an idea.

  There’s a drink machine in the caravan park, so I duck off quickly and grab two bottles of water. I’m thirsty and I imagine he is too. It’s practical, not romantic, but water is all I can think to offer him. I head for the bus via the truck and leave the second water bottle at the edge of the back tray. Surely he’ll notice. I want to hang around to make sure he gets it but my mind makes me leave. I’ve stretched the boundaries too far already. I’ve been told to load gear and get on the bus, so I do what I’ve been told with just that tiny detour for water. I get on the bus not knowing if Panther Man received my token of lust.

  Base camp is a surprise—there’s no rainforest. Only a dry farm paddock surrounded by a thick stand of thin gum trees. There’s a lovely creek, but before I can do more than wade in and admire the crystal clear water, I have to meet my group—the six people I’ll be attached to for the next six weeks.

  The whole expedition gathers in the dusty clearing at the centre of the camp. Names are called out and places assigned for the fifteen groups to meet. I eye off the straggly tree we’re to meet under.

  I’m hoping to meet a guy, preferably in my group, become friends, have sex at least once and walk away from this trip a normal person. It sounds easy and I am hopeful, yet my life always goes in the impossible direction, so it’s unlikely to happen.

  The talk finishes and people mill every which way to get to their meeting point. I aim for the straggly tree and wait for the rest of my group. A tall, gangly young guy arrives next, grinning happily. It’s Harry. I stood next to him on the caravan park equipment line. He’s not yet eighteen and must be one of the youngest people on the trip. I’m pleased to see him under the tree as part of my group. He had us all laughing yesterday. He’s the class clown, goofy and idealistic. Since he’s only just finished school he’s a little brother, not a potential sex partner.

  A bunch of people wander up, keeping their distance, standing away from where Harry and I are chatting. There are two girls, a shorter girl with shoulder length blonde hair, and a taller girl with short curly brown hair. My hair’s sort of washed out—too dark for blonde but not dark enough for brown. I’d like to have rich dark brown hair, or even blonde hair, anything with proper colour. The three other people are a blond guy who’s probably a couple of years older than the rest of us, a nuggetty, dark-haired guy with a scowl, and a tall brown haired guy with a very serious expression.

  I look around the group, my heart contracting with each glance. The guys are sporting jocks, sizing each other up, puffing their chests out, rolling shoulders. Prickling concern dances down my spine. It’s going to be a competition. The shorter girl’s like me—eyeing off the muscles with trepidation. The taller girl doesn’t seem at all worried by the guys’ preening antics. Both girls look athletic and I’m skinny. I wonder how we’ll get along.

  The blond guy starts the introductions. “I’m Ed, your group leader, not that I know much because I’ve never done this before. But we’ll muddle along together. We’re a botany group, tasked with doing botanical transects through the rainforest. I’ll tell you more about that after we introduce ourselves.”

  Ed indicates the person to his right should go next, the blonde haired girl. “I’m Belinda. I’ve never done anything like this before either.” She giggles and aims one of those overly flirty smiles at Ed. “But I’m really looking forward to it, now.” She’s wasted no time. Ed is off limits unless I want to fight Belinda for him. That’s never my style, which could explain why I’m still waiting to lose my cherry.

  The serious brown-haired guy is Damien, the nuggetty guy with the scowl is Sam and Harry I’ve already met. The tall curly brown-haired girl is Annie. And then it’s my turn.

  “I’m Mac. Willow MacIntosh really but no one calls me anything but Mac. I hope you will too.” I hate my name. It sounds prissy and girly. Plus when you’re tall, curve-free and bony, Willow is a dumb name. I can’t believe my parents landed me with such a weird moniker. I’ve been known to completely ignore anyone who calls me anything but Mac. From the nods I receive from the group, I guess everyone will call me that.

  We wander off under Ed’s guidance to make a group ‘home’ in the paddock and get to know each other.

  Ed explains our tasks. “We need to work out a list of supplies for the first trip into the rainforest. It’s a three day trip leaving the day after tomorrow. We need to list our requirements, obtain supplies and pack gear ready to leave. We also have to plan and log our journey. During the trip we must complete five one-hundred metre transects, collecting and pressing samples of each plant along each transect, for the botany component.”

  It doesn’t sound too difficult. Except for Harry, we’ve all done transects and plant collections. We’ve all done a lot of walking and camping so we understand the basic requirements. We don’t disagree on much and once the list is made, we go to obtain supplies. The obtaining is mighty easy as there’s a big tent that houses the supplies and you line up and present your list. Some things you get then and there, the rest are delivered later on. Easier than shopping. Fiona’s the assistant quartermaster as part of the expedition leadership group and runs the ‘shop’. She’s exceptionally friendly and helpful to us. I suspect she knows Ed as she’s way more helpful to us than other groups. This leaves us with time to hang out at the creek and time for me to surreptitiously check out the guys and see if any will suit my nefarious purpose.

  I haven’t meant to remain a virgin. University should be full of sex and fun, but for me it’s been full of study. The years slipped by and now I’m about to finish uni and enter the adult world as an untested girl. This trip could solve my problem. Six weeks of girls and guys camping together. Surely I could get lucky.

  I follow everyone down to the creek crossing. The spot is overhung by gums and shrubs. They look like mallee trees with multi stems shooting from the base, but I’m not really familiar with tropical trees, even if they have put me in a botany group. The creek has a sandy bottom and the clear water gurgles mid-calf deep. Not deep enough to swim but perfect for
sitting in. Trees are spread across the water to create screening so you can sit in an area and pretend there’s no one else there. It’s not completely covered but sheltered and dappled with shadows.

  The paddock is hot and dry. The creek crossing is the coolest place to be. Even along the edges, the ground is covered by a mat of dead leaves making the ground cool to stand on. With the tropical heat we’re all wearing swimmers and a shirt and not bothering with shorts, making it easy to sit in the creek shaded from the heat of the day.

  Everyone talks noisily but I fade into the background where I prefer to be. I’m happiest in my own company, outside the conversation circle and only in the periphery of people’s thoughts. The tree screening allows me to almost disappear.

  Being on the outside looking in gives me time to think and my thoughts lead me to the guys in my group. I’m not a cradle snatcher so Harry’s too young. Damien’s too serious for a fling and I’m not after a relationship. Sam seems too straight. Ed’s out. None of them set my blood racing anyway. I always dreamed my first time would be one of those moments when my body took control and nothing could stop it happening. It seems as if losing my virginity is going to be harder than I hoped.

  There’s a rustle in the bushes. Someone steps into the creek near me. I resist the temptation to turn around as this will only invite them to sit near me. They don’t take the hint. They stand beside me and make a deep, but soft, throat clearing sound. A male. I have to look now. Dark haired, muscular legs capture my interest. I follow the long legs up to a pair of blue jogging shorts and a khaki singlet. My throat constricts, my heart booms louder than a jet on afterburners and sweat breaks out of every pore. I don’t have to look beyond the singlet to know who this is. I risk a quick glance to his face. Sweat pours from me and my face heats.

  Panther Man.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” The honeyed depth of his voice pours heat through me, as if I’m not hot enough looking at him. I want to throw handfuls of water over my face, or sink into the rushing creek or…