Apache Caress

by Georgina Gentry - Panorama of the Old West 08 - Apache Caress

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking alongside so the mule won’t tire.”

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and glared at her, began to load up the wagon.

  Sierra didn’t want to admit how weary she was, but it was hard to put one foot in front of the other as they left the clearing and headed deeper into the hills. He hadn’t given her time to change, so she stumbled along in the ragged and bloody dress, her breasts half-visible. When she looked up, she caught him staring at her.

  Tired as she was, she began to lag behind.

  “Sierra, if you think I won’t notice if you fall behind and then try to bolt into the brush, think again.”

  She wasn’t about to admit that she was too weary to keep up. She gritted her teeth and walked a little faster. She’d show this savage. It occurred to her that if she really became too tired to keep up, he might cut her throat and leave her on the trail. After all, he’d just killed two people without a moment’s hesitation, why would he hesitate to kill her if she crossed him?

  Finally, she just couldn’t take another step, not on sore, blistered feet. She stumbled and fell to the ground.

  “Sierra!” He strode over, lifted her up in his arms, looked down into her eyes.

  She felt the heat of his skin against her bare breast, felt his heart beating strongly against her nipple.

  “Damn you!” he muttered. “Damn you for being who you are!”

  She didn’t know what had angered him so, decided it was that she couldn’t keep up. “Let me try again,” she whispered. “I ... maybe I can make it a few more miles.”

  “For a girl who tells me she never takes any chances, you’re a stubborn little chit.” He easily carried her toward the wagon, the sinewy muscles under his dark skin rippling. She looked down at her breast pressed against his bare chest and knew she should pull away, but she was too tired. With Tiny and other men possibly coming after them, she was at least safe from the Apache’s advances for a while.

  He reached up to settle her in the wagon, then went to walk alongside the mule. Sierra watched his back, the muscles rippling under the thin cotton shirt as he walked. His hips were small, and she wondered suddenly if they were as hard as the muscles of his chest. Then she remembered the heat of him against her breast.

  Why am I thinking these thoughts? Because I have been expecting to be raped from the very first? No it was something more; something about the heat of his skin against hers, the strength of him. She had felt almost safe in his big arms as he had carried her back to camp after rescuing her from the three backwoodsmen.

  The scissors. She still had those hidden in the trunk for use if she needed them. She closed her eyes and saw again the surprised look on Willie’s face as the butcher knife burrowed into his back. Could she do something like that if need be? She tried to imagine stabbing Cholla with the scissors and winced. An Injun savage, she reminded herself, and my kidnapper. Yes, I could stab him if I got the chance. It was growing harder and harder to keep her eyes open as the wagon moved along, the wheels creaking rhythmically. Finally she slept.

  It was daylight when the jolting of the wagon awakened her and she sat up, looked out. They were still traveling through the hills.

  All day long they scarcely spoke, and they didn’t stop except for necessities like grabbing a bite of dry bread and meat before he insisted on moving forward again. She was still bloody and dirty from last night, but he wouldn’t stop long enough for her to wash up.

  They kept moving until dark, when he seemed willing to camp.

  “We’ve covered a lot of ground,” he said. “If that hombre was coming after us or bringing the law, he’d have showed up by now.”

  She had had a forlorn hope that Tiny might have telegraphed the law or the soldiers, but maybe that was expecting too much.

  As soon as they found a stream, they camped.

  Sierra fixed food, and they ate in silence.

  The night seemed as warm as a lover’s breath on the skin. She finished eating and set the plate down. “Is it all right if I wash in the creek?”

  He looked up from his plate. “Just let me hear you splashing. If it gets too quiet, I’ll know you’ve sneaked away again.”

  “I’m more afraid of what might be out there in the dark than I am of you.” She paused, surprised to realize this was not far from the truth.

  He gave her a long, thoughtful look. Sierra felt the blood rush to her face at the desire she saw reflected in his eyes in the firelight.

  Quickly, she stood up, got a towel, a clean black dress, and a bar of homemade soap from her trunk. She thought about taking the scissors and tucking them into her clothing, then shook her head. No, for a little while, he’d be suspicious of her. She didn’t want to take any chances on his suspecting anything. After all, he still had Grandfather’s rifle, the axe, and the butcher knife. The backwoodsmen’s guns had turned out to be old cap-and-ball types, not worth the trouble of taking along.

  Hesitating at the creek bank before she took off her dress, Sierra wondered if Cholla would spy on her while she bathed, then decided she was past worrying about that.

  The water was thigh-deep and warm, with the moon reflected in it. Sierra took the pins from her hair, waded over to put them with her things. She shook her hair down, letting it fall in a silken cascade around her shoulders and across her breasts. For a moment, she looked down at her reflection and saw herself as wild and free as her mother had been. She shook her head. No, she was too inhibited, too restrained.

  Robert had complained about it, but it was ingrained in her. Grandfather had warned her repeatedly that only disaster awaited her if she turned out like her mother. The nail that stands up will be hammered down. Conform. Blend in. How many times had Grandfather said that? She must not take any chances, must not be a strong-willed individual trying to mold her own destiny.

