But he had caught her up and she felt his teeth graze and his tongue flick and her fingers twitched as her body flinched helplessly, winding tighter at the clarity of the pull of his mouth. Another cry escaped her, a quiet sort of rushed breath dragged in through her nose as he lavished her with attention. Her fingers buried up into his hair and curled tight against his shoulder as she pulled herself closer and clung to him tightly. He had barely started touching her and already she was so undone by it. Already she wanted more. She was so addicted to him, she had felt such giddy excitement at seeing him sprawled out in her bed like he had been. Suddenly she had a cohort in life, and he reveled in the dark parts of her that had never seen the light.
He was so much more intelligent than any other man she’d ever encountered. In bed and in speech and in action. The rough feel of his hands on her body was wondrous, it had her skin alive under his touch, every breath she took caught up in wanting to get closer to him and encourage the way he held her, touched her. By the time his lips left the soft peak of her, every tug of his mouth was directly tied to the clench of her insides in a way that had her pushing the full weight of her chest towards him until his attention turned to the other breast. His teeth skimmed past her, pinched at her and drew another keening noise out of her as she shivered, caught between pulling away and encouraging him.
When his hand brushed past her hip and his fingers teased over her stomach it sucked in slightly and then his hand was there, dipping between her legs and tight against her. His fingers rubbed into burning skin and then buried deep in the heat of her and she cried out as her body caught tight around him. He dragged his fingers through her until she was caught up around every shift, breath caught up with each blissful slide.
Then they slid free of her and she whined, left wanting. Her eyes focusing on him after a moment with unbridled desire, she squirmed towards him. “Do not stop, you cannot.”
“Is that so?” He grinned at her in that infuriating way he could and then dropped his head back down so his lips could catch at her skin again. The feel of his mouth and the teasing touch of his tongue drew her body into an arch as he moved downwards.
“What are you… oh…” She didn’t even get to finish the sentence because suddenly his tongue was velvet between her legs, teasing heatedly against her in a way that had her breath catching up again. A gasp moved through her and her toes curled. It flicked against her again and she groaned, knees pulling up a bit even as she shuddered. Pleasure caught like fire in her abdomen, the tight feel of her muscles enough to make her whimper with every movement of his tongue. “Xavier!”
He didn’t respond verbally, but then how could he talk when he was making her squirm with his mouth. As soon as his name jumped free of her she realized it would be better to keep quiet, who knew if those guarding her room or walking past outside the door would hear her. The need for silence only added to the intensity of what he was doing. It surpassed anything she’d ever felt before easily with each glancing brush of his tongue being too much to handle without moving. It didn’t take long for her body to fall apart from it, the quiver of muscle and the delicious clench of her body something that echoed out into every muscle.
When his face peeked up from between her legs he licked his lips and grinned at her, “Only five coins?” He crawled back atop her, settling between her legs as he kissed her parted lips. Her entire body tensed as she felt him fill her up, a groan moving through her even as he thrusted and wound her body up all over again.
Each movement had voice catching up in her gasped breaths, her head falling back against pillow as she clung to him and kissed him back. Their bodies meeting easily, colliding with soft impact and driving her to insanity until she felt her body release from it again.
“Maybe… six coins?” She offered breathlessly as he lay atop her, sated himself. The chuckle that escaped him vibrated through her tingling body, which had her grinning broadly herself.
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The Power of Love
A Native Romance
Dolores Drake
The Power of Love
Copyright 2016 by Dolores Drake
First electronic publication: January 2017
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to person, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The Power of Love
Prologue
It hadn’t taken long for Uncle Levi to offer Bridget a job. All of one hour in fact. The moment he received word that she’d achieved her teaching certificate, he arrived at her family’s home and told her that a position was available and that she could begin at the beginning of the month.
There was no question in Bridget Moore’s mind about whether or not she’d accept the post. Of course she would. Her father had always said, “If you want something, you’ll need to take it, my girl.” She supported her family’s belief that it took force and determination to settle an untamed land. It made sense for her father’s brother to secure a place for her at the Vermilion Lake Indian School. It was an institution moving full force toward civilizing of the savages and he wouldn’t pass up any chance to integrate his niece into the furthering of that cause. Bridget wanted to partner with her family in pursuing the goals so many had for the future of the West. It seemed she’d found a capacity in which she could participate.
“As a superintendent,” Levi had said as Bridget and her family gathered in the front room to hear what he had to say. “It’s my duty to select staff who are capable of furthering the education of the savages. They are uncivilized and it takes those who’ve had a proper education to teach them our ways. I believe Bridget will be an excellent addition. You can handle it, can’t you, Bridget?”
