Dakota Dream (43 page)

Stunned at first, surprised she'd peaked before he'd even touched her woman parts, Jacob quickly slid his hand between her legs and helped bring her agony to an end. As the spasms ebbed, when he felt her pulsating heat lurching against his fingers, Jacob's own need grew huge, threatened to claim what was left of his fragile control as well.

With a sharp intake of his breath, he rolled over on top of her, spreading her legs with his knee as he lowered himself to her damp, nurturing nest. He thought of warning her, of giving notice he would soon enter her, but when he looked into Dominique's eyes and found them swimming in pleasure not part of this world, he drove into her, past the thin barrier, and up to her very center. There, battling some primeval instinct, fighting the potent urge to thrust his maleness in frenzied, rhythmic strokes, Jacob forced himself to lie still. And wait.
For her pain to diminish.
For the tight untested walls of her sheath to relax.
For her words of encouragement.
Then, he swore to himself, and only then would he begin the movements as ageless as time, bring her to new heights she couldn't have imagined, and take himself to the exquisite brink of those heights. And then, because he had no choice, he would spill his seed onto the ground.

"Jacob," she softly said, her voice drowsy with pleasure, "are we one now?"

"Yes,
wi
witko,
" he whispered against her ear. "Now you are my woman. When your pain is no more, move your hips against mine, and I will show you what it truly means to be my woman."

But her pain, if she'd had any at all, was a vague memory. Dominique immediately tested this strange new union, slowly pressed up against him,
then
pushed her bottom back down to the buffalo fur. The sensations whetted her appetite for more. Awkwardly testing her new skills, she ground her hips against him again, but this time when she came up off the rug, Jacob filled his powerful hands with her derriere.

"Easy now," he said hoarsely. "Let me show you the rhythm."

And then he took her to where she'd never been, showed her through the gates of a new, more agonizing pleasure. All her senses were drenched with Jacob, each nerve ending alive and begging for the slightest attention from him. Her arousal more intense than ever, the demand for gratification, deeper, fuller somehow, Dominique fell into the rocking motions, matching Jacob's movements, demanding as much as she gave. This was no dream, and the culmination would never be lost in hazy memories. She knew now that the dream and the experience she'd had just before he'd made her his own could only be considered a prelude, a simple release of pressure. Dominique knew what he offered now was much more than physical gratification, a greater gift than she would ever receive again. Jacob made love to more than her body—he stroked her very essence, filled her mind and her being with a feeling so exquisite that she felt as primitive as her surroundings, as wild and as free.

Faster and faster they rode, higher and higher, but no one gripped the reins of this passion. Somehow, somewhere, Jacob had lost his proud control, his mind. He was consumed by her, mad from her cries and from the erotic sound of his name as she begged him to stop the torment,
then
urged him to go on. He would never be the same again, never be the self-possessed, stone-hearted warrior he'd trained himself to be. Jacob understood all that, and still he plunged ahead, caring little if he should drown in her sweetness. When Dominique slid her fingers through his hair, gathered the thick waves into her palms, and pulled him to her as she bucked and twisted in the throes of ecstasy, he was completely lost.

Through the thick sensual fog his mind had become, Jacob recognized his own release was imminent, knew what he must do to protect her, but her spasms were the only source of control now. Dominique's body owned him, milked him of life's precious fluid,
then
left him lying on top of her, dazed and incoherent.

Dominique struggled for breath as Jacob lay sprawled across her breast. Squirming, she wriggled her torso free and gulped the cool night air. When her pulse finally slowed and some measure of reason returned, she inclined her head and gazed lovingly at her husband. His eyes were closed and his breathing was still erratic, the shallow breaths taken in short choppy gasps. Dominique smiled and ran her hand across his shoulders. His skin, slick with perspiration, felt hot to the touch, feverish. If she were at home, she thought with a delicious giggle, heat like that would signal a dire sickness, bring a visit from the doctor at the very least.

Thoughts of home, of her previously comfortable life, gave Dominique pause. Would this union, the consummation of her marriage, her love for Jacob, have been the same if they had been tucked away in her cozy bed back in Michigan? Or even at Fort Lincoln?

She pictured her frilly, feminine room at the Custer house and remembered another day, herself as another woman. Dominique began to laugh.

Jacob's voice, groggy and cracking with emotion, cut into her musings. "I thought I had pleased you well. What is so funny, my crazy wife?"

"Oh, Jacob," she moaned, still stroking his slick back. "You must know how well you pleased me. I'm not laughing about you. It's
The Ladies' Oracle
that makes me laugh."

"The what?"
Concern for her well-being eclipsed the urge to remain buried deep inside her. Jacob rolled over to his side and cradled her in his arms. "Have I injured you in some way?" Again she laughed, her sweet voice sprinkling the air like a thousand chirping robins. Jacob shook his head, soothed by the sound, and said, "Forgive me, then. Your husband must be a very stupid man. I still don't see what is so funny."

