by Karen Kay
Angelia could feel the heat of Swift Hawk’s body. Moreover, she required no imagination to remember the impression of his hips against hers. It was the first time she had ever borne witness to the arousal of a man.
It wasn’t true that she was too innocent to know the facts of life. Certainly she was more than aware of male anatomy. But she had never experienced it like this. And despite herself, she found it…pleasant.
At the very least, it took her attention off the snake, momentarily.
What would she have done if Swift Hawk hadn’t been close at hand? She had been afraid to scream, had been more fearful of the discovery and censure from her peers than she had been of saving her own life.
Swift Hawk said that the snake wasn’t poisonous, yet Angelia couldn’t help feeling that she had experienced a near brush with death, and the aftershock was affecting her body strangely. She felt cold, so very cold, and she couldn’t stop shaking.
It seemed as if the only warmth in her world at this moment was Swift Hawk, and she wound her arms around his neck, vowing she would never let go. At last, however, she became aware that he was wading to shore. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder to see where they were, breathing a sigh of relief as she recognized the old cottonwood.
She spoke to the tree. “I had an accident.”
Wind whooshed through the tree’s leaves, making it appear as if it answered. The tree gestured toward a grassy, cushioned spot near its trunk. And Swift Hawk, who was probably aware of the language of the woods, sat down there, Angelia’s arms still wound tightly around his neck, her body resting in his lap.
Gracefully, the branches of the old tree settled over the pair of them, its leaves hanging downward around them, creating a curtain of sorts. It all but hid them.
Swift Hawk straightened, reaching a hand up, attempting to take one of her arms from around his neck. Angelia wouldn’t let it happen. Holding on tightly, she said, “Do not leave me. I am so cold.”
“I will not leave, but come, let me warm you. If you let go, I will rub your arms and legs for warmth, and then I will find your clothes and will help you dress.”
He again tried to pry her arms from around him.
“No,” she protested, “don’t do that. I am afraid you will leave.”
He frowned, then said, “I understand.” He drew her closer in his arms, doing no more than holding her, although he did run his hands up and down her back. Up to her neck, down, down, almost to her buttocks, he traced her spine over and over. Mindlessly, the minutes ticked by until gradually, because his body was so close to hers, Angelia became aware that the man was very aroused.
Because of her? Somehow, the knowledge was a potent stimulus to her femininity, and she felt an answering warmth spreading through her torso. “It would be better for you if I were dressed, wouldn’t it?”
He gave her one brief nod.
“Very well. Will you help me?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, she felt him swallow. Odd. Strange, too, how he was slow to agree, slow to nod. At length, he said, “I will help you, as I said I would, but there is a limit to my control. This you should know.”
“What do you mean?”
He inhaled sharply, the sound making a slight hissing noise. He was otherwise silent.
She prompted again, “What do you mean, there is a limit to your control? Are you saying that your arms are growing weak from having to hold me?”
He met her question with silence, his only answer seeming to be his very breathing. At last he said, “I mean that I want you as a man wants a wife.”
Want you…as a man wants a wife. The words were erotic. They did things to her. Wonderful, warm things. And, though it seemed impossible that she could scoot in closer to him, she did manage it.
He was continuing. “But you are not a wife to me…yet…and so I must exercise control over the desires of my body.”
She didn’t know why she wasn’t shocked by such candid talk. Maybe it was because the two of them could talk to each other, and often had. Or perhaps she was simply comfortable with him. Regardless, she was far from being offended. Indeed, if she were to be honest, she would admit that his confession did much to stimulate her, and gentle warmth enveloped her. Moreover, something else was happening to her, a craving for something, a stirring of something, down in her nether region, between her legs.
Was this love?
The thought was startling. Did she love this man? No. Impossible. They were worlds apart.
And yet she couldn’t deny that she wanted his touch, wanted it like she had never wanted anything else in her life.
She whispered softly, “Mr. Hawk, are you saying that you want to make love to me?”
He nodded. “Haa’he.”
It was a simple word, a Cheyenne word she knew meant “yes”, and yet its utterance here, now, sent her head spinning. She felt herself swooning, melting into him, and all at once it seemed she couldn’t get close enough to him. His skin was soft beneath her fingers, and she pressed into him, wishing that they could merge into one.
She inhaled, and the musky scent of his masculinity, combined with the fragrance of the Missouri River, filled her senses. Dear Lord, his confession was building a fire within her, for her heartbeat quickened, and she wanted more…of him…of his touch. For the first time in her life, Angelia understood on an entirely corporeal level the word “need”.
Was this, then, passion? For if it was, it was delicious. Little understanding what she did or why, she whispered, “Mr. Hawk, if it be true that you desire to make love to me, perhaps you should do so.”
Her statement certainly created an effect. He sat up straighter and jerked his head back, that he might stare directly into her eyes, as if to question her sanity.
She had already gone too far. She wanted him close…very close. She needed him…completely. Softly, she said, “The way I see it, when you saved my life, my life became yours, Mr. Hawk. And if this is something you desire—”
“That is not how it works. You are your own person. You owe me nothing.”
