Tender Taming (11 page)

“Damn the man!” Eagle exclaimed, his anger a raw thing, explosive. “What did the bastard do to you? Did he hurt you, Whitney?”

Whitney glanced at him quickly with surprise. “Oh, no!” she explained quickly. “Gerry isn’t a bastard. He’s a very nice man. He never even raised his voice to me. It wasn’t that …”

Eagle’s dark brow knitted high above his eyes. She was trying; she was really trying. Breathing deeply to hold his impatience and perplexed curiosity in check, he told himself he must speak and move very slowly. She had to be led along on a very tender line. “What then, Whitney?” His voice was nothing more than a soft urging on the breeze.

Her eyes flashed to his apologetically. “I guess I was brought up to be the Miss Virginia you tease me about. My entire life was set up for me. I went to private schools, then the University of Virginia. When I graduated I fell in with what was expected of me. Gerry was—and still is—my father’s law partner. He came from a ‘good’ family, too. He’s almost twenty years older than I am, but no one ever thought anything of that. He would be a good husband, father and provider. He belonged to all the right clubs; he sailed, played tennis and golf.” Whitney lifted her hands helplessly. “I don’t think I was ever in love with him, but I did care a great deal about him, and according to the old Southern aristocracy, love can grow if the elements are right …” There was a stick on the shore, and Whitney began to draw lines in the dirt as she settled her chin on her hugged knees. “This is what I’m not sure how to explain. I was always overly protected, so Gerry was, of course, my first real sexual experience. I was young, and I guess I was a romantic. I thought Gerry would adore me and we would create skyrockets together. Then that first night—” Whitney shuddered and stopped.

Eagle was ready to pull his own hair out. Instead he put a tender arm around her shoulders and lightly stroked the wispy wings of her hair. “What happened that first night?”

Whitney opened her mouth, but nothing came.

“Tell me, Whitney,” Eagle urged sternly.

Somehow, in spite of sputtering, stopping and beginning again out of sequence, Whitney finally managed to explain. She told him how horrified her husband had been to find her eager to explore her sexuality, how seldom he had touched her, how they had only made love in the dark while remaining partially clothed. If she ever made a sound, he would turn from her, appalled, revolted.

“I—I always displeased him,” Whitney finished awkwardly. “And I guess that’s what so terrifies me now.”

Eagle shook his head incredulously. “It’s unbelievable.”

“I wouldn’t go through this to lie,” Whitney strangled out, blinking furiously. Had she unburdened her heart and soul only to be ridiculed?

“No, no, little rabbit,” he said with a smile, leaning back onto the earth and pulling her with him. “That’s not what I meant at all! I don’t believe a man could have you and not worship all that sexy beauty!” He was staring at her kindly, his blue eyes orbs of tender concern, his lips a twitch of sensuous relief. When he spoke, his voice was husky, a tone that sent quivers racing into her blood.

“Do you trust me?” he demanded suddenly, his touch still light.

Her eyes were wide in the moonlight; her answer a silken sigh. “Yes.”

He spoke to her for a long, long time in that husky velvet voice before he began to make love to her. He told her that it pleased him just to see her, that she was built like a mythical goddess of love, that her hips and thighs were slender perfection, her breasts flowers of sensuality that begged to be touched. As he talked, his jeans were again cast aside, and he very gently pulled the white gown from her body.

“Look at me,” he commanded as he lay his flesh against hers and she fluttered her lashes. “Look at me, Whitney.” His features were incredibly tense with desire, but he smiled even as his eyes blazed.

“There is no way, sweet thing, that you could possibly displease me,” he said, his voice becoming a harsher and harsher rasp. “And I want to hear you, my darling. I want you to touch me, I want you to forget everything except what you feel and I want you to scream if you feel like it …”

Whitney obediently kept her eyes open, locked with his in a tremulous hypnotism. His hand began a play upon her flesh as he continued to whisper in increasingly ragged breaths just how beautiful she was. His touch was very slow, very tender and yet masterful. His fingers traced lightly over her skin, drawing her with infinite finesse into his web. An instinctive reflex brought her hand to stop his as he caressed the rose-hued peaks of her nipples, but he deftly changed position and anchored her arms. His gentle play continued with stern control; his hands went on to explore fully the contours of her hips, her abdomen and the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Again reflex caused her to tense her slender legs together. “Trust me, Whitney,” he murmured.