"You couldn't possibly know," she managed, controlling her chuckles. "The
Oracle
is a book, a fortune-telling book. It predicted this would happen, but I didn't believe it at the time."

She remembered back to the day spent in her room with Libbie, thinking how terribly long ago it all seemed, and recalled some of the questions she had asked of her aunt. Dominique glanced up at Jacob, giving him a shy smile, then nestled her head in the crook of his arm.
No wonder Libbie wouldn't tell her about the intimate matters between herself and the general,
she thought, this time stifling the urge to laugh out loud. How could any woman explain what had happened to her here? She would never be able to put into words the way she had felt as Jacob made her his, couldn't even bring herself to discuss the myriad emotions tingling throughout every pore in her body, with the very man who'd made her feel that way. She only knew she'd never been more contented or more satisfied with herself as a woman.

With a sigh of pure pleasure, Dominique kissed her husband's damp breast and said, "You're anything but stupid, Jacob. I think you're absolutely wonderful, and I love you so much right now, my insides hurt."

"Then I
have
injured you?" He started to rise, but Dominique pressed her hand to his chest and coaxed him back down.

Her words swimming through another bout of laughter, she said, "You've got to stop taking everything I say so literally. I mean that I hurt here." She laid her fingertips against her left breast. "And I hurt because I'm so very happy. Do you understand?"

A wave of raw emotion washed over him, welling up past his throat, threatening to spill out from his eyes. Jacob crushed her to his chest and buried his face in her hair. What was happening to him, to his careful reserve? He'd never been moved to such depths, not even when he said his final good-bye to Lame Fawn. Would loving the crazy one mean the end of his sanity, his brave facade? Jacob took several deep breaths, searching for a way, any way at all, to regain some measure of control over
himself
.

But he had no more control now than he'd had as he made her his own, he thought, furious with himself. Now, because of his inability to harness his passion, his seed swamped her system, searching through her secret folds for its mate, frantic to fulfill the creation of life. His anger damning the flood of earlier emotions, Jacob lay back against the buffalo rug and cleared his throat.

"You must talk to one of the other women in camp," he said briskly.
"Someone who will teach you about the powders and herbs necessary to prevent the creation of a child.
Have you made such a friend here yet?"

Blushing at the thought of discussing such an intimate matter with others, or even with Jacob, Dominique shrugged and looked away. Her voice unnaturally low and shy, she said, "No one around here seems interested in being my friend. The closest, I suppose, would be Spotted Feather."
And she
tried to kill
me
. "She doesn't like me very much."

Jacob rested his weight on one elbow. Staring down at her, he examined her wounds. "You and Spotted Feather have had some trouble. This much I know. Tell me what's happened, explain your many injuries."

"Look, if you don't mind, I'd rather not. Besides, none of them are too bad."

"Tell me now, Dominique. Too much has passed between us for secrets. What happened to you? What has Spotted Feather done to cause these wounds?"

The luster in her dark eyes dulled as she tried to think of a way out of the conversation. She gave him a quick glance,
then
averted her gaze. "It wasn't her fault. I was getting water down by the river, and I fell in. My legs were injured when I tumbled downstream and then again as I climbed out of the water."

"So you fell into the river again?" he said, amused.

Dominique frowned. Why was she protecting that nasty squaw? Then she thought of Gall's idea of punishment, assumed Jacob's sense of justice would impose an even worse penalty, and said, "Yes, that's pretty much the way it happened."

"And this?" he asked, his tone suspicious as he pointed to the turquoise and yellow rectangle above her knee.

"This," she laughed, "happened the night you left me crying in your tipi. I, ah, dropped your lance."

Puzzled, he glanced from her leg to the far wall. The weapon no longer hung from its rawhide thong. Looking back at Dominique, he turned his palms upward, but before he could speak, she explained. "When I dropped it sort of landed pretty hard across my knee, Jacob. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it broke in half."

A slow grin lit his features as he began to understand. "You
dropped
it, crazy one? Perhaps this was no accident?"

"That's my story, Mr. Redfoot. Take it or leave it."

Jacob pulled her into his arms, laughing and kissing her all at once. Then he sobered and ran his fingers along her arm. "This was no accident,
wi
witko.
Did someone— Spotted Feather, perhaps—attack you with the claw of a grizzly?"

"No." She laughed
again,
relieved she could still tell him the truth. "I'm afraid those claws were still attached to the bear when that happened."

"Dominique," he warned. "I mean it. No more lies will pass between us. How was your arm injured?"

"But I'm not lying, Jacob. I swear it." She related the story, down to her burial and the terror she had felt. When she finished, her eyes were moist. Jacob pulled her back in his powerful arms and began rocking her.

"You were very fortunate," he said, his voice splintered and ragged. "Not many live to tell of such an encounter. ''

Dominique pushed back, dotting wet kisses along his cheek as she moved. "But it's all true, Jacob. That's all there is to my wounds. No secrets, no problems."