Wild Yearning

by Penelope Williamson

  “Sweet, holy Jesus …” He swayed unsteadily and she clung to him. He started to pull her head around for another kiss, but she slid from his arms. She was suddenly frightened by her own wanton reaction to that kiss, to him.

  Her lips felt swollen and bruised, and she wet them with her tongue, tasting him. “It seems I’m supposed to feed you.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Then feed me,” he said huskily, and there was no mistaking his meaning. He took a step—

  “Food,” she said quickly, backing away from him, sliding around to put the firepit between them.

  Ty’s laugh was ragged. “Ah, Delia-girl. For such a passionate wench, you are the damnedest, hardest woman to woo.” But he dropped gracefully to the ground beside the fire, sitting cross-legged in the Indian fashion.

  There were bark plates and bowls, and she filled them with the food, giving them to him one at a time, as she had been instructed by the Indian girl. There were no newfangled forks here; he ate with his fingers, licking them clean between courses. And he kept his eyes on her the whole time he ate. She could feel their heat. It made her skin sizzle, and a place deep inside her, low in her belly, began to burn.

  She feasted in turn on the powerful, masculine sight of him. He, too, was dressed in intricately beaded buckskins—shirt, breechclout, and leggings. The belt of wampum he wore around his waist was identical to hers. With his dark hair, sharp-boned face, and blue eyes obscured by the shadows, he looked pure savage. She remembered him up on the platform, naked and painted, howling his war cry and swinging the club. I don’t know this man, she thought. I don’t know him at all And she was afraid.

  Then he smiled at her—that crooked curl of his mouth that never failed to pull at her heart. She looked quickly away so he wouldn’t see what he was doing to her.

  Suddenly it felt very warm in the wigwam. Delia brushed damp tendrils of hair from her face and fumbled with the shell clasps that fastened the panther cape. It was beautiful, but it was heavy and much too hot, especially with Ty watching her with those burning eyes. She took the cape off and laid it aside, running her palm across the sleek black fur.

  “Lusifee,” Ty said.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “He called me that.” “Who did?”

  “The Dreamer.”

  Ty’s smile turned hard. “Well, well. Now isn’t that interesting? And what did you call him?”

  Delia made a face. “He told me I must call him master … What does it mean—lusifee?”

  He glared at her for a moment longer, then shrugged. “It’s an Abenaki term of great respect. I’ve never heard it applied to a woman before.” His eyes glinted now with teasing amusement. “Although if there was ever a woman it suited, that woman is you. It means wildcat.”

  Delia was pleased with herself, but she also thought it very funny. Her lilting laughter filled the wigwam. “Oh, Ty! And to think I was beginning to suspect it was the Abenaki equivalent for wooden-headed fool.” And Ty’s warm laughter joined with hers.

  A small iron kettle filled with water and hemlock tips began to boil. She filled a hominy ladle with the brew, then dropped in a piece of maple sugar. But when she started to hand the ladle to him across the fire, he shook his head. “Bring it to me.”

  “But—”

  “Come here, damn it.”

  She brought the drink around to him. He took the ladle from her hands and set it on the ground. Then his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, and the next thing she knew she was sitting on his lap with a powerful arm wrapped around her waist.

  She squirmed—then felt the hard, thick ridge of his arousal pressing against her bottom and went instantly still. “You tricked me!” she protested breathlessly.

  “Uh-huh,” he admitted shamelessly. He drew her mouth down to his for a slow, delicious, tongue-sucking kiss.

  He stopped before she was ready, but only to lay his open mouth against her neck. “Ah God, Delia-girl … I can’t wait anymore. I want you now.”

  She oozed against him, flowed into, over him like hot molasses. She was all weak and warm and wet between her thighs. “No … we must stop,” she said. Or thought she said. She couldn’t hear because of the blood rushing in her ears.

  He stroked the length of her … waist, hip, thigh. Then back again … thigh, hip, waist. His lips drifted up her neck, seeking a slow, tortuous path back to her mouth. His hand found her breast and he massaged it roughly through the supple skin dress, his fingers pulling on the nipple until it was hard and quivering and aching.

