Page 33 of Green Ravens

“Why are you so restless? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” Sawyer growled. “I was thinking, what if—”

“Stop.” Oakley’s tone was harsh. “Whoever made that fire will be there tomorrow.”

Sawyer rotated his head so their mouths were a breath apart.

Oakley didn’t give Sawyer another chance to voice his doubt as he bowed his head and closed the tight distance, sealing their mouths to each other.

With heavy drops of rain hitting their face, Oakley explored Sawyer’s mouth, which was now fresh and cool from the evening rain.

The chilled atmosphere did nothing to dispel the fire growing behind his zipper.

He explored the contours of Sawyer’s chest, choosing to ignore the potential danger that could be wrapped around a branch only feet away.

The rain-drenched jungle became a place where passion and nature entwined.

Sawyer grabbed a handful of his hair and dove deeper into his mouth, his breathing labored as he took Oakley’s hand from his chest and lowered it to his hard cock.

“Goddammit,” he groaned, knowing he shouldn’t go there.

Not when he knew better than to forget where they were, lest a horde of bloodthirsty mosquitos sneak up on them.

Oakley pulled Sawyer’s zipper down and dug his hand inside the opening of his boxers.

You fuckin’ idiot.

Once he had the chief’s dick in his hand, he knew there’d be nothing else he could think of except making Sawyer moan his name and getting him off until he was calm and pliant enough to fall asleep comfortably in his arms.

Chief Styles Sawyer

From behind a large bush, Sawyer frowned at the upscale tents and equipment spread across the clearing.

They had grills, generators, and ten-gallon water jugs stacked against a dome-shaped tent with smoke billowing into the air that smelled of roasting meat.

“Food.” He grinned, rubbing his hands together.

“What the hell is going on?” Oakley murmured. “Are those guys American?”

Upon closer observation, it looked like a makeshift laboratory constructed with metal frames and canvas roofs.

These people had high-tech machinery, long tables overflowing with stacks of weathered notebooks, and portable whiteboards covered with sketches and diagrams mapping the jungle, overseen by a dozen men in khaki uniforms and wide-brimmed hats.

“Is this a poaching group?” Oakley asked.

“Poaching what? The trillions of insects and spiders around here?”

“Jaguars for pelts, eagles, macaws, or toucans to sell. Those birds are worth up to ten thousand dollars.”

“I don’t see any cages or anything. There aren’t even any jeeps or transportation.”

“True.” Oakley squinted. “But there must be an access road or trail somewhere.”

“Come on, Chief. All we need is their radio. We can notify someone of their location once we’re back on base if we think they’re up to something illegal.”

“All right.” Oakley stood, a deep frown marring his forehead. “Just…don’t let your guard down, okay.”

“Roger that.”

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