Native Wolf (22 page)

Then, when she thought she could bear no more, when she thought she might swoon with pleasure, he groaned against her lips, a groan torn from the depths of his throat, an animal sound, and she felt lightning surge through her veins, pricking up the fine hairs in her ears and electrifying the place between her legs.

She answered with her own unconscious moan, unable to speak or move or think. Her voice might have been that of a stranger, for she’d never heard such a sound come from her throat, a moan of longing that seemed to stem from her soul.

Never had she felt so welcome, so complete. She wanted to kiss him forever and ever.

But while she luxuriated in the glorious perfection of their long embrace, with her lips thoroughly wet from kissing and her arms full of him, an even deeper yearning grew within her. She wanted more—more of this, more of him. An ache she couldn’t name began low in her belly, seeping into her veins, spreading through her body with a current that left her prickling from the tips of her toes to the hollows of her ears.

It wasn’t enough. She wanted, needed...

He released her lips to nuzzle the place beneath her ear, sending a jolt of pleasure along her neck. Yes, that was what she craved—more of the tiny shocks that took the breath from her in quick gasps.

He slid the camisole from one shoulder. Running the ragged pad of his thumb along the exposed length of skin, he followed that rough touch with soothing kisses. She tipped her head to allow him access, and his fingers drifted lower, across the delicate flesh of her collarbone. His breath came deep and rapid as his fingertips brushed the neck edge of the camisole. One finger slipped tentatively beneath the cotton, as if in question.

She took a deep, affirming breath, and her bosom swelled to meet his light caress. Her breasts tingled, their peaks seeking his touch. She squeezed her eyes shut against the instincts that told her to withdraw, to cover herself, for heaven’s sake, to rebuke the brute who trespassed so boldly upon her innocence.

But she wanted this. She longed to feel his palm full upon her flesh, to fill his hand with her aching breast. This time, the groan torn from her throat was rife with sweet frustration.

He went suddenly still at the sound. "I'm hurting you," he murmured.

"No!" she cried, clutching his hand to her bosom for fear he would leave her. "No."

Even with her eyes closed, she knew he was watching her, but she was too drunk with her own desire to face him. What she was about to do was so unladylike, so lascivious, so much like the wicked women in her dime novels—the ones who drank whiskey and played cards and never won the hero—that she couldn’t look him in the eye.

What devilry possessed her, she didn’t know. She'd never been so brazen, so reckless, so bold. She curved her hand around his, flattening his fingers. Her breath shallow and rapid, she guided his hand down, savoring the rasp of his calluses against the flesh of her bosom. Lower and lower she moved his hand, past the frail boundary of her camisole, along the full curve no man had breached before, until his palm cupped her breast.

Her breath came out in a throaty sigh, and he seemed to suck that sigh from her hard between his teeth. The sound sent a heady thrill of power through her.

His fingers burned her virgin flesh, yet his touch was tender and tenuous. His forehead lowered to rest almost wearily upon her crown, and his trembling breath heated her already flushed face.

She had thought it would be enough, that the touch of his hand on her breast would quench the strange fire filling her body. But it wasn’t so. Instead, her desire flared higher. She lifted her face to his, seeking and finding his supple mouth again. This time there was an urgency to his kisses that fanned the flames of her yearning.

His free hand came up to cradle her face, steadying her for his deepening kisses. He tugged her chin down with his thumb, opening her mouth. Her heart raced as he lapped at her in invitation.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, the rim of her jaw, the crazily pulsing vein in the hollow of her neck. And then he moved lower. His lips seared a trail down her bosom. With his teeth, he slipped the strap of the camisole from her other shoulder, baring her breast. A sob caught in her throat as she realized his intent.

She had thought his hand upon her was heaven, but it was nothing compared to the touch of his tongue. Though his jagged breath echoed her own unstable breathing, he managed to govern his desire. His mouth closed over her breast with utmost care, sucking gently and leaving her squirming in delicious torment.

She tangled a hand in his hair, amazed by its softness between her fingers, and tipped her head back to bask in the starlight. It was scandalous, what he was doing to her, yet it felt amazing.

