Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  Almost without conscious thought, she lifted her hands to slowly wash away all traces of the paint he wore. The action was innocent, but the intimacy of her gentle, yet cleansing caresses somehow heightened the already sensually charged encounter.

  As she wiped the last vestige of color from his face, her expression grew rapt. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat at the sight of Lance without the hideous mask of paint marring his features. For the first time Trista saw Lance as a man. As the water had washed away the harsh color, it had also washed away much of her fear. No longer the barbarous savage, he somehow seemed almost familiar to her, and she marveled at the handsomeness of his features.

  Lance had remained perfectly still as Trista had cleansed him of his warrior's markings. He had intended to wear the paint until he had returned to the village as a symbol of his struggle and conquest over the golden one, but now, suddenly, it didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the naked woman who stood before him in seeming surrender.

  Trista looked ethereally beautiful in the moonlight's loving caress. The silvery light touched upon her every feminine curve, emphasizing the glorious beauty of her rounded breasts and the shapeliness of her slender waist. Droplets of water glistened upon her body, and he knew a sudden, burning desire to kiss the pearling liquid from the sweet-satiny texture of her skin. Her pale hair, unbraided now, hung down her back in a cascade of wet gold, and Lance lifted one strong hand to the back of her neck to tangle in its silken thickness. Exerting a gentle pressure, he drew her head slightly back so he could see her more clearly. Trista arched toward him to accommodate his urging, and in doing so her breasts thrust against his chest. The contact was electrifying to the both of them.

  There in the secret quiet of the night they stood. The warm waters of the pool lapped gently about their hips, and the evening's cooling breeze drifted delicately about them, but they took no notice, for they were caught up in the splendor of the moment.

  Trista was vaguely aware of the danger of their position, but she was helpless to summon the strength to move away from Lance. She was entrapped by a web of her own making. Captivated, she stared up at him transfixed.

  Lance, too, was spellbound. Slowly he lowered his head, until he could capture her lips in a sweet-soft exploration. His mouth moved gently . . . enticingly over hers. Trista remained unmoving in the circle of his arms, wondering at the rapturous feelings that were soaring through her. Their earlier torrid embrace had not prepared her for this . . . this subtle, tender seduction.

  Faintly, Trista knew she should struggle to be free. She was Michael's fiancée and planned to marry him soon! Yet all thoughts of Michael fled before the persuasive pressure of Lance's mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed as he deepened the kiss, parting her lips and delving within to taste of her exquisite sweetness. Myriad wild new emotions coursed through her as their tongues met and dueled in love's age-old erotic dance.

  Crushed to his chest, her breasts tautened in awareness. Trista's breathing grew strained as Lance lifted his free hand to fondle that burgeoning flesh. A whimper of arousal sounded deep in her throat, and it was all the encouragement he needed. Breaking off the kiss, he lifted her slight weight higher to seek the fullness of her bosom with his lips.

  The ecstasy of his mouth upon her flesh lit a fire of passion in her veins, and she caught at his shoulders to support herself. So braced, she threw her head back in ecstasy as he plundered her breasts with heated kisses. Her unrestrained response to his caresses urged Lance on, and he lowered her in his arms so his mouth could meet hers again.

  This time when their lips met, there was nothing gentle about it. They embraced hungrily, each seeking more from the other. Trista's legs intertwined with his as she slid down the length of his body. The power of his arousal pressed against her with heated urgency, and the foreignness of that part of him, so different from her own supple, yielding flesh, frightened her a little. She tried to pull away, but Lance understood her hesitation and murmured his reassurance.

  "Don't be afraid, my golden beauty."

  It wasn't so much his words as his tone that soothed Trista's fears. As Lance stroked her back with long, rhythmic caresses, gentling her and easing the tension from her, she succumbed to his expertise. They kissed again in passionate abandon, and when he shifted her weight to lift her into his arms, she did not protest. Willingly, she locked her arms about his neck and lay her head upon his shoulder as he started back across the pool.