  Humming a little tune that Zanna had taught her, Sierra washed her hair and pushed it back. Then she started to lather her body.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Sierra looked up in alarm, crossed her arms over her breasts, still clutching the soap.

  The big Apache stood there on the creek bank, watching her. Sierra reminded herself that sooner or later she must submit to him or she would never lull him into complacency so she might kill him or escape.

  When she didn’t answer, he slowly began to peel his clothes off, but his eyes never left hers.

  Sierra knew she shouldn’t look, but her gaze traveled down his dark, muscular body as he stripped. He was much bigger in that one place than Robert had been.

  Sierra’s heart pounded in apprehension, yet she forced herself to stand still in the water. Now the scout stood naked on the creek bank in the moonlight. It dawned on her that he was displaying himself proudly like a stud horse. Once at night, in a pasture, Sierra had seen a stallion about to mount a mare in heat, his iron bar of maleness almost beating against his belly as he circled the mare while she made soft noises deep in her throat. Then he had reared up and taken her, plunging hard. It had been savage and gentle, torrid and tender.

  Slowly Sierra took her hands away from her breasts and let her arms fall to her sides. Bathed in moonlight, she knew she was about to become part of a primitive ritual that was as old as time itself.

  Cholla never took his gaze off her as he stepped slowly into the water. He stood so close that his shadow fell across her and, when she breathed, her nipples brushed against his brawny chest. But she did not retreat. She had set events in motion, and now there was no stopping them.

  “I . . . I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

  “You have no reason to be.” The Apache reached out for her, pulled her wet, naked body against his.

  Chapter Eight

  Sierra didn’t cringe. She looked up at him boldly. “If you’re expecting me to scream or swoon, I’m going to disappoint you.”

  He smiled. “You’re full of surprises, Dark Eyes. You keep telling me what a faint-hearted mouse
you are, reluctant to take chances, but I sense an outlaw streak trying to emerge.”

  Zanna, she thought with alarm. Underneath I’m much like my wild, tempestuous mother.

  At all costs, she must learn to subdue that uninhibited spirit. Those who conform, who don’t stand out, stay out of trouble. However, all that was uppermost in her mind right now was surviving. “Here.” She handed him the soap. “You might as well wash my back.”

  He looked rather startled by her boldness, then chuckled. “By Usen, you do surprise me. Turn around.”

  Sierra obeyed, and he began to lather her back. She had to admit it felt good, his strong, supple hands massaging between her shoulder blades. Gradually his hands worked their way around her waist to her belly. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and let him lather her there. If she let him make love to her, he might let down his guard.

  His hands worked their way up her rib cage. Sierra gritted her teeth, knowing where they would probably go next. But they felt so good on her body.

  Was she out of her mind? She was the widow of a cavalry officer who had been killed by Apaches. In that moment, she reminded herself how much she hated Cholla, but his fingers, stroking her skin, were sending little ripples of pleasure through her.

  His hands went to her breasts. In that split second that passed before he cupped them in his big palms, she promised herself that when she stabbed him with the scissors, she would plunge them straight into his heart.

  Sierra looked down. With almost detached interest, she watched his soapy hands caress and massage her breasts. She tried, but could not keep her nipples from swelling hard in response, jutting against his fingers, wanting still more. In rebellion, she closed her eyes so she couldn’t see how traitorously her body responded to his touch.

  His supple, gentle fingers worked their way across her shoulders and neck, sudsing there, then moved back down to caress her breasts. Sierra gasped at the unfamiliar responses his touch elicited from her as his hands moved down her rib cage again, stroking her belly through a silky layer of suds.

  She almost cried out in protest when his hands went to her thighs, then remembered and clamped her lips shut. His breath was hot against her neck, his manhood hard and pulsating against her back. Would he take her right here in the water?

  “Now,” he whispered against her hair, “now you wash me.”

  She almost protested that she had never washed a man’s body before, then decided she was being challenged. Almost defiantly, she turned in the water and looked up at him. Robert had never looked at her with the intense wanting and passion in those dark eyes.

  Hesitantly she took the bar of soap from his hand. In the moonlight, she never took her gaze off his as she began to lather his brawny chest. Merciful heavens, he was big and powerful! She felt the hard strength under his dark skin as she ran her hands across his chest.

  Without a word, he caught one of her hands in his own, made it linger on his nipples. They grew hard and swollen under her touch, but only his sharp intake of breath broke the silence between them. Somewhere a night bird called, and the water lapped softly against the bank.

  How long could she prolong this ritual and what did he expect from her? For a moment, Sierra almost panicked in her uncertainty; then the look on his face told her that whatever she was doing, she was doing right, and she grew more bold.

  Her hands went to his waist, then his belly. Hesitating, she grew brazen enough to reach around him and soap his hips. This movement put her soapy breasts against his wet body, and she felt his manhood strong and virile between them. She looked up at him.

  Deep inside, she felt both excitement and fear at this prolonged game. She was trembling as was he. Never had any of her sexual encounters with her husband lasted longer than a couple of minutes. By the time she had felt even the least stirring of interest, Robert had been finished and asleep.