  She struggled against him. Or tried to. Every part of her felt too heavy to move, yet at the same time she had no more substance than the smoke curling up from the fire. “Stop, Ty … please…”

  He flicked her ear with his tongue. She groaned and arched her neck. His lips roamed down the long, white column. He spoke to her, into her, his voice resonating through her blood. “I love you, Delia, Delia … And you love me. We’re together at last, just the two of us. Free. Let me love you, Delia. I fought for you, Delia. You’re my woman now, my—”

  “No!”

  She flung herself off him, backing away, crossing her arms in front of her in the age-old, purely female gesture of self-protection. “No, not again. I won’t let you seduce me again, Tyler Savitch. If you want me, you’re going to have to marry me first.”

  He uncoiled, stretching slowly to his feet. He advanced on her, his eyes glittering hotly. “I think I could seduce you, Delia.”

  “No—oh!”

  He crushed her against him so hard that her denial came on a expulsion of breath. “Yes,” he growled, gripping her hips, grinding his blatant, bulging erection into the cleft between her legs.

  Her nails dug into his shoulders and her head flung back as a loud moan tore from her throat. Stars, she saw stars through the smoke hole. They were spinning, whirling, and she … she was surrendering. “No,” she murmured.

  He ground his hips again, moved his lips across her neck. “I think I could seduce you easily.”

  She tried one last time. “No …”

  His hand splayed her scalp and he pushed her mouth within reach of his lips. “Yes,” he insisted, his lips brushing hers in a feathery, erotic caress. “But I won’t have to, Delia, my love, Delia, my wife … because we are already married.”

  Her lips parted, trembled, and her eyes opened wide. “Married? No, we never …” But Ty was done with talking and he was done with waiting. He smothered her hot, wet mouth with his.

  Never had he tasted anything so fine, so sweet as Delia’s mouth. She owned him, this woman, body and soul, and he wanted something back from her—even if it was only the short, sharp, exploding pleasure of spilling his seed deep inside her.

  Her mouth opened, surrendered, melted beneath his. She sucked at his tongue and he gave it to her. She clung to him and he supported her. She rubbed her stomach against him and he pumped his hips, letting her feel what she hungered for. Then he tried to swing her up into his arms and carry her to the bed without letting go of her mouth, and they wound up stumbling and tripping across the floor, rolling onto the piles of soft furs, still locked together.

  He thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth as he tugged up her skirt. He brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and her hips arched off the bed as if his fingers were tongues of fire. She moaned and he sighed, for her flesh was soft there, so incredibly soft that he was afraid it would melt beneath his hand, like strands of silk held to a candle’s flame. His hand moved upward, covering her pulsating sex. She groaned against his mouth as his fingers slid between the tender folds, stretching her open. God, but she was dripping wet and hot. So hot.

  He explored her with his fingers, smearing her juices over the downy, curling hairs, whisking his wet thumb back and forth across the hard nub of pleasure until he had her writhing against his hand.

  She tore her lips from his. “Oh, Ty, that is so … oh, please …”

  He raised his head to look at her. Her eyes w
ere wide open and dark with desire, her mouth swollen and slack, wet from his kisses. Her gaze fastened onto his face, as her searching hands moved between the folds of his breechclout, finding his erection. Her palm closed around his thick length, squeezing him almost roughly. Her hand was hot and Ty hissed in an agony of desire.

  He clenched his jaw, setting the back of his teeth so hard he thought they’d break, and buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder. He felt enormous, so hard he hurt.

  “Oh, Delia, oh sweet Jesus … It’s been too long. I’m sorry…”

  The wampum belt came off easily, but he had trouble with the waistcord of his breechclout, unraveling the knot in the second before he was about to take a knife to it. He flung the offending garment against the far wall and, spreading her legs wide with his knees, he broached her entrance with the smooth, round tip of his iron-hard erection. He braced himself on his outstretched arms so that he could watch her face as he drove into her. He wanted to bury himself so deeply inside of her that she’d feel him on the back of her throat.