  Trista was aware of nothing except Lance's nearness as he carried her up the bank to their campsite. Cradled against his chest, she gloried in his warm embrace. As he knelt beside the blanket to lay her upon its welcoming softness, Trista kept her arms looped firmly about his neck, bringing him down with her. A fire of desire was burning deep within the womanly heart of her, and instinctively she knew she needed the answering fulfillment only he would be able to give.

  Lance's long, lean body fit perfectly to hers as he lay full-length on top of her, and Trista knew an overwhelming sense of rightness at being with him. When he bent to kiss her once more, she eagerly responded. There could be no denying that she wanted him, for his every touch set her senses reeling.

  Her hands restlessly explored the broad expanse of his back, holding him near as she met him in kiss after passionate kiss. Their hunger for each other grew with each caress. As Lance trailed burning kisses down the arch of her throat to the throbbing peaks of her breasts, Trista began to move beneath him in primitive, sensual invitation. There seemed to be a vast emptiness consuming her and filling her with a yearning for completeness she didn't understand.

  His hand found her then, probing her tender woman-flesh, and she bucked wildly trying to escape him.

  "Easy, my golden love." His voice was hoarse with excitement as he continued to caress her. "Easy . . . "

  Trista willed herself to relax as he lowered his head to the sweetness of her bosom once more, but the tug of his mouth at her breast coupled with the erotic massage of his hand teased her to a peak of excitement she'd never known existed. The fire within her loins grew to unbearable proportions, and Trista knew a moment of fear as her arousal soared unchecked.

  "Lance . . . " She cried his name out loud as the pulsing ecstasy of passion's peak threatened to take her to the mystery of love's pinnacle and beyond.

  With the masterful touch of a man well schooled in love's ways, he caressed her to the heights of pleasure, initiating her to the power of ultimate delight. Trista stiffened as the unfamiliar waves of rapture swept through her, and when they had passed, she lay mindless and quivering in his arms. Lance shifted his weight to raise up above her and press a soft, almost cherishing kiss upon her parted lips.

  Trista lifted a wide-eyed, questioning gaze to Lance. "I didn't know. . . ."

  "You still don't, love. There is more, much more. . . ." His voice was husky with desire as once again he began to touch her in her most sensitive places.

  Trista was completely astonished to find that her body was responding. "There's more?" Her breathing quickened as he nudged her legs more widely apart and then settled fully between the soft valley of her thighs. She could feel his alien hardness trapped against her, and she stiffened.

  "It is time to love you, Trista. To make you mine in the fullest sense of the word," he was saying as his hands traced paths of magical, sparkling arousal over her.

  Something in the back of her mind balked at his statement, and she wanted to protest, but his mouth closed over hers, preventing her from speaking. His lips and tongue coaxed her to forgetfulness, and she found herself lost to all but the glorious sensations that only he could create in her.

  Lance's restraint was but a slender thread, and when she returned his kisses with ardent abandon, he was lost. There was no thought of stopping as he lifted her hips to fit more tightly to him. All he could think of was the joy of being buried deep within her velvet heat. He had conquered her resistance. He had given her pleasure, and now it was time to take
his own.

  Slipping a hand between them, he sought and found her welcoming wetness. This time she did not protest his caress, but arched up to his touch, hungrily seeking the release he offered. So encouraged, Lance positioned himself at the portals of her womanhood and slid deep within her, breeching the slight barrier of her innocence and mounting her fully.

  Trista gasped at the unexpected pain, and tears stung her eyes. Reality crashed through the sensual haze he'd created with his lovemaking, and waves of agony and shame washed through her. Thoughts of Michael entered her mind, and she bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  His eyes closed as he savored the joining, Lance held himself still once he'd entered her, giving her time to adjust to his possession. The ecstasy of being held, sheathed by her heated sweetness, drove him to move, though, and he began his rhythm . . . giving then taking . . . giving then taking . . . until he felt her begin to respond.

