Chaos erupts for members of a scientific expedition on a remote island when Sage, the team's botanist, is impregnated with the spores of an alien plant form. She's always been the crew's "ice princess" but now something's changed. Now something is driving her, raging through her, compelling her to screw every man on the desolate, godforsaken rock. Again and again and again. What the very appreciative men don't realize is that each illicit interaction, each hedonistic commingling, takes its toll on them as well. And no one can survive the torturous pleasure unscathed.
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Ellora's Cave Publishing, Incorporated
July 10, 2012
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
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Excerpt from Rising Green by Sabrina York
From the middle of the thicket, a thick stalk topped with a bulbous bud rose. It was reminiscent of Pinguicula grandiflora, but instead of purple it was a blood-red hue with bright-yellow streaks.
Sage set down her rucksack and pulled out her sample kit. Carefully, she sliced several cuttings into vials and dropped them into the sack. Then she pulled out her camera. She started with several long shots and then moved closer, stepping carefully on the leaves and vines for a tight shot of the flower. Its petals were tightly folded with a waxy velvet sheen. They shimmered in the weak sunlight. Smelled like poppies.
She stepped closer. Stroked.
It was silky-soft.
As though reacting to her touch, the petals began to curl back, unfurl. Sage stared in fascination as the stamen was revealed, long and thick, bright yellow and heavy with pollen. A swollen pustule throbbed at its base. She leaned closer, pulling her camera up for another shot.
And the bud exploded.
In a great puff, it ejaculated a cloud of tiny seeds. A thick haze surrounded her. Seeds crawled up her nostrils and clung to her lips. Her hair was dusted with them.
"Shit," she said under her breath as she backed away. Coughing and sputtering, she brushed the spores from her shoulders, her chest.
A strange flutter danced through her belly, followed by a wave of dizziness. Her vision blurred and weakness washed through her. Her thighs trembled and she stumbled, unable to negotiate her own feet. Fighting unconsciousness, she dropped to her knees.
And then she fell into the embrace of a soft bed of leaves.
She awoke to a dream. A misty, murmured haze.
Struggling to rouse herself out of the muddled cloud, she shook her head. The infinitesimal motion made her reel. She closed her eyes against the miasma, the exotic thrill skating through her. Her heart beat, distinct thuds pounding in her ears among a rushing tide.
Somewhere through the haze, she sensed movement. She wasn't sure if she was moving or if the world moved around her. She felt as though she were floating, suspended, lighter than air.
A soft, questing tendril stroked her ankle. She tried to look at it but she couldn't move. She couldn't move at all.
The tendril tightened and another licked at her, on her other ankle.
A nip, gentle and oh so soft. Warmth blossomed at the spot, blossomed and rose within her until it flooded her being. A feeling of excitement--and impending doom--swamped her.
The tendrils at her ankles twined slowly, making their way up her calves. With each pass, they nipped again and the warmth expanded. A vague awareness of myriad movements captured her attention. Other tendrils twined slowly over her body, everywhere. They were on her face, her torso, her abdomen. They crawled and curled under her shirt, questing.
One of the tendrils found a nipple. As the soft, furred vine passed over the sensitive tip, it pebbled. The tendril froze. Returned. Made another pass.
Sage moaned and tightened her muscles, trying desperately to move away. But she was frozen, frozen in place, a statue.