“That isn’t how I see it. I feel very deeply that if this is something you want, then I should be willing to—”
He shook his head. “No. When two people make love to each other, they do so because there is love in their hearts, not obligation.”
“I see. Does this mean, then, that you love me?”
He paused, as though he were carefully choosing his next words. “It is easier for a man to make love without being in love, than it is for a woman, I think. That is why a good man will try to make a woman love him. She will enjoy their physical life better if she does.”
“Are you saying that you don’t love me?”
“I desire you more than I have ever desired another woman in my life.”
Angelia gulped. Did he realize that the way he had said “desire” caused her to wish to keep him in her arms…forever? But all she said in reply was “I too have a confession to make.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I…I desire you too, I think. For, if I am to be honest, I don’t want you to stop holding me. Does that make a difference?”
He drew physically back from her, even though it was only a fraction of an inch. “Do not say these things to me, for you are naked in my arms and it would be easy for me to take advantage of you. A good man would not do so. And I like to think I am a good man.”
“Yes, yes, you are. But would a good man let me catch my death from the cold?”
He moaned, the look in his eyes tender. “I understand. You don’t really want me to make love to you. You are simply cold.”
“Yes, I am cold, but—”
“I will warm you.” He brought a hand up to smooth back a lock of her hair, letting his fingers trail slowly through it. Gradually, he rubbed her head.
“Hmmm,” she whispered. “That feels wonderful.”
“You are beautiful,” he said, “and you could have any man in camp as your husband, if
you would but say the word to him.”
She gave Swift Hawk a smile. “Thank you…I think.”
He continued, “Saaa, I do not understand why you have sought me out, amongst so many others. You are white; I am Indian. We share nothing in common, not even the culture in which we have been raised. Why are you here with me now when—?”
“Because,” she interrupted, “you saved me. Because you are helping my brother too. And because I feel as if I could tell you anything and you would probably still like me. I know you desire me now, but you do like me, don’t you?”
“I like you.” His touch fell over her cheek toward her neck. Gently, he rubbed the sensitive spots on her neck. “In truth, I like you a little too much. At times, what I feel alarms me, for I do not understand it.”
“What is there to understand? You either like a person or not, don’t you?”
“It is complicated.”
“Is it?”
He nodded, letting his touch fall toward her bosom. Slowly, he allowed his fingers to fall down the middle of her chest, tracing her breastbone, and ignored for the moment her two softened mounds on either side of that bone. Angelia closed her eyes and sighed, arching her back ever so slightly that he might take the hint and extend his range.
Oh, that he would touch her there, on her breasts. Never in her life could she remember wanting anything more. But Swift Hawk appeared to be immune to hints, and he rubbed her stomach instead. “I have never seen hair the color of yours.”
“I am told it is unusual. My mother’s hair color was the same as mine. It runs in our family, I suppose.”
“Haa‘he. I can see that it does, for your brother’s hair is much the same in color.”
Angelia opened her eyes and stared up at Swift Hawk, willing him to turn his dark eyes to her, for she wanted…more. But he seemed to be of a mind to ignore her supplication, silent though it be. At last, she realized she would have to take the lead, if she were to convince this very stubborn man of her need. “Mr. Hawk, you have my permission to do what you will. Why do you hesitate to rub my body…everywhere?”
She watched Swift Hawk swallow once, then again, as though there were something lodged in his throat. After what seemed an eternity, he turned his heated gaze on hers. “Have you ever made love to a man before?”
She swung her head from left to right. “No.”
He sighed. “Hear me on this without interruption then.”
She nodded.
“If I do this thing to you, you will desire it again. Maybe not right away. But you will. It is not that it is bad, it is simply that this is the way people are. If you were married, then you could satisfy this desire whenever the urge might strike you. But you are not married, and so you would have no means by which to release your passion.”
“Oh, I see.”
“If I do this thing to you…” he drew out the thought, “…I might lead you along a path that could be wrong for you. It could take you places that might not be for your own good. Since you have never known passion, it might be best if you do not know it now.”
That was quite a lot for a person to say, she thought. It was also insightful. However, how could he not know? Didn’t he feel what she felt, even now? For if he did, how could he ignore it? Sighing, she caught and held his gaze. Then, barely raising her voice, she said, “I fear it is too late.”
He raised his brows.
She explained, “I don’t know when it started. Maybe this morning, when I heard you singing, but something about that…about you… Or maybe it is your insufferable teasing. Whatever it is, Mr. Hawk, I feel as if I will go to pieces if I don’t finish this, if I leave your arms without this. I think that I need you, perhaps as much as you want me.”
Oh, how she wished to capture the look on his face to memory, for it was like watching a dam bursting. Gladness, passion, yearning—it was all there. With arms so strong she could barely breathe, he hugged her to him.
Was this love?
Perhaps. Perhaps.
His fingers unerringly found her breasts, and his lips soon followed where his fingers led, his long hair spreading over her, as though to envelop her in a sensuous curtain. Angelia threw back her head, glorying in the sweet uproar that was washing over her.