  Trista had not wanted to feel the excitement building within her again, but the hard-driving press of his hips created a new fire of need. It was different, yet the same as what she'd experienced before, and though she hated herself for wanting him, she could not stop. His mouth claimed hers in a deep, hungry kiss, and all thoughts of right or wrong were forgotten. There was only Lance, and the starburst of feeling that was overpowering her.

  The explosion of her desire shocked her. More powerful than the pleasure he had given her before, she crested in a surge of heart-stopping rapture, her body taut as a bowstring as he rode her, playing upon her senses and driving her to the heights even as he sought his own end. The knowledge that she was so wildly responsive to him severed Lance's control, and his own passion peaked in hot, shuddering excitement. Sated, he collapsed heavily upon her. Neither moved or spoke as they lay together in silence.

  Lance's thoughts were confused when he finally rolled away from her. He had never experienced such pure joy in joining with a woman before, and the discovery troubled him. He had known that he wanted her physically, but he had never expected to find such rapture in her embrace. It angered him that he felt strangely threatened by what he had just experienced, but at the same time, he was pleased. He had taken his half brother's woman and made her his own. It was what he had set out to do, and he had done it. Lance knew a particular moment of pleasure in thinking of her response. This had not been rape. Trista had eagerly sought his touch. He had made her his. There was victory and a certain smug self-satisfaction in his eyes as he got to his feet and gazed down at her.

  Weak with contentment, Trista lay with her eyes closed, overwhelmed by the pure sensuality of their lovemaking. Never, not even in her wildest dreams, had she ever imagined that any man's touch could bring so much pleasure. Caught up in the newness of what had just happened to her, she lay quietly, savoring the memory of Lance's every kiss and touch.

  Only when Lance rolled away from her did she open her eyes to look up at him. It was then, seeing the terrible, degrading look of triumph in his expression, that the starkness of her situation hit her full force. She was filled with sudden, almost violent self-loathing. How could she have given herself to him? How could she have been so weak? Chills of disgust trembled through her, and a tear of remorse trailed forlornly down her cheek. Quickly, she moved to cover herself with her hands.

  "I hate you!" she swore, tormented by her own weakness and her betrayal of Michael.

  "It matters little to me what you think or feel, my golden captive." Lance's expression didn't change as he knelt down beside her and brushed her hands away from their feeble attempt to hide herself from him. "All that matters is that I have made you mine." Boldly, he let his hands roam over her, deliberately fondling those places she'd tried to cover.

  "I'm not yours, and I never will be! Never!" Trista denied her shame as she tried to twist away from him and block his caresses.

  He gave a sharp laugh. "You already are." Lance cupped one of her breasts and teased the peak to hardness. "You can say what you want, but your body does not lie, Trista. Does Michael's touch make you feel this way?" he taunted.

  "Michael has never touched me so!" Trista gritted her teeth against her body's betrayal as she continued to try to evade his touch. "Don't! No . . . "

  Lance had known she was a virgin, but it filled him with pleasure to know that no other man had ever been so intimate with her. He needed suddenly to caress the very center of her again and slipped a hand lower to claim what was his.

  Trista fought against this new encroachment, keeping her legs pressed tightly together and trying to push his hands away. Lance grew weary of her protestations and grabbed her wrists in a viselike grip, drawing her arms away and leaving her body open to his scathing gaze. "It would not trouble me to bind you, Trista," he threatened coldly, his blue eyes raking over her.

  All the fight went out of her at the thought of being bound again. "No . . . please . . . don't."

  "Then remember, and know that I'll do it if you give me cause," he told her dispassionately.

  Hatred and frustration were reflected in Trista's eyes as she ceased her struggles. She held herself rigid and lay still before him. She expected him to press his point and take her again, but to her surprise, Lance merely stared at her impassively for a long moment and then released her. The relief that had washed through her at being freed was quickly erased, though, as he lay down beside her, pulled her into his arms, and drew the blanket over them.