  He thrust—and her eyes winced shut, for she was tight, virginally tight. It shocked him for a moment and his buttocks lifted, until he’d almost pulled all the way out of her. Then he eased back into her, more slowly this time, stretching her, filling her. She arched her back and clenched his hips with her thighs, gripping him like a satin fist, sucking him even deeper into the slick, throbbing core of her.

  He tried to stroke her rhythmically, but he was incapable of control. Soon he was plunging wildly in and out of her, slamming his hips, and she met his thrusts with such ferocity she almost bucked him right off her. Her violent passion surprised, delighted, and spurred him on. He could hear his own breath as a high-pitched whistling sound as he forced it out through his clenched jaws. She raked her nails across his back and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. His neck arched and his mouth opened on a silent scream of pleasure.

  “Ty, Ty, Ty,” she panted.

  “Christ!”

  They climaxed together with a shattering release that started in his toes and shot out the top of his head with the explosive force of a thousand booming cannons going off at once.

  He stayed in her for a long time. Until he’d grown almost completely soft. Until his heart stopped slamming against his chest and his lungs started working again. Until he was sure his body wasn’t scattered in little pieces around the wigwam.

  He lay mostly on her, his chest flattening her breasts, his head buried in the crook of her neck, where her hair tickled his nose. She smelled of the pine forest outside and of the musky furs they shared and of the erotic scent that was pure and unmistakably Delia.

  He had an irresistible urge to look into her face. Rolling onto his side and pushing himself up on one elbow, he looked. And he had to laugh because her expression was the image of the way he felt—stunned.

  Her skin was flushed and damp. Her mouth looked pillaged and ravished. Gold, starred with green, were her eyes, the color of the lake at sunset; he drowned in them. The firelight played with her hair, emblazoning it with ruby lights. It fell over the furs and across her shoulders like spilled wine. He scooped it into his hands and held it to his mouth as if he would drink of it.

  As he stared deeply into her eyes, he saw them suffuse with a soft, dreamy look of love. Languidly her hand came up and she ran her finger along his lower lip. “Ty …”

  Emotion thickened his throat. To his astonishment tears blurred his eyes. He loved her so damn much it hurt.

  He lowered his head to trace the curl of her mouth with his tongue. He delved between her lips, flicking her teeth. Her moist breath blew into him on a soft sigh. Then she moved her tongue over her own lips, where his tongue had been just a moment before. He groaned and covered her mouth with his.

  They kissed and kissed. Hot, hard kisses that soon left them panting and tearing at each other’s clothing, desperate now for the feel of warm and naked flesh rubbing and sliding together. He couldn’t believe they were kissing like this, with such fierce hunger, so soon after that shattering explosion of just moments ago.

  Yet there was no doubt he wanted her again. Already.

  Reluctantly he gave up her mouth, but only to move down her neck, where he nuzzled and teased with nose, lips, and tongue. She moved her hands beneath his shirt and over the hard, supple muscles of his back and buttocks, all the while making soft cries of yearning in his ear.

  He unlaced the front of her dress, exposing her breasts. Her nipples were puckered and pointed, the surrounding areolas as dark as blueberry stain. He cupped one breast, gently squeezing its fullness and bringing it within reach of his lips. He made a lazy circle of the nipple, then dusted the tip of it with his tongue. But that was too subtle for the mood he was in tonight and he soon had the whole of it in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, sucking and suckling like a greedy babe.

  He pushed her breasts together and rubbed his face in the deep cleft, then thrust between them with his tongue, as he had done to her mouth. “Oh God, wife, you taste so damn fine. I envy our babies—”

  She heaved against him with such force that he grunted. “Tyler Savitch, you are a bastard!”

  “What—ow!” He grabbed her wrists before she could hit him again, holding them together with one hand and pulling them above her head. He covered her bucking body with his, stilling her. “What have I done now?” he demanded. Then grinned and wriggled his hips. “I mean besides the obvious.”