So this was what lovemaking was all about.
It was not a passive thing, nor was it stagnant. It was a living, breathing need. A need to take, a need to give. A need to be close, to draw close.
Reaching up a hand, she guided it through his dark hair, which was still wet from their adventure. Arching her back so as to give him better access to her bosom, she swept the touch of her fingers down his back, cherishing the shiver that crept over him.
So, he felt the fervor of her caress too.
For a moment, he ceased his adoration at her chest and glanced up to catch her gaze. Black, passion-glazed eyes met hers as he brought a hand up to trail over her cheek. Briefly, he smiled at her, then he let his fingers drop to her neck, up again to cup her chin. Next, reaching around to hold her gently, he raised her up toward him, bringing her face to his, where he rubbed his cheek against her own.
Oh, how gentle he was, how sweet his touch. Fire struck her insides, and starting with her stomach, it cascaded through her system like a wild prairie blaze. But she had to have more.
Slowly, she brought her lips to his. It was like the strike of a lightning bolt, that kiss. One touch, another, and then his lips settled over hers, his tongue seeking out her mouth, as though he would commit the act of love with lips and tongue alone.
For a moment, she felt the togetherness that she craved. Soon, even that wasn’t enough, and she squirmed against him.
He broke off the kiss, both of them barely able to catch their breath. His pure, masculine scent filled her senses, its woodsy aroma arousing. Again, she twisted in his arms. He seemed in no hurry, and settling his cheek against hers, he uttered, “It is good between us.”
She, however, was incapable of speech, and she merely inclined her head.
Then he kissed her all over again, only this time as he did so, his fingers found that place between her legs—the place where her body ached for something. She was wet, either from need or from the river water, she realized, and his fingers slid easily over her.
Dear Lord, the rapture of that touch.
Never had she felt such stirring, such wonder, such bliss. Oh, that it could go on and on.
And it did.
He whispered, “Move your hips against my hand, and tell me if it feels good to you.”
Angelia really needed no such prompting. All on her own, her hips were already moving and she was wiggling against him, as if reaching for something.
One of his fingers slid into her hidden recess, there at the junction of her legs, and she thought she might lose her mind. In truth, she did lose it, if only for a little while. This, him, his touch and what he was doing with his fingers, only this held importance in her mind. There was no room for anything else…nothing but him.
While she fidgeted against that hand, he gazed into her eyes, smiling at her. “You are so beautiful, in this, as is everything about you.”
What an exquisite thing to say, and she responded to it, to him, in an odd way. She thrust her hips more vigorously and was suddenly tripping over the edge of reality.
Staring up into his gaze, there was nothing here for her but him, pleasure, sensation and utter joy. A tiny, high-pitched noise escaped her throat, and looking up, she discovered that his reaction to that wee bit of sound was strange. For he shut his eyes and shuddered.
Closing her eyes too, she rolled her hips over and over against that hand, against him, the pleasure washing over her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, until at last she reached the precipice of her pleasure.
Was this love, then? If it weren’t, she was very close to it.
She settled back against him, the need to be held close no dimmer than it had been before. When he made to rise up, she hel
d on to him so tightly that he desisted any movement at all, and after he pulled her in even closer to him, they sat in one another’s arms silently, each one it seemed in hushed admiration of the other.
She had never been this close to another human being. And she had discovered something. Lovemaking was not only a joining of bodies, it was a fusion of spirit, because she had felt the essence of exactly who he was.
And she had found him…wonderful.
After a brief pause, she whispered, “That was incredible.”
“Haa’he, it was.”
“But did you…”
He was silent momentarily. Then, almost sheepishly, he said, “I did.”
“But I thought that a man had to—”
Taking her hand, he brought it to that part of his anatomy that was wholly male. Her hand met not only the hard strength of him, but a warm fluid, there against his breechcloth. She gasped.
“Do not disparage. It is simply that I have been too long without the comfort of a woman. I go before myself, I fear.”
She was a long way from disparaging either herself or him. This had been the most pleasurable, the most exciting experience of her young life.
“Please, Swift Hawk, please just hold me. If only we could stay like this forever. Stay this close.”
He nodded. “But soon you must dress. Soon others will be awake, and you will be missed.”
“Yes. But not now.”
Again, he nodded. “No, not now. Do not fret. When we part, as we must do soon, we will remain close. Perhaps not so in body, but in spirit… That is something else entirely. Haa’he, I think that spiritually we are tied.”
Angelia smiled. What a beautiful thing to say.
Was this love? Indeed, she thought it very well might be.
Chapter Twelve
…he had often heard that white people hung their criminals by the neck…he had learned that they shut each other up in prisons, where they keep them a great part of their lives because they can’t pay money…he had seen them whip their little children—a thing that is very cruel…their continual corruption of the morals of their women—and digging open the Indians’ graves to get their bones…that these and a hundred other vices belong to the civilized world, and are practiced upon (but certainly, in no instance, reciprocated by) the “cruel and relentless savage.”