  "Sleep. We'll be riding out before dawn," he commanded.

  Trista lay tensely against him, thinking that he was going to force her to make love to him again, but to her surprise he made no such overtures. After a while, it became too much of an effort to keep her eyes open, and for the second night in a row, curled intimately in her warrior's embrace, she slept.

  Long after Trista had drifted off, Lance lay awake, staring off into the darkness and wondering at the conflicting emotions this woman could arouse within him. He had been tempted to take her again just to prove to her that she did indeed desire him, but the look of pure hatred she'd given him had put him off. He didn't know why it bothered him that she hated him; he only knew it did.

  Logically, Lance knew he hated her and all she stood for. She was a white woman. She was engaged to a Barrett. Nothing could be more damning in his eyes.

  He drew some satisfaction from his seduction of her. The remembrance of her willing surrender sent a shaft of heat through his loins, and he stroked the silken curve of her hip as she lay sleeping against him. A restlessness possessed him as he thought of having her again. Though the desire to take her was strong, he controlled it with an effort.

  Extricating himself from her side, Lance got up and stood silently over Trista. He stared down at her sleeping form for a long moment, his expression curiously blank. Then, knowing that dawn would be coming all too quickly, he moved off into the darkness away from Trista's disturbing presence to seek out his own rest.

  Chapter Eight

  As the sun dipped low in the west, signaling the end of yet another day, a slender, young Comanche maiden stood apart from the rest of her tribe near the edge of the Indian village staring off across the countryside. Her expression was searching and her manner anxious as she gazed out across the deserted land. She was consumed with worry for the man she loved, and her dark eyes mirrored that concern. Where was Lance? Not for the first time, she cursed the golden stallion that had taken him away from her. He had been gone for weeks now on his solitary quest, and she was beginning to wonder if he ever would return. Agitated by that final thought, she turned away from her vigil and made her way slowly back toward the tipi she shared with her mother.

  Wrapped warmly in a brightly colored blanket to ward off the night's growing chill, She Who Speaks the Truth was sitting before a small campfire, watching her daughter approach. She marveled once again at the beauty of her youngest child and wondered how such a vision of loveliness had sprung from her loins. Her own shortcomings were many. She was short and fat and plain of
face, her hair quite gray now in her old age, while her daughter, Night Lark, was the complete opposite of her. Tall and willowy, with shining black hair and a curving figure, Night Lark was thought by many to be the most beautiful maiden in the village. It was praise that She Who Speaks the Truth did not deny, for she knew that no other maiden in the tribe came close to matching her daughter's loveliness.

  She Who Speaks the Truth knew that Night Lark's beauty would serve her well, too, for she already had many young bucks eager to claim her for their own. It dismayed her somewhat that Night Lark showed interest in only one warrior, Lance, the nephew of Chief Lone Elk, and that he had no interest in taking a wife.

  She thought of the half-white nephew of their chief and frowned slightly. Ever since Lance had come to live with them all those years ago, he had been accepted as one of the tribe. He had proven himself to be an able hunter and warrior many times over, but She Who Speaks the Truth had always felt that there was a part of himself he was holding back. She had no proof of it. It was just something she sensed, and her reputation for knowing what couldn't be known was almost legendary within the tribe. Perhaps it was the way that he had always kept his hair cut short as a sign of mourning his mother's death, or perhaps it was the memory of the time he'd attempted to return to his white father's home only to come back to Lone Elk and the tribe a few days later. She had never learned what had happened to him on that last trip. Neither he nor Lone Elk had ever spoken of it. All she did know was that whatever had happened had affected him deeply. He had departed the village a young boy, but he had returned a man. He matured almost overnight and from that point on had given his utmost to becoming the best among his peers—to becoming a full Comanche in every way that he could.