  Cholla still looked down into her eyes. Without a word, he reached back to take her hands in his, slowly bring them down between his thighs. “You know what I want,” he whispered. “Touch me; touch me there.”

  Sierra was intensely aware of this moment in time: the sound of his breathing and the splashing of the creek; the feel of warm water like a man’s wet kisses, on her thighs; the scents of soap and of his skin, of wildflowers somewhere in the nearby field.

  The soap slipped from her nerveless fingers and she cupped her hands to receive his hot, pulsating manhood.

  “Sierra . . . Dark Eyes . . .” He lifted her, sweeping her up in his arms in one gesture of strength, and then he stooped, plunging them both into the water to rinse away the soap. Coming up out of the water like some primitive sea god, he carried her to the moonlit bank and laid her down, half in, half out of the creek.

  His mouth caressed her nipples until she gasped aloud at the unfamiliar pleasure, forgetting who he was, where they were. And furthermore, she didn’t care. She arched up her body, letting it beg wordlessly for more of his touch.

  Now his kisses slipped down her wet belly as he knelt in the shallows. Then he slowly spread her thighs. Surely he wasn’t going to . . . ? Even her husband had never paid her that homage. Yet even as she wondered, Cholla’s lips caressed her there.

  It was shameful to like it, not to try to stop what he was doing to her with his mouth, she thought. But she couldn’t make herself protest. Then the hot blade of his tongue slipped inside her even as his big hands held her thighs captive. She was more than his hostage, she was a prisoner of pleasure–his . . . and hers. All that she could do was fear it might cease before she had had enough.

  Waves of unaccustomed sensation began sweeping over her. Surprised and shocked by her own body’s reactions, Sierra reminded herself that she must stop him, that she must not enjoy what he was doing to her. She reached down with both hands to push him away and found she was tangling her fingers in his ebony hair, pulling his mouth to her. Her thighs locked around him, willing him not to end this ecstasy he created for her, these shudders that generated in ripples from the font of her femininity.

  The waves of sensation swept over her, and she became lost in the growing thrill of his caresses and the feel of his mouth, water lapping around her. Somewhere the night bird called again, and the scent of flowers and crushed grass drifted on the still air. A crescendo began to build deep within her. It took over her heart and her pulse and her soul, blocking out everything as it grew into something overpowering. Then it all came together in a dark rush that swept her into a crashing tide of emotion.

  Sierra felt herself losing control, losing consciousness. For a split second, panic overtook her and she struggled against the black tide. Then his hands grasped her waist firmly and his mouth did forbidden, tantalizing things to her, and she surrendered herself to pleasure.

  Gradually Sierra came back to her surroundings and wondered for a moment how long she had been unconscious. Then her eyes flickered open and she stared up at the dark savage looking down into her face. Without a word, he bent his head and kissed her lips, and she tasted the essence of her own body on his mouth. It excited her all over again. She seemed on fire with unfulfilled desire as she reached up to pull his brawny body to hers.

  He hesitated only a moment, then he penetrated her but just barely. He was big, all right; she felt the hard steel of his maleness and wondered what it would be like when he went in to the hilt. In the silvery moonlight, he looked into her eyes, an unspoken question in his.

  Would he pull back if she shook her head or managed to say the word ‘no’? She didn’t even seem able to breathe, much less say anything. And still he hesitated against her opening.

  In answer, she locked her thighs around him and tilted her body up, her thighs pulling him toward her. He pushed slowly into her, all the way, into the deepest part of her, until she was impaled by him. Deep inside, she felt him throbbing with the seed he had brought to her, and once again, she remembered the virile stallion topping the mare in the mystery of creating life.

 
; He pulled back until for a split second Sierra thought he intended to withdraw, and then, very slowly, he thrust his sword into her velvet scabbard to the hilt. The sensation made her quiver all over. As he withdrew again, Sierra dug her nails into rippling broad shoulders, willing him to stay within her. Her sharp intake of breath seemed to excite him, and he began to ride her with a hard intensity, ramming harder and deeper each time.

  Her body demanded that he give her what she craved, and her breath came in open-mouthed gasps as she coupled with him in an ever-increasing frenzy. His tongue went deep into her mouth even as he went deep inside her. It was all so new to her, she couldn’t get enough of the pleasure he created.

  At that instant he gasped deep into her throat and tensed, his lean hips thrusting into her at one moment and in the next frozen in quivering stillness against her.

  Sierra felt him begin to give up his hot seed deep within her. Then she knew no more as her wanton body locked onto his so it could have what it craved. They were two wild, primitive things coupling in the moonlight.

  Cholla gradually came back to consciousness, lying locked in the white girl’s thighs. He had been a long time without a woman. That was the only reason this had been so intense a mating, he told himself. Grudgingly, he realized he had never experienced passion to equal what he had just found in the arms of Forester’s woman. Maybe that was why it had been so wonderful–the added pleasure of revenge.

  Sierra had belonged to his dead enemy. How furious Forester would be, if he were alive, to know an Apache was using his woman as a whore, as Forester had used the beautiful young Apache girl. “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” Wasn’t that what the black-robed holy men of the whites taught at the mission school he had attended?