Tender Taming

by Heather Graham

  “Look at me,” he commanded as he lay his flesh against hers and she fluttered her lashes. “Look at me, Whitney.” His features were incredibly tense with desire, but he smiled even as his eyes blazed.

  “There is no way, sweet thing, that you could possibly displease me,” he said, his voice becoming a harsher and harsher rasp. “And I want to hear you, my darling. I want you to touch me, I want you to forget everything except what you feel and I want you to scream if you feel like it …”

  Whitney obediently kept her eyes open, locked with his in a tremulous hypnotism. His hand began a play upon her flesh as he continued to whisper in increasingly ragged breaths just how beautiful she was. His touch was very slow, very tender and yet masterful. His fingers traced lightly over her skin, drawing her with infinite finesse into his web. An instinctive reflex brought her hand to stop his as he caressed the rose-hued peaks of her nipples, but he deftly changed position and anchored her arms. His gentle play continued with stern control; his hands went on to explore fully the contours of her hips, her abdomen and the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Again reflex caused her to tense her slender legs together. “Trust me, Whitney,” he murmured.

  And she did. Teetering on the fine borderline between abandon and fear, Whitney crashed wildly into total submission as his seduction took an abrupt change and became demanding and urgent. His lips claimed hers with a fervency that left her breathless. His fingers deserted their eloquent teasing to plunge and exquisitely torture the tender, sensitive secrets of her flesh. A gasped moan escaped her, and Eagle replied with unbridled passion.

  “Don’t stop it, darling, don’t stop it. Tell me … Touch me …”

  Tentatively, hesitantly, she began to touch him. The shudders her fingers caused him excited her further and further until she was lost in a wonderful new world of exotic ecstasy. Hot kisses rained over her entire body, following the trails blazed by his knowing fingers. Enveloped in whirling, roller-coaster passion, Whitney writhed uncontrollably, arching into his glorious heat, straining wildly to give the erotic pleasure she received. She died a thousand little deaths.

  “Eagle!” Her plea was a tormented whisper.

  “Tell me!” he demanded, “Cry it out. Let me know.”

  “Oh, Eagle,” she countered breathlessly. “I want you. I want you so very much …”

  He filled her, he ignited her, he took her with the devastating passion she craved, his rhythm ever increasing with each new level of consuming exhilaration. And all the while he whispered, groaned, shuddered, driving her ever upward. They were locked together as one; Whitney’s fingers dug desperately into his back, then a moan tore from her throat, a cry that was his name, an echo of the unleashed ecstasy that surged through her with a final convulsive, sweetly delicious tremble. The urgent passion subsided slowly, slowly, to be replaced by a feeling equally cherished. In that moment Whitney gave herself to him completely and was filled by him in a way that inexplicably bound her to him forever. Later she would have to think, to reason, to make light of her own fantastic thoughts, but for now she wore his brand, she could still relish in the scent of his body on hers; she was simply, irrevocably, in the most elemental of male-female responses—his.

  Eagle shifted himself beside her and raised his head while he bent an elbow so that he could look at her again. In the aftermath of the intensity of their union, her damp body glistened in the moonlight, and he shook his head slightly to himself as he marveled at the perfect, cream beauty of her form. Her breasts rose and fell with the depth of her breathing, emphasizing the lovely contours and hollows of her collarbone and tightly flat abdomen. Her hair splayed in a wild fan beneath them both, while the fluffed wings framed her face in delicate curls. Heat filled him again as he watched her, and burning tenseness constricted within him. Drawing a finger down the line between the curves of her breasts to her navel, Eagle was consumed by emotions very similar to hers, and even more untamed. It was irrational, he knew, but he felt fiercely and unrestrainedly possessive. Irrational be damned! He would have her over and over again, he and only he.

  Her eyes flew open at his touch, and she smiled shyly.

  “Skyrockets?” he inquired.

  “And fireworks,” she admitted.

  He smiled in return, but his voice was grave as he curled a lock of her hair tenderly around his finger. “No more fears, Whitney? That husband of yours was the wrong one, you know. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are the most exquisitely pleasing creature I have ever known.”