But even this, even the glorious sensation of his greedy feast, which left her shivering with ecstasy, couldn't satisfy her for long. There was still an empty ache low in her belly, a yearning between her thighs that demanded answer.

As if he sensed her hunger, he shifted upon his knees, dragging her closer, bringing her body flush with his, and she urgently pressed that throbbing place against his thigh. He answered the pressure, knowing what she desired. She reveled in the divine sensation and in the proof of his own yearning—the firm staff that was lodged against her hip. A frisson of intoxicating lust shook her at the evidence of the sheer power of his need.

Far too insatiably fascinated to be discreet, she lowered her hand to boldly explore this new manifestation. He groaned as she stroked him, throwing his head back like a coyote silently baying at the moon. Urged on by the sweet agony in his face, she rubbed her palm against him again and again, until, with a growl, he grabbed her wrist to cease her torture.

"You must...not," he wheezed. She could see it was difficult for him to stop her, and in the haze of her emotions, she wondered why.

"But I...want to. I want you. I want...this," she whispered, the sound like drops of water hitting a skillet of hot oil.

"No," he argued, squeezing her hand. "Now you want this. But later...tomorrow...you'll regret–"

She shook her head. "No." Her breath came quickly, and a sense of panic came over her. She didn’t want to lose him, didn’t want to lose this moment. "No, I won’t. I promise."

She searched his eyes, pleading, but the look he returned was fraught with indecision. The reflection of the fire danced in his dark pupils like a taunt while he let his smoky gaze roam over her face. Finally, his mind made up, he closed his eyes in resignation. His lips thinned to a grim line, and, lifting her about the waist, he turned to gently lay her down on the bed of pine boughs beside the fire.

Kidilqits
. Crazy. That was what he was. There were a thousand reasons why he should just tuck Claire into her bed and dive back into the icy creek to cool his lust.

But with his body burning like a summer forge, he couldn't think of a single one. She was so beautiful, so seductive. He wanted her with all his being. He was swollen to bursting with his craving, and when she touched him, when he sensed that her need was as great as his own...

Somehow, despite the erotic blaze raging in his veins, he managed to dredge up enough sense not to do something irreversible, something he'd regret later. She was a white woman, after all, who knew nothing about love play. She'd probably never bedded with a man. So he decided he'd ignore his body’s demands, forgo his own needs, and resign himself to simply pleasuring her.

It would kill him, he knew. To watch her writhe and moan under his caress, to witness her rising desire and see the culmination of her ecstasy as she rode the waves of...

He closed his eyes. He wouldn't think about it. He'd kiss her. He'd touch her with his hands. He'd give her the pleasure she desired. And he'd do nothing else.

Claire’s short hair fanned out around her face where she lay, catching the light of the fire in a crown as brilliant as the sun’s. Her eyelids dipped low, heavy with passion, and her rosy lips parted. Her camisole was bunched about her waist, exposing her creamy breasts, and he yearned to taste her there again.

He reclined beside her, propped up on one elbow. Her eyes widened when he trapped her by slinging his thigh across both of hers. But she made no move to resist, not even when he slipped his hand beneath the hem of her petticoat and up toward the source of her sensuous affliction.

He studied her face to be sure his touch was welcome, though it was sheer torture for him. Her breath came in quick gasps as his fingers brushed the tender flesh of her inner thigh. Abashed, she wouldn't look at him, turning her head aside and resting her open mouth against her knuckles. Yet she didn't ask him to stop. Even while she furrowed her brow in sweet distress, she parted her legs for him. And with an innocence that brought new blood to his loins, she lifted that part of her he desired most, pressing up against his palm for the relief she craved.

Steeling his jaw against a potent surge of yearning, he forced himself to be gentle. She alternately shrank from his touch and welcomed it again, twisting in a fitful battle between propriety and desire. He must take care then not to frighten her, to move slowly, to have patience.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Patience? Hell, all he could think about was delving into her warm, wet, tempting body. If his urges didn't subside, he'd end up soaking in the cold creek all night.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and he let his fingers begin the sensual, playful dance he'd learned long ago from the women of his tribe, a ritual his Konkow father had encouraged him to learn and his white mother had pretended to know nothing about. He had to concentrate—his blacksmith’s calluses had numbed him to much—but practice had taught him to, above all, heed a woman's responses.

