Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  “It’s cold in here. Let’s go in by the fire.”

  She shrank back. “No. I’m—The mood isn’t—I don’t want—”

  Swift bent slightly and caught her up in his arms. Where his hands touched, she felt like warm silk. Trembling warm silk. He strode across the room, shifted her in his arms to open the door, kicked it back out of his way, and carried her into the sitting room. When he set her on her feet, she took a step back, still clinging to the pantalets, her hands knotted so tightly her knuckles gleamed white. Swift grasped the muslin.

  “Let’s get rid of those, shall we?” He gave a little tug. She resisted, throwing a wild glance at the fire. “Amy . . .”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she squeaked. “I was already nervous, and then . . .”

  “And then I reacted like an idiot. I’m sorry, Amy, love. You just took me by surprise. Give me another chance, please?”

  He pulled the underwear from her grasp and tossed it aside. When he turned back, his breath caught. Even though she hugged herself, trying to hide behind her crossed arms and splayed fingers, the sight of her, standing naked in firelight, made his senses reel. The pink nipple of one breast peeked at him from between two fingers. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched the sensitive tip, in awe because she had found the courage to gift him with her body.

  She sucked in breath and repositioned her hands, providing him with a delightful display while she tried to decide what part of her was a priority to keep covered. Regarding her with tender understanding, Swift saw her dilemma. Her breasts were far more ample than her prim dresses hinted; those alone filled her hands. He wished they were filling his. And if she concentrated on just her breasts, that left the rest of her bare.

  She finally settled for angling one arm over her chest, palming one plump breast, which left the other peeking out from under her arm. Her other hand flew to the shimmering gold triangle at the apex of her thighs. Given the fact that she had slender hands that did a poor job of covering much, he applauded her choices. “My God, Amy, do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked in a gravelly whisper.

  She fastened wide blue eyes on him.

  “Your skin is like a moonbeam.” He curled a hand over her hip, stepping closer. “And your breasts . . . in all my life, I’ve never seen—You make me think of those pale pink roses, when the buds first open.” He touched her hair with his fingertips, and smoothed it off her shoulder so he could press a kiss there. “You’re a sweet dream. I can’t believe you’re real.”

  “I’m c-covered with apples.”

  Swift tilted his head, skimming his lips along the slope of her shoulder to the downy curve of her neck. “When I’m finished, there won’t be a trace of apple left on you, I promise.”

  “S-Swift?”

  “Hm?” He captured her earlobe between his teeth, then traced the shape of her ear with his tongue. She shivered and made fists in his shirt, which meant that she’d abandoned the attempt to cover herself. He drew back. “What, Amy?”

  She started to hug herself again, but he clamped a hand around her wrists, capturing both before she moved. He stepped back and dropped his gaze. She squeezed her eyes closed, her throat working as she swallowed.

  Swift couldn’t speak. And even if he had been able to, words couldn’t have expressed the emotions that rolled through him. With his free hand he reached to touch her breast, then hesitated, trembling. When his fingertips grazed her shimmering skin, she stiffened and stopped breathing. As he closed his hand on her, he freed her wrists and hugged her close.

  “Amy . . .” His voice shook as he breathed her name. “You are so sweet, so incredibly sweet.”

  “So s-sweet I’m sticky.”

  “Honey, I don’t care if you’re sticky.” He took a taste of her shoulder. “You’re delicious.”

  “Oh . . . God.” She pressed her face against his chest. “I want my clothes. . . . This was a stupid idea. I really sh-shouldn’t have—Swift?” She twisted an arm behind her to clamp her hand over his where it had come to rest on her bottom. “What are you—Swift?”

  He leaned his head back. “Amy, look at me.”

  Hesitantly she lifted her face. When she did, he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers. She made a sound of protest and started to resist, her breath spilling against his lips. He tensed to hold her and drove his tongue into her moist mouth. She froze, then moaned softly, rising on her toes to meet him, her slender arms encircling his neck.