Bridget said that she could indeed. She was a certified teacher—why wouldn’t she be able to handle it? All she needed to do was relay what she knew.
“There, you see, Isaiah,” Levi said, looking to his brother. “She’ll do us proud.”
Bridget was sure she would. There’d be nothing to it.
Chapter 1: A Lesson
From what her uncle relayed about the Indian school, the students wouldn’t much care about Brooke’s appearance, but she wanted to impress the other teachers. Besides, looking professional could do nothing to harm her effectiveness in managing the class. Her mother had always told her that one should dress in a manner that was suitable of her position. Maribel Moore was a homemaker who spent all of her time in the house or the garden, so practical woolen skirts and long, grey aprons were fitting. But, Brooke was a teacher in a proper institution and, therefore, finer dresses would be her choice.
She turned her head to the side, thinking the extra twists she’d added to her dark brown chignon lent a more sophisticated heir to her appearance as did the fine material of her blue dress suit. The dark color of her outfit accentuated her naturally pale skin, distracting from any youthful blush that a brighter or lighter color might have brought to her face. However, the outfit was still becoming, yet professional and at twenty-three years old, she could afford a little added maturity without looking matronly.
“Time to enhance the ambitions for Minnesota and the West in your own area of influence,” Bridget said, voicing her vote of confidence in herself. “You’ve been well schooled in the ambitions of the white man. It’s time t
o teach them to those of lesser knowledge.”
After drinking of cup of coffee and eating the muffins Maribel had prepared, Bridget gathered the attendance tablet and books the school had provided to her and left the house.
“Have a good day,” Isaiah said as she passed him at the blacksmith’s shop he owned. “Remember what you know.”
“Thanks, Pa. See you after school.”
Once she reached the front of the boarding school, Bridget ascended the front stoop without hesitation, by passing the dormitories and the plaque that read “Vermilion Lake Indian School.”
The moment Bridget entered the front hall, a barrage of sounds assaulted her. The clop of boots on the floor and the ceiling overhead, teachers calling for order and students moving throughout the halls, many talking in far less than civilized tones. Making her way through the mayhem, she finally reached her classroom which was blessedly quiet. It wouldn’t be for long.
Bridget laid her attendance book open on her desk, wrote her name in crisp, white chalk on the black board, and straightened a few desks as the bell rang. Standing behind her desk, she waited as the students began to file in. The usual commotion that typically accompanied the first day of school and resided around young people in general filled the classroom, bouncing off the walls and creating a considerable racket. Still, the students weren’t as disorderly as Bridget had pictured. She supposed that this meant that the school was succeeding in educating the Indians even if there was still resistance from the reservations, objections to the fact that the children were being purged of the ways of their parents.
“School come to order,” Bridget called, rapping on her desk with a ruler. Most of the students complied, but the resentful looks she received from a few of the Indians were not lost on the new teacher. The girls were dressed in sensible dresses with aprons over the top, their gleaming, black hair plaited behind their heads. The boys wore the same kind of breeches the white frontier boys wore along with collared shirts. There was no evidence of the long braids the grown men of their kind sported as every male student’s hair had been cut short.
In spite of the fact that they looked as much like white boarding school students as humanly possible, the prejudice from many students was tangible. Bridget knew better than to be intimidated. This kind of reception was expected under the circumstances.
“My name is Miss Moore. As you’ll see, my name’s written on the blackboard. I won’t accept any disruptions in this class, not of any kind. What I teach may be different than what you’ve learned, but that’s why you’re here, so I won’t tolerate any disobedience.”
Bridget received guarded glares in response. She wasn’t sure that addressing the elephant in the room and touching on a sore spot right off had been the best choice, but it was over and attempting to smooth it over would only look bad.
Lifting her chin, Bridget sat down, placing a pencil under the first name in her attendance book. “Benjamin Taylor,” she called out. As she read names like Francis Robinson and Emma Howard that these most certainly weren’t the student’s real names. One of the first orders of business when a student was enrolled in the boarding school was to give them an American name.
Each student answered with ‘here’ though some were more reluctant than others, hesitating so long that she had to look up to ensure that they weren’t absent.
When the chore of seeing that most of the students were present and accounted for, Bridget made her way toward the door, intending to shut it. She wouldn’t have any late students interrupting her class. However, just before she could complete the action, a tall young man who looked to be about sixteen years old appeared in the doorway. He surveyed Bridget without reservation and, from his expression, he found her wanting.
“Your name, please,” Bridget demanded, motioning for him to step into the room.
He didn’t obey her beckoning, but leaned obstinately against the doorframe, his eyes scanning the students in the classroom. Bridget knew that their attention was trained on herself and the boy not because she could see them, but because of the silence that had descended upon the room.