  She couldn’t reply to that. Did he mean it? Or was he bolstering her confidence? She wouldn’t worry about it now … or wonder just how many “pleasing creatures” he had known. Lazy with satisfaction, she rolled into his chest and curled happily against it. Tonight was special. She didn’t want to talk anymore; she had talked enough. For the moment nothing else mattered. She was wallowing in the satiated joy of lying next to the strength and power of this superbly created man …

  “No going to sleep on me!” he teased, nudging her. “Not here, anyway. I’m not that trusting of the snakes!”

  As he had expected, the word “snakes” sent her flying to her feet. “You told me the lake was clear!” she accused in a wail.

  “Well, it is, mostly. But I prefer to sleep off the ground—just in case!” He laughed, reaching for her hand. “Come on, sweetie, give an old man a hand up.”

  “Old man! How aged are you?”

  “Three and a half decades come fall.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a day over thirty-four.”

  “That’s because Indians age well. Clean living, you know.” Grinning, he collected her gown and his pants, then swung her dramatically into his arms. “This has always been one of my fantasies,” he told her as she slipped her arms around his neck, “running naked through the woods with a captive woman. Have you ever seen yourself carried off like this?”

  “No,” Whitney said with a laugh. “And I don’t know if it’s such a hot idea now. Your grandmother could wake up—”

  “My grandmother would love it. She’s a true romantic—crazy about ‘hot’ ideas like this!”

  In a few minutes they were back in the chickee. As Whitney curled back into the covers with Eagle stretched beside her, contentment filled her. This bed in the woods was the most wonderful she had ever known. A belief in magic had been returned to her, and she was sailing on top of the world despite the crazy fact that she was falling in love with a man who would probably walk right back out of her life …

  Don’t be silly, she chastised herself as she snuggled closer to him. She wasn’t in love, nor was he. They had simply become “lovers.” Odd terminology …

  She suddenly realized that Eagle was persistently touching her beneath the covers and that her body was automatically responding to his demands. “I thought we needed to get some sleep!” she teased, robbing her cheek against his smooth chest.

  “We do!” he whispered back. “I want to make sure we’re really tired.”

  Whitney started giggling softly. Moon fever, she told herself.

  “Stop that!” Eagle commanded, springing to pin her shoulders to their mat and to straddle her. “I taught you to moan, not laugh! I guess we have to refresh the lesson in your mind.”

  “Please,” Whitney taunted with half-closed eyes. “I’m a slow learner.”

  “No, little witch,” Eagle returned, his stare growing dark and passionately hard, his voice throaty. “You learn with natural ease. If you grow much more proficient, you could become a lethal weapon. You could please me into an early grave …”

  Her giggles quickly became panted moans as he lowered his head and fastened his teeth lightly over a nipple to begin the exquisite torment all over again. Whitney’s fingers raked into his blue-raven hair as she arched to meet his tantalizing lovemaking. A willing captive. That was her last coherent thought. She had indeed become his captive.

  “Up, rabbit!”
<
br />   She was awakened by a firm tap on the rear end, to find Eagle standing above her, fully clothed, his costume today a braided Seminole shirt. Blinking groggily, Whitney graced him with a reproachful stare. Even he would have to admit that the hour was uncivilized.

  Completely stoic, he arched a hand over his eyes and gesticulated to the horizon. “Pink trails of dawn are now consumed by golden eye of rising sun. Time for dedicated squaw to move rear like willow and get with it!”

  “You’ve been watching too many John Wayne movies,” Whitney muttered in cynical reply. But the night had changed her, and she couldn’t resist an impish smile. “Couldn’t you go fight the cavalry late today? Surely Indians must get sick leave, too!”

  “No, no sick leave, not today.” Smiling in return, he bent to kiss her lips lightly. “We have a lot of preparation to do. The Green Corn Dance begins at sunset—and you become a bride by nightfall. Even in the civilized world women do not laze around on their wedding days.”

