Betrayed Birthright

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  He licked her nipples, switching sides, blowing on each one, making them peak. She pulled his head closer, encouraging him to suckle.

  Desperate, he lifted her dress to her thighs, running his hands along the waistband of her panties. She moaned and rubbed against his fly.

  He closed his eyes, opened them, smiled at her.

  She was watching everything he did, trying to see in the dark. He turned on the dome light, illuminating the vehicle with a soft glow. He didn’t care if it drained the battery. He could stay here, just like this, for the rest of his life.

  His body was rock hard, thick and solid and eager to penetrate hers. Only, they were still half-dressed, still torturing each other with foreplay.

  She looked incredible, with her luscious curves and golden-brown skin. Her neck was long and slender, and her nipples were damp with saliva.

  His saliva. His hunger. His insatiable need.

  “I could eat you alive,” he said.

  “Then do it.” She rocked forward in his lap, creating friction, giving him a slightly shy, slightly sirenlike smile. “And I’ll do it to you, too.”

  Every ounce of blood rushed straight to his groin. He had no idea how she could be so subtle yet so obvious. Women, he thought, were fascinating creatures.

  “This could be a dream.” He nuzzled her neck, tongued the shell of her ear and inhaled the fragrance on her skin, the lotion that drove him to distraction. “A wet dream,” he added, dragging her into the backseat.

  Once again, he hiked up her dress, but this time, he removed her panties, clutching the piece of lace. He wondered if she’d chosen them for him or if she always wore such sexy little underthings.

  When he kissed her there—right there—she bucked against his mouth. Wanting more, he pushed her legs open even farther, showing her how naughty he intended to get.

  She practically melted against him, dissolving like spun sugar. Then she took off her dress and boots, tossing them aside, offering him every inch of her naked body.

  A sacrifice, he thought. A gift.

  Within minutes—heart pounding, soul-spinning minutes—Tamra kept her promise, shifting her body so she could pleasure him, too. So they could make love to each other at the same time.

  She dislodged his shorts and took him in her mouth, making his stomach muscles quiver, making his blood swim.

  Yet somewhere deep down, he knew this was more than an affair. This was their emotions, a blend of sex and sin, of passion and warmth, of unbridled affection.

  A pleasure so deep, he feared he might drown.

  He kept tasting her, licking her while she did erotic things to him. And when she climaxed, when she convulsed against his tongue, he fought the urge to come, too.

  Knowing he couldn’t let her take him all the way, he stopped her before it happened. She sat up and gazed at him, still glassy-eyed from her climax.

  Finally she smiled at him, and he realized why. His shorts were halfway down his legs, and he was still wearing his shirt, the fabric she’d torn to smithereens. He grinned and tackled her, pinning her to the seat.

  She wrestled with his clothes, and they went crazy all over again. By the time he was completely naked, she dug her nails into his skin, clawing him like a dark-eyed cat, a feline in heat.

  He thrust into her, full hilt. She wrapped her legs around him, and they gazed at each other, trapped in a candid moment, in being as close as possible.

  She grabbed on to the plastic handhold above her head, bracing herself for a deep, driving rhythm, telling him, without words, what she wanted.

  He didn’t disappoint. He took her, hard and fast, rough and dangerous.

  There was no other way to describe their coupling. The crush of their mouths, the clank of teeth, the greedy, frantic, carnivorous sensation of pounding straight into her.

  The woman stealing his senses.

  She made his mind spin, his breath catch, his heart nearly beat its way out of his chest.

  Together, they let themselves fall. She clung to him, gasping in his ear, shuddering in his arms. He came, too, spilling into her, warm and wet and drugging.

  In the moments that followed, they remained still, afraid to move, to break the connection.

  Finally he withdrew, leaving her damp with his seed. Unsure of what else to do, he grabbed his discarded shirt and tucked it between her legs, letting her use it like a towel.

  “You’re not sorry, are you?” she asked.

  “No. Why would I be?”

  “Because you said we were going to be sorry afterward.”

  “I said that before I knew you.” He scooted next to her, smoothing her hair away from her face, thinking how beautiful she was.

  “I’m not sorry, either.”

  He smiled, then noticed she looked chilled. He remembered the blanket she’d brought and climbed in the front seat to retrieve it.

  “Here.” He slipped it over her shoulders, and she invited him to share it with her.

  He turned off the dome light, darkening the car, bathing them in the pitch of night. And as they snuggled in the dark, he wondered if they would be sorry later.

  When he left the reservation without her.

  ♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥

  Six

  M orning came too soon. Tamra heard the clang of pots and pans, the familiar sound of Mary fixing breakfast.

  Was Walker awake, too? Was he sitting at the kitchen table, pretending that he hadn’t sneaked out of the house last night? Or crept back in several hours later?

  She sat up and reached for her robe. She could still feel Walker’s touch—his mouth, his hands, the strength of his body, the erotic sensation of flesh against flesh.

  Although she kept telling herself it had been lust, a hard-hammering, desperate-for-sex release, she knew better. Because after the sex had ended, they’d remained in each other’s arms, not wanting to let go, to break the spell.