  Left to touch her wherever he chose, Swift felt his heart begin to slam. The muscles in his thighs tied into knots. His hands glided over her, trembling, hovering, aching. He settled for returning one palm to her buttock so he could draw her hips closer. The warm flesh of her bottom quivered. He felt her arms spasm around his neck. He pressed his other hand to her slender back, to steady her and hold her, in case she panicked. A little murmur crawled up her throat and into his mouth.

  He guessed how frightened she was. His control nearly snapped when she pressed closer and clung to him almost fiercely, seeking comfort from him. The enormity of what he was about to do hit him. Swift squeezed his eyelids closed, shaking as violently as she, so desperately determined to make this beautiful for her that uncertainty held him paralyzed. One wrong move, one thoughtless word. He swallowed, the sound echoing inside his chest, and wrenched his mouth from hers to bury his face in her hair.

  “Swift?”

  He eased his hand up her back, his fingertips tracing the scars there, his guts twisting because she had trusted him enough to come to him as she had. “It’s all right, Amy, love,” he whispered, not sure whom he was trying hardest to convince, her or himself. “It’s all right.”

  “You’re sh-shaking.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “I know.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m terrified.”

  “You’re what?”

  He gave a jerky laugh. “Scared! I’m so scared I couldn’t spit if you yelled fire. If I do this wrong—if I mess it up. I love you so much, Amy. . . .”

  To his amazement, he felt her body relax. She leaned her head back, trying to see his face. He straightened and lifted his lashes to meet her gaze. She loosened her arms from his neck to catch his face between her hands. Blue eyes brimming with tears, she rose up to kiss the scar on his cheek, the cut on his chin, then his mouth.

  “Oh, Swift . . . don’t be afraid,” she whispered against his lips, her breath so sweet it intoxicated him. “I wanted to make you happy. . . .”

  “Happy? I am happy. I love you so much—”

  “Just tell me that,” she pleaded. “The way you promised to. Tell me you love me, Swift. Your way, this time, without words. You can’t say I love you wrong, can you?”

  He slid his lips to the side of her throat, loving the feel of her hands on his face. His mouth encountered a pulse point, and he pressed his tongue to it. Her heart was pattering so hard and fast that he couldn’t keep up with the beats. He slid his hands to her waist and drew her slowly toward the floor until they knelt on the rug.

  Pulling away from her, he sat back on his heels to look at her. She knelt before him, chin lifted, her gaze clinging to his, her arms crisscrossed over her body. Very gently he clasped her wrists and drew her arms to her sides. A pink flush tinted her white skin. Swift cupped a breast, lifting it with his palm. His skin looked as dark as night in contrast with hers. He bent his head and touched his tongue to the swollen, rosy peak of her nipple, smiling slightly when he felt her pulse throbbing there, too. She was so scared that she was one big heartbeat, and he loved her all the more for it.

  She gasped at the contact of his tongue, and her sensitive flesh shrank, its only defense against the rasping caress. Unable to resist, he pulled her into his mouth, catching her around the hips when she jerked to her knees. Her hands flew to his hair. She made tight fists, her breath coming quick and shallow as his tongue dragged across her nipple, teasing the nerve endings there. She whimpered low in
her throat when he drew on her, her head falling back when his teeth closed.

  Then, as if the starch went out of her, she melted. Supporting her with his arm, he rode her to the floor, switching his attention to the other breast, gratified by the shallow panting sounds she made as he worked her. Amy. His life, his love, a velvet dream in his arms, sweeter than anything he had ever imagined or ever could have conceived possible.

  Through the fringe of her eyelashes, Amy saw Swift’s black head pressed to her bosom, his dark hands running up her body. Sensation rocked her—so beautiful it took her breath. His shirt rasped against her, warmed by the fire and his skin. She arched toward him, giving herself, all fear leaving her. This was how God had intended it to be. A precious gift. A sacred oneness.