  A frown puckered Whitney’s brow and the soft womb of pleasure she had felt at wakening drained from her. How could he still be insisting that they take it all like a tremendous joke? In her one day here she was finding great respect for Morning Dew and the Miccosukee tribe, and she didn’t feel like mocking their customs. Eagle was a Miccosukee! And he had told her to trust him. To play games to such an extent seemed nothing short of callous.

  “I don’t want to go through with the ceremony,” she said stubbornly, drawing the covers to her chin.

  The light in his eyes immediately disappeared. “I told you,” he said harshly, “you won’t have to consider any of it legal.”

  “That’s not the point—” Whitney began. “Oh, never mind!” she interrupted herself. What was the point? That she was falling in love and didn’t want any part of what she had to remember was a farce? “We’ll go through with it. I don’t ever seem to win an argument with you, anyway.”

  Eagle’s face remained dark and hard even after her agreement. “Get dressed,” he said curtly. “There is a lot to be done. I’ve brought you an Indian skirt and blouse set. I thought you might like to attend the day in customary style.”

  He was gone before she could think of anything more to say. Scrambling from the covers, Whitney found the outfit. It was as carefully sewn and edged and braided as the white bridal gown. Sighing, Whitney slipped into the comfortable, porous material. She was fascinated by the prospect of attending the Corn Dance, even if it did raise a few moral dilemmas. She would have days ahead of her to talk with White Eagle … and tell him what? I realize that I’m supposed to be the sophisticated one and that a night of love in the chickee does not signify eternal devotion, but I think you taught your lessons a little too well and … what? God, what did she feel for him? He was like a fever in her blood … undefinable.

  Eagle was out of sight when she approached the sofki pot, but Morning Dew was busily bustling about. She greeted Whitney with a wide smile and a cup of coffee, then, pointing to the pot, told Whitney to eat.

  It was some kind of porridge, Whitney realized as she scooped up a bowl, smiled and tasted it. Ugh. Still she kept the smile plastered on her face, not wanting to hurt her hostess’s feelings. Must be something you have to acquire a taste for, she thought wryly, grateful that at least she had a decent cup of coffee.

  The now-familiar calls of several Glades birds—herons, egrets and beautiful wood ibis—came to her as she sipped her coffee, and Whitney was again struck by the strange sense of peace one could absorb in the woody environment. Listening to the birds, watching the gentle sway of moss upon cypress, she began to feel languorous. One more cup of coffee and a cigarette and I’ll get going, she promised herself. A quick dart back to the chickee and a trip to the coffee pot and she was all set, comfortably lodged before the cooking fire, her silver lighter flashing quickly as she inhaled deeply. Ahh … nicotine. A sip of invigorating caffeine, and then another inhalation of soothing smoke …

  “Oh!” she yelped, startled and dismayed as the cigarette was suddenly wrenched from her fingers. Turning baleful, indignant, then increasingly angry eyes, she saw that Eagle was tossing the remainder of her cigarette into the cooking fire, his face a closed, stoic mask.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, jumping to her feet and facing him with her hands on her hips. “We agreed that my personal habits were my own business—”

  “And that they are,” he retorted rudely. “But I also mentioned that you wouldn’t have time to laze around all day with a cigarette. You’ve work to do. Now. We need corn ground before we leave.”

  Whatever happened to the tender lover who had cherished her through the night, Whitney wondered fleetingly. Then her anger replaced any other feelings. “Now?” she queried imperiously. She reached for her pack of cigarettes, coolly eyeing him, and slowly lit another, inhaling and exhaling as calmly as if she were sitting in an elegant bar with a piña colada in her left hand. “I’ll be with you in five minutes,” she said with icy dismissal, tossing her head as she reclaimed her seat by the fire.

  “I said now!” Eagle repeated softly, bending over her to wrench the second cigarette away. As Whitney struggled in rebellious protest, he also secured the entire pack and the silver lighter.

  Never before accosted by such a situation, Whitney gave vent to frustrated rage, screaming, “Give those back! You have no right! Damn you—”

  Ignoring her tantrum, Eagle swung on his heel. “Go take over the corn grinding for my grandmother. If you’re a good, productive girl, I’ll give you a cigarette break before we leave.”

