Cherokee Storm. Janelle TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
more afraid of you than you are of them. You don’t want to walk up on a mama bear, understand? No sense of humor at all when they’ve got young ones. But you mind your business and old yona will do the same. As for the painters—mountain lions—they’re shy. Hate the scent of a human. I’d not leave you if I thought harm would come to you.”
She nodded. “All right.” The thought of a rest seemed better and better. If she took off her shoes, the blisters might not hurt so much when they had to go on. “I’ll wait here.”
He smiled. “That’s my brave girl.”
“You’re certain you’ll be able to find me again?”
Da’s smile became a wide grin. His teeth were still whole and white, the teeth of a much younger man. His smile hadn’t changed. “I know this country, darlin’,” he assured her. “I haven’t been lost in more than ten years. The devil and all his fiends couldn’t stop me from coming back for you.”
At first, she lay awake straining to hear every sound in the woods, every bird whistle, every chattering squirrel, every insect drone and buzz. She’d been so tired, but once Flynn’s erect figure had vanished through the trees, she hadn’t been able to hold back her distress.
Suppose that rustle of leaves was a poisonous snake? Weren’t there wolves in these mountains? Suppose her father fell and broke his leg and couldn’t get back? What would she do if she found herself truly alone?
Gradually, common sense took over. Weariness settled over her like a warm cloak. She unlaced the heavy shoes and pulled them off, sighing with relief. Hadn’t her father explained that she was perfectly safe? Didn’t he know this country as well as any white man? She would be reasonable and rest as he’d told her. And when he got back, she could continue on without complaining or slowing him down. Her eyelids were heavy. She yawned, laid her head on her arm, and drifted off.
The dream seized her and drew her down.
It was no longer daylight, but night. A canopy of glittering stars arched overhead. She could smell sweet spring grass and wild strawberries…. She could hear him murmuring her name as his strong hands stroked and caressed every inch of her body…as he cupped her breasts and teased her nipples to taut excitement.
She groaned, arching against his touch, reveling in the sweet sensations that flashed through her, igniting an incandescent heat between her thighs. His mouth lingered on hers. He tasted of ripe strawberries.
She inhaled deeply, seeking more, wanting more, wanting all of him. She tossed her head, hunting for him, needing him, not wanting the throbbing waves of pure joy to stop.
But they did stop. Abruptly, she could no longer feel his touch.
With a small cry, she opened her eyes. Where was he? Where was her secret lover? Where were the stars and the velvet bowl of night sky? Bright rays of sunlight pierced her hiding spot. She gasped and squinted against the glare. Stunned, she withdrew her hand…fingertips moist from her own inner folds.
No phantom lover…she’d been touching herself…pleasuring herself. Her own fingers had stirred the sexual yearning in her body. Hesitantly, she reached down to rub her swollen flesh. She should have felt shame, but the urge was overpowering.
How many times had she found release in the dark of the night by such action? Better to fulfill her woman’s need quietly under the covers in her own bed than to be a man’s plaything. If there was sin, she would pay for it. But surely, such a thing was only a small sin.
Tentatively, she stroked the moist button deep inside her woman’s folds. It felt so good…so good. But she needed more. She had never known a man, but she could imagine what the act between a man and a woman might be like. Imagined it well, she had to admit to herself, if she was honest. How else could she conceive of the feelings a man might evoke…and not just any man.
Storm Dancer.
Impossible. Her pulse quickened. Her breaths came faster. She gritted her teeth, imagining his hands on her, his voice whispering in her ear, letting her fantasies run wild. And all the while, she continued to massage and stroke her inner flesh until she was rewarded by small spasms of pleasure that spread outward through her body and seemed to resonate through her bones.
She sighed, letting her eyes drift closed in contentment.
“Mary Shan-non, what would your mother say?”
Her eyes snapped open and she cried out. He was here, not a dream lover, but flesh and blood. Shannon clapped her hand over her mouth as Storm Dancer’s face and form materialized out of the surrounding foliage.
He was there! Within arm’s reach. Spying on her—watching as she…
She scrambled out of her bed of leaves so fast that she tripped and fell headlong into his arms. “You!” she cried. “Why—”
Storm Dancer stood her upright, stepped away, threw back his head, and laughed and laughed until she felt her face grow hot and she smacked him hard in the chest with a balled fist.
“How could you?” she shouted.
Tears of laughter rolled from his eyes and streaked his cheeks.
“Stop it. Stop laughing at me.”
“Such games are for girls,” he managed, between roars of laughter. “Women need more.”
Shame dissolved before anger, and she looked frantically for something to hit him with. All she could find was a pinecone. She threw that as hard as she could. It bounced off his forehead, and he laughed harder. She rushed at him, pounding him with both fists.
He caught her and brought his mouth down to hers. For the briefest instant, it seemed that lightning flashed between them as he moistened her lower lip with his tongue and nibbled it gently. She trembled as he lowered his head and nuzzled her neck.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Her hands fisted and opened, tightened and opened helplessly. And, somehow, without knowing how or why, she was touching him, running her fingers over satin smooth copper skin, reveling in the heat and hard, rippling muscles.
Time stopped. Black spots danced behind her eyelids. She drew in a great gulp of air, and reason flooded her. What was she doing? How had a dream become real?
“Let me go. Please,” she begged.
“Mary Shannon.”
Her name on his lips turned her bones to butter. “No, this is wrong,” she protested. “I can’t…You can’t…”
He let her go and stepped back. She stumbled and almost lost her balance. She looked into his eyes…his beautiful dark eyes, and almost plunged into damnation. She could fall into the depths of those eyes…fall and fall forever.
“No,” she repeated stiffly. “My father—”
His bronze chest rose and fell as he drew in air. “Truth Teller should never have left you alone,” he said stiffly. “This is no place for a woman alone. Not a Cherokee woman…not a white woman.”
She backed away, putting distance between them. She fought against the urge to fling herself back into that strong embrace, to catch that red-gold skin between her teeth and taste the salt that must glisten there. She tried to ignore the tingle of her nipples, the sensation that her breasts were swollen and tender, the feeling that she was more alive at this moment than ever in her life. She fought lust as she had never fought it before.
“He will be back,” she said. “Da…my father. If he finds you here—”
“He will be glad that it is me and not another.” Again, Storm Dancer’s deep, soft voice sent shivers down her spine.
“Why are you here? Why did you follow us?” she demanded. She wasn’t afraid of him. What had happened between them was wrong, but it was as much her fault as his. She had to make sense of this. She had to make what was wrong right.
She