  I love you. He said the words in the way he held her, his rock-hard arms so gentle they felt like air around her. I love you. His hands told her—not merely touching her, but worshiping her. When he rose above her and jerked off his shirt, golden firelight played on his chest and arms. With a heavy-lidded gaze, Amy looked up at him, finding beauty and sweetness in the sheer maleness of him, the breadth of his rippling shoulders, the tracks of muscles across his belly, the dusting of black hair that ran in a triangle from his chest to his narrow waist. His burnished body gleamed like lacquered wood, rich and hard and sturdy.

  When he drew her back into his arms, when her breasts connected with his hot skin, Amy’s breath snagged, her senses reeling. Love for him filled her until she ached. She felt no fear. What she did feel was his hand tracing the scars on her back and a tear trailing down the side of her neck.

  She clung to him then, filled with a joy that was inexpressible—because Swift Lopez, a hard, embittered man who had never shown weakness, a man who had instilled fear in people clear across Texas, a man who had faced death hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times, held her so tenderly and wept over the pain she had suffered. If he could expose himself so completely to her, she could deny him nothing.

  When he moved his hand down her belly, when she felt his fingertips thread through the curls at the apex of her thighs, Amy offered no resistance. Instead she opened for him, trusting him as she had never trusted anyone, surrendering even though she expected pain, reassured because she knew he would hurt her as little as possible. He slid his fingertips lower and Amy whimpered, taken off guard by the electrical sensation that shot through her belly. She had expected him to rise above her, to divest himself of the remainder of his clothing, to take her. What she hadn’t counted on was to feel this. Pleasure rolled over her in hot, tingling waves.

  Withdrawing slowly, ever so slowly, then thrusting, gently, cautiously, finding a place within her that turned white hot and shivery every time he connected with it. Amy moaned and lifted her hips, unable to draw breath as he increased the pace, thrusting harder and faster until she undulated to meet him, caught up in a sensation that made her mindless. She opened her eyes on a swirling world of firelight and darkness, plummeted through it, that place within her going into spasms that jerked her whole body. She felt as if she might fly apart, but just when she knew she would, Swift’s arm drew her close and held her together as wave after quaking wave of indescribable ecstasy rolled over her.

  She lay quivering in his arms afterward, chest convulsing for breath, her body filmed with moistness, her heart pounding. He ran gentling hands over her, whispering to her as she returned, measure by measure, to reality. Amy knew that what he had just done to her wasn’t all there was to it, that he hadn’t found his pleasure yet. Even though she expected it to be painful for her, she fought back her fear because she wanted so badly to please him. But when she started to turn toward him, he slid his hand back to her again, his fingertips stroking lightly over her, not entering her this time. She gasped at the shock of sensation that shot up through her.

  “Swift . . .”

  “Trust me, Amy,” he insisted in a husky voice. “This is how it’s supposed to be. Trust me.”

  Light began to swirl inside her head. Heat built inside her again, white-hot, then more fiery, until her belly knotted around it, twisting and quivering, the tension building until she sobbed and snapped taut, arching toward him, wanting and needing him to press harder. Then rapture, shooting through her, jolt after jolt of it, until she quivered, until she cried out, until she lay spent, too weak to move, to speak.

  In a haze, she saw Swift rise over her, gleaming bronze, roped with tendon, becoming aware as her gaze dropped that he had removed the remainder of his clothing. The fear, which she had held so firmly at bay, clutched her with cold fingers, stilling her breath, snapping her taut. Catching her by the hips, he lifted her toward him. She made fists in the rug, tensing, expecting agony.

  “Amy, love. Do you trust me?”

  Amy clutched the rug more frantically, braced against him. With a choked sob, she nodded.

  “Then relax. Show me you trust me, Amy, this one last time.” He kneaded her thighs, forcing the stiffness from them, his hands warm and gentle, yet relentless. “Can you do that for me? Let go of the rug.”

  Memories from long ago, and from only moments ago, spun through her mind. Swift, her dearest friend. He wanted her. And no matter how it might hurt, she wanted to fulfill his needs. She forced her hands to release the braided fibers of the rug, her gaze clinging to his.

  “Now take a deep breath,” he whispered. “And relax your body. I don’t want to hurt you. Relax. There’s my girl.”