“Your name, please,” Bridget repeated.
The young man didn’t immediately respond. When he finally looked back at her, a small spark glinted in his eye even in spite of his outwardly lazy appearance. “My Lakota name or my fake white man-given name?”
The students made noise then and Bridget looked over her should to silence them. “Class, quiet.” She lifted her chin as she turned back to the student. “If by that you mean your American name, yes, that’s the one with which I’ll address you the class and the one I am requesting now.”
Bridget knew even before he spoke that the young man wasn’t going to give her his real name, but the name he did give was still not the one she expected. “Levi Moore.”
The students buzzed again, knowing full well that this was Bridget’s uncle.
The student looked defiantly at her, seemingly amused by the answer’s ability to startle her. “Isn’t he the reason you’re here? Don’t the white men force everyone to believe as they do, their family members included?”
The impertinent question took Bridget off guard and she blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. Thankfully, she found her voice relatively quickly. “I won’t tolerate this kind of disrespect in my classroom. Take your seat.”
The young man wasn’t through. “Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the t-teacher.” Bridget wanted to kick herself incredibly hard for stuttering. She sounded like an incapable schoolgirl.
Control yourself, Bridget. Are you going to let one student get the best of you? And on the first day! No, you’re made of sterner stuff.
It was classic, the obstinate student coming in late for class. Bridget wouldn’t let it ruffle her. The rest of the students had been perfectly manageable thus far and this new teacher intended to keep it that way.
“You mean you’re the unteacher,” the young man went on. “You’re here to unteach us Indian ways, aren’t you? What’s it you all say? ‘Kill the Indian, save the—’”
“That’ll be about enough of that!” A distressed note had worked its way into Bridget’s voice and she hated the way it made her sound out of control. She cleared her throat, taking a deep breath. “I’d appreciate it if you could manage to maintain an appropriate level of respect for the rest of this class period. If you can’t seem to accomplish this, I’ll have no choice but to send you to my superior for punishment.”
Bridget could tell that to the boy, this was no threat at all. “Do as I say,” she ordered, thinking that it would be in vain. She barely held in a sigh of relief when he actually complied, though it was with little pleasure that he did so.
Bridget hoped that the students, especially the disruptive one couldn’t tell that her hands were shaking in anger. Intent on not allowing this episode to destroy her success that day, she marched back up to the front of the class. Things went along so smoothly that Bridget almost forgot completely about the initial distaste of some of the students and dove fully into the lesson plan. She decided not to require much class participation on the first day, wanting things to go as smoothly as possible and avoid any disobedience until she felt she’d gained some ground in her own classroom.
It was only after she’d assigned the students to read silently from their text books that she searched the attendance book for the disruptive one’s name. Thomas. Thomas Mason was his Americanized name.
***
Bridget was pleased when she received completed homework from more than half of her students the following day. She still had to call for order a number of times during the class, but counted herself fortunate when Thomas Mason actually arrived on time for school and only tested her patience a couple of times. By the end of day two, Bridget was once again convinced that this job was nothing she couldn’t handle.
Gathering up her belongings, Bridget made her way from her classroom, intent on making a beeline for her buggy.
She was feeling successful, but she still wanted to afford being detained her any longer than necessary. It took only a matter of minutes for the ambition of a quick getaway to be shattered.
Bridget had almost reached the front hall of the school when she heard commotion in a nearby classroom. There was shouting and the sounds of a fistfight rung clear and loud. Bridget turned to make her way in, but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. It was Mr. Jones, one of her fellow teachers.
“It’s not safe for you to go in there. A woman could get easily hurt in one of these Injun fights.”
Bridget complied by stepping aside so that Mr. Jones could enter the room, but she lingered in the doorway and wasn’t at all surprised to see that Thomas Mason was one of the offending parties.
“Stop it,” Mr. Jones ordered, having only to get Thomas under control to end the fight. The other boy was spent and evidently more than ready to be finished with the brawl. “What’s your name?” Mr. Jones asked the other boy who was leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath and cradling a wrist that had evidently received the brunt of the encounter. His face would be black and blue the next day.
“James Moss, sir.”
Thomas made a desperate, angry attempt to pull away from Mr. Jones, but the teacher kept his hold. “And you, boy, what’s your name?”
“Animkii,” Thomas ground out.
“Your American name, boy,” Mr. Jones demanded.
“Animkii,” Thomas repeated, trying to pull away again. When he still couldn’t escape, he cursed in his native tongue.
Mr. Jones ignored the noncompliance, looking from one young man to the other. “I don’t want any more trouble from either of you. If I so much as hear a complaint, I’ll have you placed on probation.”
Romance: The Bad Boy Affair: A Second Chance Romance Page 92