  “How could you lie to me like that? How could you call me wife and say we’re married? Oooh! I’ve let you seduce me again. I hate you!” Tears pooled in her eyes and she twisted her head aside, trying to bury her face in the furs. “I hate myself,” she added softly, miserably.

  He took her jaw between his fingers. “Aw, Delia, my doubting bride.” He licked the tears where they started to spill from her eyes. “Do you think I would lie to you about something so important?”

  He watched the emotions chase each other across her face: disbelief, anger, and at the end an uneasy hope. He had hurt her so often in the past. But never again, Delia. I promise I’ll never hurt you again.

  She swallowed, cleared her throat. “But that’s … when were we married?”

  “Tonight,” he said, smiling, savoring the rare thrill of knowing he was about to give her joy on this night, as well as pleasure. “Abenaki weddings are somewhat casual affairs. The intendeds dress up in special clothes …”

  She rubbed her palms across the front of his quilled and beaded shirt. “These clothes?”

  “Uh huh.” He ran his tongue along her pouting lower lip. “Then the man sends food to her wigwam or lodge. To show that he can provide for her.”

  She glanced at the remains of the feast by the fire. “That came from you?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nibbled on her lip, sucking it into his mouth. “And then the woman prepares and serves the food to her man, showing how she will care for him.” He kissed her mouth fully, gently. “And then they make love, on a bed of balsam and for.”

  She dipped her nail in the crease beside his mouth, then traced his lips. They parted open. He circled her finger with his tongue. “Someone should have warned me,” she said.

  He tilted his head back to study her face, a little unsure now. She had declared her love so often, he’d taken for granted that she would welcome their marriage. God, if he had somehow managed to lose that love…

  “If you’d been warned, would you have gone through with it?” he asked, then held his breath.

  She laughed low in her throat. “What do you think, Tyler Savitch? I’ve been wanting you to marry me since I first laid eyes on you,” she acknowledged, unafraid as always to reveal her love for him. She traced his features with the soft, sensitive pads of her fingers. “It’s just …”

  Smiling, he kissed her palm. “Just what?”

  “I was going to make you court me first. Like a proper lady.”

  He had lowered his face to her breast and now he slid hi
s hand between her thighs, fingers stroking, parting. “Is this the proper way to court a lady?” he asked, his mouth around a nipple.

  She gasped and squirmed as his fingers delved deeper. “Most improper … I should think.”

  He slid out of her arms and off the furs, standing up. There was such a look of surprise and disappointment on her face that he had to laugh. “I’m not going anywhere, greedy brat,” he said. “I only want to get out of these damn wedding clothes.”

  He was out of them in seconds. Tall and strong and naked, he looked down where she lay in wanton abandonment on the pile of furs. Her skirt was bunched around her waist. Her legs were long and slender and painted golden by the fire. The dark triangle between her thighs concealed mysteries he would never tire of trying to solve. Her dress was unlaced and pulled off her shoulders, revealing a pair of perfect, ruby-tipped breasts. His gaze moved up the creamy column of her throat, past parted lips, to lock onto her eyes.

  But it was Delia who spoke. “You’re beautiful.”

  He tossed back his head and laughed. “I’m the one who’s supposed to say that.”

  Leaning over, he took hold of her wrists and lifted her up beside him. He reached around her waist, untying the belt of wampum and letting it fall with a soft whisper to the ground. He gathered up the folds of her caribou-skin dress and pulled it over her head. Unconsciously she made it easy for him, raising her arms above her head the way a young child would do.

  Her hands came down between them to stroke his chest, fingers tangling in the pelt of soft hair. Her palms moved lower, to his belly, and the muscles spasmed as he sucked in air on a tight sigh. A sigh that turned into a deep groan as her hands found and gently fondled his swelling manhood.

  “What are you doing, Tyler Savitch?” she purred in that erotic husky voice of hers, as if she didn’t know.

  “I’m preparing to consummate my marriage.”

  She giggled and pressed her naked body against his, rubbing and arching like a cat. “I thought we already did that.”