  As she exhaled the great draft of air he had told her to inhale, he entered her in one smooth thrust. Amy sucked in breath, her lungs whining at the shock of his invasion. Her temples slammed. She waited, teeth clenched, knowing the pain would come. But it didn’t. Then he lowered his body over hers to gather her into his arms. For a moment he didn’t move, allowing her to grow accustomed to him.

  “Are you all right?”

  With a relieved sob, she said, “Yes,” scarcely able to believe it. He pressed his face into her hair, his lips near her ear, his breathing fast and shallow.

  “Don’t be afraid. Trust me, honey. I swear on my life it won’t hurt.” He began to move within her, striking the rhythm of her nightmares, only now the nightmare had turned to a dream. “I love you, Amy. Hold tight to my neck. Come with me. . . .”

  And with that request whispering in her mind, he took her with him to heaven.

  Chapter 20

  AMY DRIFTED BACK TO REALITY SLOWLY, TAKING in her surroundings in measures, noticing first the flickering firelight, then the coarseness of the braided rug against her back, the anchor of Swift’s body atop hers, the warmth of his breath against her neck, the feel of his hands splayed across her skin. She closed her eyes, savoring the peacefulness and the knowledge that this man who held her so tenderly loved her.

  She took a deep breath, absorbing the scents of him, committing them to memory—faint traces of soap, the tang of leather, the smell of tobacco, and the muskiness of his skin. His heart thudded against her breast, a strong, even beat that seemed to throb through her own veins. It felt perfectly right to lie there with him, her limbs drained of strength, her mind drifting. A sense of belonging filled her.

  Swift. His name flowed through her like the chords of a song, sweet and lilting. There was no need for writing on paper, no need for their union to be recognized by law or church. Their vows to one another had been spoken long ago, and as far as she was concerned, a Comanche marriage was enough.

  “Are you all right?” he asked huskily.

  Amy opened her eyes and ran her fingers lightly over his hair. “I’m—” Tears burned behind her eyelids, and her throat swelled with an ache of gladness. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I feel wonderful.”

  He touched his lips to her neck, running his tongue across her skin. “You taste wonderful,” he murmured. “And you feel even better. I don’t want to move.”

  “Then don’t.” In truth she didn’t want him to, almost feared it, for then she would have no choice but to face reality
again. For this little while, she wanted to stay inside the dream Swift had spun around her, to believe in goodness and rightness and love, just for this little while.

  “I’ll crush you.”

  He moved slightly, putting an elbow on the rug to lever his chest off her. As his head drew back, Amy looked into his smiling eyes, and her mouth curved in response. After gazing down at her for a long while, he lifted his hand to her face, trailing a fingertip across her cheek. The smell of her clung to him, reminding her of all that had passed between them, and some of his magic slipped away from her.

  He drew back a bit more, studying her, his gaze shifting to her uncomfortably warm cheeks. The knowing gleam in his eyes made her feel embarrassed. And instantly conscious of her nakedness. In the wake of that, she felt undignified, remembering how she had writhed and moaned beneath his hands. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he was remembering, too.

  The smile in his eyes spread to his mouth. He twisted his shoulders, groping behind him. An instant later, he held up his shirt and spread it over her. Grateful for the shield, Amy hugged the black cloth close, awash in uncertainty. Her first inclination was to scramble for her clothes, but those were in the bedroom and she’d have to walk miles to retrieve them. Not only that, but it felt wrong to scurry away, as if nothing important had occurred. Yet that was what she yearned to do.

  “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not very good at this,” she whispered.

  “If you were, I’d be disappointed. Don’t you know that a man likes to think he’s the first? That his woman is his and only his?”

  Amy’s stomach clenched. “Swift, you know that—”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” he whispered. “You’re as sweet and pure and precious as any woman who ever lived. No man’s ever kissed you like this.” He bent his head to feather a light kiss across her mouth. “Or touched you like I have. Or seen your body like I have. Or made love to you. You’re mine and only mine, Amy. That’s what I know.”

  “Oh, Swift . . .” The shirt shifted, and she tugged it back into place.