  For a fraction of a second Whitney stood stunned, astounded that he would dare dictate her behavior to such an extent. Then she flew after him and pounded on his back ferociously. Her anger began a climb to disastrous heights as she realized he was laughing, and the next thing she knew, he had dragged her from his back to the ground and pinned her beneath him. With one hand he effortlessly secured both of hers over her head, grinned evilly and held the pack in front of him, pretending to muse seriously over the situation. “If I break them one by one,” he said slowly, “you won’t have any left!”

  “No!” Whitney breathed.

  “No what?” Eagle demanded.

  Whitney broke into a string of abusive language she hadn’t been aware that she knew.

  “Un-huh, un-huh!” Eagle warned, clicking his teeth reproachfully.

  Helpless with him above her, Whitney could not, nevertheless, control her temper. Wild rage decreed that she pit her entire strength against him, and she did so, writhing desperately against his weight and boalike grip on her wrists.

  “Hmmm …” was his only response, his eyes assuming a brilliant twinkle. “That feels great. I think I like you mad.”

  “Ohhh,” Whitney groaned, gritting her teeth. But he was right; the grinding of their hips together was bringing back memories of last night when they had joined together …

  “Let me up!” she demanded quickly, “and I’ll go pound your damned corn or whatever it is you want done!”

  Smiling, he came to his feet and helped her up. “Now that’s the spirit! Whoever said that nicotine addiction couldn’t be a good thing? You’re going to want that cigarette so bad you’ll just plow through the work!”

  He chuckled as she stared at him furiously, her eyes snapping emeralds, her beautiful face taut with rebellion, her entire body seething. What perversity goaded him to provoke her, he wondered. Maybe a hint of the arrogance she accused him of. He really didn’t give a damn about the corn himself … but watching her before the fire had reminded him too clearly that she had no part of this world that he could never really leave behind. She had become a wanton in his arms, instinctively pleasing him as no other woman, however well versed in the arts, ever had. He wanted to grab her and force her back to the chickee, or to a bed, or, hell, on the ground—anywhere. He wanted to take her and take her and take her until she was so indelibly bound to him and filled by him tha
t she would never think of touching another man. …

  That thought—a vision of her in the arms of another man, touching him, her lips upon him—sobered Eagle. He had only the next few days … just a few more days to possess and win her completely.

  “Well, go on!” he growled abruptly, unable to control the forces that gripped him like a madman. Elemental power was all that he had.

  She spun past him, muttering about what he was beneath her breath. Brute. Domineering. Uncouth. He even rated “chauvinist.” Her hips swayed enticingly as she walked away. “Damnit!” was the last thing he heard her murmur.

  The corn grinder was simply a section of large log, fashioned with a hollow to hold shelled corn. The corn became pulverized by the dropping of a heavy wooden pestle.

  Whitney’s arms were aching within a few minutes, but her anger kept her moving. Morning Dew helped her, instructing her in the easiest way to control the heavy pestle. Then she was on her own. Everyone in the village was busy preparing supplies for the festival.

  When she had finally finished with the offending corn, Whitney realized it couldn’t be more than nine A.M., yet she felt as if the day should be over. Anyway, she certainly deserved her break! Strolling back to the cooking fire, she found hot coffee and her cigarettes. Wary lest Eagle come upon her and decree that she was supposed to have scrubbed the dirt floor, Whitney took her coffee and cigarette through the little alcove in the trees that led to the lake, found a level stump and sat to enjoy her brief spell of relaxation. God, but she hurt all over! And she was one hell of a fool. What was possessing her to stay and endure such treatment? The answer came to her immediately. Eagle. She was possessed.

  A smile twitched her lips. So she was going to become his bride tonight! He would certainly be sorry he had been so rough on her. The continually joked about excuse of a headache had to be a frequent reality for an Indian wife. Headache, nothing! Everything that was part of her ached!

  “I’ll have you grind the corn more often if it makes you this happy!”