  And now, God help her, she was nervous about seeing him, anxious about facing the man who was seeping into her pores, the man playing guessing games with her emotions.

  They were getting too close too fast, and it scared her. Yet she liked it, too. She envisioned marching into the kitchen or her bedroom or wherever he was and kissing him senseless. But she wouldn’t dare, not in front of Mary. Walker’s mom had slept through the entire event.

  Tamra washed her face and brushed her teeth, but she didn’t take a shower or get dressed. She simply tightened her robe and headed down the hall. She wanted Walker to see her this way, to look into her eyes on the morning after, to appreciate her tousled hair, to remember running his hands through it.

  She entered the kitchen, but he wasn’t at the table. She took a deep breath and decided he would awaken soon. He didn’t seem like the type of man who would sleep the day away.

  “Oh, my. Look at you.” Mary turned away from the stove, from the old-fashioned oatmeal she was stirring. “Did you have a rough night?”

  Tamra blinked, forced a smile, fought a wave of guilt. “Rough?”

  “Did I keep you up?” The older woman sighed. “I was snoring, wasn’t I? I need one of those mouthpiece devices. Or a nasal strip or something.”

  “It was fine. I hardly noticed.” Because she’d been parked on the plains, having carnal relations with Mary’s son.

  A sin she was sure to repeat.

  Dodging eye contact, she poured herself a cup of coffee, grateful it was thick and dark and blasted with caffeine. “Do you need help with breakfast?” she asked, adding sugar to her cup, giving herself another artificial boost.

  “Sure. You can fry the eggs. But it’s just the two of us. Walker already left this morning.”

  “Left?” Tamra spun around, nearly burned her hand on the sloshing drink, then set it on the counter. “He went home?”

  “No, honey. He drove to Gordon. He said he had some banking matters to take care of.”

  Her pulse quit pounding. There were no banks on the rez, no financial institution
s. “That makes sense.”

  Mary checked her watch, then went back to the oatmeal. An early riser, she was already dressed for work, wearing a freshly laundered uniform and squeaky nurse-type shoes. Her gray-streaked hair was tucked behind her ears. “Walker seemed preoccupied today.”

  “He did?” Tamra opened a carton of eggs, took inventory, tried to behave accordingly. “How so?”

  “I think he was anxious to see you, hoping you were awake.”

  “Really?” A teenybopper reaction, a bevy of wings took flight in her belly, making breakfast an impossible task. But she cracked several eggs into a pan, anyway, then realized she’d neglected to turn on the flame. She glanced up and noticed Mary watching her. She’d forgotten the oil, too.

  “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Me and Walker?” Caught red-handed, Tamra faked her response, feigning a casual air. “Nothing. We’re just friends.”

  “Friends, my foot,” his mother said. “I think you have your eyes on each other.”

  Uh-oh. Trying to stay calm, she dumped the mistake she’d made into a bowl, deciding she would fix scrambled instead of fried. And this time, she put a pad of butter in the pan, igniting the stove. “Would it be okay with you if we did?”

  “Did what?”

  “Had our eyes on each other.”

  “Of course it would,” Mary told her. “But I’d hate to see you do something rash.”

  Unable to keep pretending, she gazed at the lady who’d raised her, who’d given her everything a child could hope for. “I already slept with him.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Mary fanned her face. “So soon?” She turned off the oatmeal, ignoring their half-made breakfast. “You need to be careful, honey. And so does he. This is all so new.”

  “We can handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No,” she admitted, “I’m not. But what choice do we have? We’re already involved.”

  “For how long?”

  “It doesn’t have to last forever. And he promised he wouldn’t hurt me.”

  The older woman frowned. “Not purposely, no. But what if you fall in love with him? What then?”

  It was a question Tamra couldn’t answer. A question she feared. Because she knew that when Walker went home, she would have to cope with her loss.

  With missing him desperately.

  Tamra tried to focus on her job. She sat at the desk in her cluttered office, telling herself to quit thinking about Walker. She had more important issues to deal with: flyers to design, schedules to coordinate, donations to secure for an end-of-the-month powwow.

  Obsessing about a man wouldn’t accomplish a thing.

  A knock sounded on her door and she reached for her coffee, her second cup that day. “Come in,” she called out, assuming it was Michele. Her friend had offered to stop by to help with the powwow details. The Oyate Project intended to host a raffle this year, giving away as many prizes as they could wangle.

  She glanced up, saw that she was mistaken. It wasn’t Michele. Walker crossed the threshold, wearing jeans and a denim shirt, similar to the one she’d torn off his body.

  He moved closer, and her heart went haywire.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She started stacking folders, trying to compose her senses, trying to look busy, to pretend that she hadn’t been thinking about him. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  He reached for an ancient folding chair in the corner and opened it, positioning it across from her. A pair of mirrored sunglasses shielded his eyes, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

  “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  For him, she had all day. All night. All year. “Sure. What’s going on?”

  “I just got back from the bank.”

  “Mary told me that’s where you went.”

  “I opened a checking account in Gordon. I figured that would be the most convenient location.” He removed his sunglasses and hooked them onto his pocket. “You and Mary will have to go into the branch to fill out some paperwork. Unless you already do your banking there. Then I can add your names online.”