Claire was responding. All too well. And all too quickly. Soft sobs came from her throat, and she squirmed in joyful anguish. One hand tangled in the sleeve of his shirt, and she rolled her head listlessly from side to side. He sensed her increasing pleasure, yet she wriggled and writhed like a snared fish, as if she might break free of her own emotions the way the grandfather trout had broken free of the line.

He wished he'd watched her more closely. Without warning, she suddenly arched and drove her hips violently upward, impaling herself on his finger.

She stiffened with a stunned cry, and her fist pressed at his forearm in panic. He swore under his breath, cursing himself for a clumsy brute, but thought it best not to withdraw. If he withdrew, she would never know the pleasure of love play and only remember the pain. If he remained, she'd eventually relax. Then he could make amends by showing her the ecstasy of quenched passion.

"It...burns," she gasped.

The hurt and betrayal in her eyes dissolved his lust. All he felt was remorse. He hadn't meant to hurt her, to damage her.

But he should have known. He always hurt people. It was his curse.

"I didn't mean..." he muttered. "This was a mistake. It was all a—"

"Wait," she said, halting him when he would have withdrawn from her after all. She swallowed, lowering her eyes. "It will pass...won’t it?"

He studied her face, and indecision clouded his mind. He felt like a wildcat he'd once seen chasing a bluejay into a tree. It had followed the bird onto a thin branch, unable to decide whether to pursue the game farther or climb back down. It chose to follow, and the branch had snapped under its weight. What would happen if Chase continued his pursuit?

"Perhaps..." Claire ventured, blushing profusely, her fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt. "Perhaps if you were to kiss me..."

It was amazing how quickly a man’s lust could be revived. And even more amazing how desperately Chase wished to repair the damage he'd caused. If she wanted him to kiss her...

Claire wanted him to kiss her more than anything. After the unexpected sting, she needed to feel the comforting warmth of his embrace again, needed to rekindle the sensual fire that had burned so brightly before.

It had been her fault. She knew that. He'd been touching her tenderly, carefully. Her own urges had undone her. Her impatience had driven her to surge toward him, to fill that empty place inside of her.

Well, she thought, it was truly filled now. In fact, she wondered if she'd ever be able to disengage from him.

Then he kissed her.

It was a slow, lingering kiss, unlike the others. He touched his lips gently to the corners of her mouth, all the while murmuring soft words in his own language. She tried to answer with more passion. But when she did, he withdrew, lightening his touch even more, fueling her to fiercer desires.

He knew very well what he was doing. Within moments, the pain between her legs subsided, and her body hungered for him again. She ascended once more into a world of muzzy contentment.

He moved slowly, his thumb circling over the spot that craved him the most, leaving her breathless. She parted her mouth, begging for the trespass of his tongue, but he only teased her, lapping delicately at her lips.

An odd vibration began in her head, like a swarm of sensual bees buzzing in her ear. The place where his fingers played continued to swell and blossom until her breath caught in shallow gasps and her head thrashed upon the pine boughs.

There was a second of utter still as he clasped her head to his shoulder. Then an explosion of pure joy flashed within her, filling her the way sheet lightning filled the sky. Her cries were muffled in the cotton of his shirt as she rocked through the wild storm in his sheltering embrace.

Then the feeling slowly subsided. He withdrew his hand and smoothed her skirts back down.

Gradually, her harsh breathing softened, giving way to the silence of the mountain. The stoked furnace of her body yielded to the night chill, and then she no longer felt gloriously naked, but awkwardly exposed. She drew her camisole back up over her bosom and burrowed her head against his chest, more afraid to let him see her bare emotions than her bare flesh.

It was wrong, what she'd done. She'd abandoned all sense, all propriety, for a moment’s pleasure, just like the bad women in her dime novels. Worse, she couldn't seem to work up any real guilt over it.