And she did. Teetering on the fine borderline between abandon and fear, Whitney crashed wildly into total submission as his seduction took an abrupt change and became demanding and urgent. His lips claimed hers with a fervency that left her breathless. His fingers deserted their eloquent teasing to plunge and exquisitely torture the tender, sensitive secrets of her flesh. A gasped moan escaped her, and Eagle replied with unbridled passion.

“Don’t stop it, darling, don’t stop it. Tell me … Touch me …”

Tentatively, hesitantly, she began to touch him. The shudders her fingers caused him excited her further and further until she was lost in a wonderful new world of exotic ecstasy. Hot kisses rained over her entire body, following the trails blazed by his knowing fingers. Enveloped in whirling, roller-coaster passion, Whitney writhed uncontrollably, arching into his glorious heat, straining wildly to give the erotic pleasure she received. She died a thousand little deaths.

“Eagle!” Her plea was a tormented whisper.

“Tell me!” he demanded, “Cry it out. Let me know.”

“Oh, Eagle,” she countered breathlessly. “I want you. I want you so very much …”

He filled her, he ignited her, he took her with the devastating passion she craved, his rhythm ever increasing with each new level of consuming exhilaration. And all the while he whispered, groaned, shuddered, driving her ever upward. They were locked together as one; Whitney’s fingers dug desperately into his back, then a moan tore from her throat, a cry that was his name, an echo of the unleashed ecstasy that surged through her with a final convulsive, sweetly delicious tremble. The urgent passion subsided slowly, slowly, to be replaced by a feeling equally cherished. In that moment Whitney gave herself to him completely and was filled by him in a way that inexplicably bound her to him forever. Later she would have to think, to reason, to make light of her own fantastic thoughts, but for now she wore his brand, she could still relish in the scent of his body on hers; she was simply, irrevocably, in the most elemental of male-female responses—his.

Eagle shifted himself beside her and raised his head while he bent an elbow so that he could look at her again. In the aftermath of the intensity of their union, her damp body glistened in the moonlight, and he shook his head slightly to himself as he marveled at the perfect, cream beauty of her form. Her breasts rose and fell with the depth of her breathing, emphasizing the lovely contours and hollows of her collarbone and tightly flat abdomen. Her hair splayed in a wild fan beneath them both, while the fluffed wings framed her face in delicate curls. Heat filled him again as he watched her, and burning tenseness constricted within him. Drawing a finger down the line between the curves of her breasts to her navel, Eagle was consumed by emotions very similar to hers, and even more untamed. It was irrational, he knew, but he felt fiercely and unrestrainedly possessive. Irrational be damned! He would have her over and over again, he and only he.

Her eyes flew open at his touch, and she smiled shyly.

“Skyrockets?” he inquired.

“And fireworks,” she admitted.

He smiled in return, but his voice was grave as he curled a lock of her hair tenderly around his finger. “No more fears, Whitney? That husband of yours was the wrong one, you know. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“You are the most exquisitely pleasing creature I have ever known.”

She couldn’t reply to that. Did he mean it? Or was he bolstering her confidence? She wouldn’t worry about it now … or wonder just how many “pleasing creatures” he had known. Lazy with satisfaction, she rolled into his chest and curled happily against it. Tonight was special. She didn’t want to talk anymore; she had talked enough. For the moment nothing else mattered. She was wallowing in the satiated joy of lying next to the strength and power of this superbly created man …

“No going to sleep on me!” he teased, nudging her. “Not here, anyway. I’m not that trusting of the snakes!”

As he had expected, the word “snakes” sent her flying to her feet. “You told me the lake was clear!” she accused in a wail.

“Well, it is, mostly. But I prefer to sleep off the ground—just in case!” He laughed, reaching for her hand. “Come on, sweetie, give an old man a hand up.”

“Old man! How aged are you?”

“Three and a half decades come fall.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a day over thirty-four.”

“That’s because Indians age well. Clean living, you know.” Grinning, he collected her gown and his pants, then swung her dramatically into his arms. “This has always been one of my fantasies,” he told her as she slipped her arms around his neck, “running naked through the woods with a captive woman. Have you ever seen yourself carried off like this?”