  She merely blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand? It’ll be a joint account. I’ll make a deposit every month, and you and Mary can use it for whatever you need.”

  “You’re volunteering to support us?”

  “Not completely, not unless you want to quit your jobs. But I don’t see that happening. You’re both so dedicated to what you do.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” She sucked in a much-needed breath, wondering how he could sit there—-so damn casually—and offer her money. “Is it because you slept with me?”

  A sudden flare of anger burst into his eyes, like fire. Like brimstone. Like a man who was used to controlling other people’s lives. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I’m trying to turn you into my mistress?”

  “That’s how it seems,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by his temper, the all-consuming power that could drain a woman dry. The muscle ticking in his jaw. The hard, ready-to-explode, king-of-the-universe breathing.

  He stood and pushed away his chair, nearly shoving it against the file cabinet. “I was just trying to help. To make life easier for my mom.” He paused, drilled his gaze into hers. “And for you, too. But I don’t keep mistresses. I don’t reward my lovers for sleeping with me.”

  She didn’t say anything, so he leaned forward, bracing his hands on her desk. “I can’t believe you think so little of me. Don’t you get it, Tamra? Don’t you see why this matters to me?”

  “No, I don’t. Mary and I can take care of ourselves.”

  “I know. But my mom’s car looks like it’s on its last leg and you’re lending money to friends, cash you can barely spare. I don’t want to go home and worry about you.”

  She sighed, wishing she hadn’t provoked an argument. Walker was confused, she thought. And he was comparing his life to hers. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being rich.”

  “Easy for you to say, Miss Do-Gooder.”

  She rolled her eyes, trying to ease the tension, to make him stop scowling. It was the best she could do. Other than fall prey to his machismo and touch him. Kiss him. Tug his stubborn mouth to hers. “Listen to you, Mr. Write-a-Check.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. Grateful, she flicked a paper clip at him. He grabbed the worse-for-wear chair and parked his butt down again.

  “You should see my office at Ashton-Lattimer,” he said. “And my condo. Not to mention the apartment I have on my family’s estate in Napa Valley. It’s inside the mansion, on the second floor with a spectacular view.”

  She couldn’t even fathom his lifestyle. Edward had been wealthy, but not compared to the Ashtons. “Those are the kinds of things Mary wanted you to have.”

  “Will you talk to her about the account?” he pressed.

  “No, but you can. If you want to help your mom and she’s willing to accept your offer, then it’s okay with me. But I don’t want to be part of it.”

  “Because you’re not comfortable taking money from me?”

  “Edward used to give me gifts. He used to buy me trinkets.”

  “That jerk who hurt you? It’s not the same thing.”

  “When it ended, when he broke up with me, I felt cheap.” And for her, it had been the worst feeling in the world. “I don’t want to go through that again. Not ever.”

  “Don’t compare me to him. We’re nothing alike.”

  She almost reached across the desk to hold his hand, but she curled her fingers, keeping her distance, recalling the ache that came with being in love. She couldn’t bear to fall for Walker, not like that.

  “Will you at least accept a check for your charity?” he asked.

  She looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. And then she realized how foolish she was, refusing to hold his hand, to touch him. She knew they were going to sleep together aga
in. Sex was inevitable. “You already wrote one, didn’t you?”

  “Yep.” He removed it from his pocket and handed it to her.

  She glanced at the denomination. “That’s a generous donation.” And sex wasn’t love, she told herself. There was nothing wrong with continuing their affair.

  “It’s tax deductible.” He picked up the paper clip she’d tossed at him. Toying with the metal, he altered the shape, bending it back and forth. “Besides, it’s for a worthy cause. I know the Oyate Project will put it to good use.”

  “Thank you.” She wrote him a receipt, and when she gave it to him, their eyes met and held.

  An intimate look. A deep, heart-thundering stare.

  “Will you come home with me, Tamra?”

  “Home?”

  “To Napa Valley. To the estate.”

  Panic, instant anxiety, leaped to her throat. His family’s mansion? The winery? The place where he grew up? She shifted her gaze, breaking eye contact, dragging air into her lungs. “What for?”

  “Because I want to take you and Mary there. It would be the perfect place for my mom to meet Charlotte. And you and I could spend some time together.”

  “What about the rest of your family? Spencer’s wife? Your cousins?” When she and Mary lived in Northern California, they used to scan the society pages for tidbits about the Ashtons, and they’d come across their names quite a few times. “They might not like us staying there.”

  “Spencer is dead, and he’s the only one who would have forbidden it. The others won’t interfere.”

  “That’s not the same as welcoming us.”

  “Fine. Whatever. If I tell them to welcome you, then they will.”

  His bulldozing did little to ease her mind. “I’m not sure if I can get the time off.”

  “I’m only asking for a week. Seven measly days. You don’t take vacations?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  Tamra fidgeted with the paper clip he’d bent. What could she say? That she was nervous about being thrust into his world? That she didn’t belong there?

  “I’m sure Mary would be more comfortable if you came with us,” he said. “And so would I.”