“No,” Whitney said with a laugh. “And I don’t know if it’s such a hot idea now. Your grandmother could wake up—”

“My grandmother would love it. She’s a true romantic—crazy about ‘hot’ ideas like this!”

In a few minutes they were back in the chickee. As Whitney curled back into the covers with Eagle stretched beside her, contentment filled her. This bed in the woods was the most wonderful she had ever known. A belief in magic had been returned to her, and she was sailing on top of the world despite the crazy fact that she was falling in love with a man who would probably walk right back out of her life …

Don’t be silly, she chastised herself as she snuggled closer to him. She wasn’t in love, nor was he. They had simply become “lovers.” Odd terminology …

She suddenly realized that Eagle was persistently touching her beneath the covers and that her body was automatically responding to his demands. “I thought we needed to get some sleep!” she teased, robbing her cheek against his smooth chest.

“We do!” he whispered back. “I want to make sure we’re really tired.”

Whitney started giggling softly. Moon fever, she told herself.

“Stop that!” Eagle commanded, springing to pin her shoulders to their mat and to straddle her. “I taught you to moan, not laugh! I guess we have to refresh the lesson in your mind.”

“Please,” Whitney taunted with half-closed eyes. “I’m a slow learner.”

“No, little witch,” Eagle returned, his stare growing dark and passionately hard, his voice throaty. “You learn with natural ease. If you grow much more proficient, you could become a lethal weapon. You could please me into an early grave …”

Her giggles quickly became panted moans as he lowered his head and fastened his teeth lightly over a nipple to begin the exquisite torment all over again. Whitney’s fingers raked into his blue-raven hair as she arched to meet his tantalizing lovemaking. A willing captive. That was her last coherent thought. She had indeed become his captive.

“Up, rabbit!”

She was awakened by a firm tap on the rear end, to find Eagle standing above her, fully clothed, his costume today a braided Seminole shirt. Blinking groggily, Whitney graced him with a reproachful stare. Even he would have to admit that the hour was uncivilized.

Completely stoic, he arched a hand over his eyes and gesticulated to the horizon. “Pink trails of dawn are now consumed by golden eye of rising sun. Time for dedicated squaw to move rear like willow and get with it!”

“You’ve been watching too many John Wayne movies,” Whitney muttered in cynical reply. But the night had changed her, and she couldn’t resist an impish smile. “Couldn’t you go fight the cavalry late today? Surely Indians must get sick leave, too!”

“No, no sick leave, not today.” Smiling in return, he bent to kiss her lips lightly. “We have a lot of preparation to do. The Green Corn Dance begins at sunset—and you become a bride by nightfall. Even in the civilized world women do not laze around on their wedding days.”

A frown puckered Whitney’s brow and the soft womb of pleasure she had felt at wakening drained from her. How could he still be insisting that they take it all like a tremendous joke? In her one day here she was finding great respect for Morning Dew and the Miccosukee tribe, and she didn’t feel like mocking their customs. Eagle was a Miccosukee! And he had told her to trust him. To play games to such an extent seemed nothing short of callous.

“I don’t want to go through with the ceremony,” she said stubbornly, drawing the covers to her chin.

The light in his eyes immediately disappeared. “I told you,” he said harshly, “you won’t have to consider any of it legal.”

“That’s not the point—” Whitney began. “Oh, never mind!” she interrupted herself. What
was
the point? That she was falling in love and didn’t want any part of what she had to remember was a farce? “We’ll go through with it. I don’t ever seem to win an argument with you, anyway.”

Eagle’s face remained dark and hard even after her agreement. “Get dressed,” he said curtly. “There is a lot to be done. I’ve brought you an Indian skirt and blouse set. I thought you might like to attend the day in customary style.”

He was gone before she could think of anything more to say. Scrambling from the covers, Whitney found the outfit. It was as carefully sewn and edged and braided as the white bridal gown. Sighing, Whitney slipped into the comfortable, porous material. She was fascinated by the prospect of attending the Corn Dance, even if it did raise a few moral dilemmas. She would have days ahead of her to talk with White Eagle … and tell him what? I realize that I’m supposed to be the sophisticated one and that a night of love in the chickee does not signify eternal devotion, but I think you taught your lessons a little too well and … what? God, what did she feel for him? He was like a fever in her blood … undefinable.