Lone Star Loving (12 page)

It thrilled her, the imminent success of her seduction, knowing that Hawk would continue with their lovemaking. The clement breezes of the dark gray evening whispered over her flesh, the soft grasses cushioned and cradled her, and the insistent touch of her man sent a fire of passion raging within her.

Naked beside the hard, hot strength of him, she heard him ask, “Would you trade me now . . . for Fierce Hawk?”

“You're all I want.” She inhaled deeply as his fingers caressed her arm, her breast. “Only you, my darling.”

“Remember that, angel mine. Remember that.”

“Remind me.” As Eleanor had schooled, Charity moved her fingers in a bold circle around one manly nipple. “Am I all you want? Just me for me?”

“I've waited a lifetime for you and you alone.”

Her heart seemed too large for her chest, so swollen was it for him. He guided her to her back, his lips seeking the peak of her breast. With strong, sure strokes he suckled her; her fingers held him there. Her nerves came alive at his touch. It felt good, and right, the two of them together.

Her fingers delved into his hair, which had been cinched at his nape, freeing the raven-black strands from their binding. Likewise, his hands worked the pins from her head.

His raspy voice tickled her ear. “Don't ever put your hair up again. I like it wild and free–like you are, my hellcat angel. Wild and untamed and perfect.”

“Who is the most wild here? Surely not I.”

He was caressing her body with sure and experienced fingers, with sure and experienced lips. For a split second she recalled wanting to lose her virginity to a husband as inexperienced as she was, but what a foolish notion that had been. No man but Hawk could thrill her this way. She marveled at his skill as a lover. Thanks to Eleanor's advice, she didn't need much coaching herself, at least in arousing him.

Charity's fingers smoothed over the taut lines of her adored savage, resting on the turgid, hooded tip of him. “You like this, don't you, Hawk?”

“You know I do,” he replied hoarsely.

She sighed at the thrill of discovery, at the wonder of him. How differently they were made, yet Nature had matched them ideally. Her fingers moved downward, encircled him. “I've never felt anything so hard, yet so satiny,” she admitted in an awed whisper, wishing for light so that her eyes might feast upon him.

“Your innocence refreshes and pleases. And now I shall please you.”

She murmured low trills of satisfaction at the feel of him . . . at the feel of what he was doing to her. No inch of her flesh did he leave untouched. He explored the shape of her breasts, her waist, her hips, her legs. She yearned for more. And then his inquiry moved between her thighs . . .

“Open for me, sweet hellcat. Ah, yes.”

Never had she imagined that lovemaking would be so splendid, not even in her girlish fantasies, not even in her womanly thoughts of Hawk. Her head spun, her senses whirled at the gentle, sure movement of his forefinger at her kindled nub. Hotly, intensely, from the dip of her throat to the lobe of her ear, he blazed a trail of kisses. She quivered at the sensation.

“Kiss me,” he whispered in her ear.

Her lips parted for him, and his seized hers. He tasted of peppermint, sweet and hot. Instinctively, she met the movements of his ardent tongue. They played with each other–darting, challenging, retreating only to taunt each other again. The ache that had begun low in her body spread throughout her limbs, begged for something–
something!

“I hurt,” she murmured when he rose up to cup her face with his hands and look into her eyes. “I need . . . Oh, Hawk, I don't know what I need.”

“Me. You need me. As I need you.”

In the dark of night, she knew he looked at her searchingly.

“Take me, Hawk.”

The hard, long length of him settled at the mouth of her most private place. The silver ornament around his neck, heated by his flesh, fell to the cleft between her breasts, seeming to brand her as his. His fingers curled around her shoulders. Once more his lips met hers. And then–his thumbs and fingernails dug into her shoulders, causing a flash of instant agony, as he thrust hard . . . branding her for real, as no bauble could.

So intense was the pressure of his grip that she barely noticed the searing pain of his entry, yet she cried out.

He didn't move. Lodged high inside of her, he released his grip on her shoulders. “I knew it would hurt you. I figured it would be better if I took your attention away from the tearing.”

“I–I'm fine. Very fine.” To be filled so fully, oh, my, it was a miraculous feeling. Yes, her virginal body protested the invasion, but now she knew what it was like to be a woman. Hawk's woman. “Give me more.”

He did. He thrust; he pulled back; he thrust again. And again and again. She wanted to meet his rhythm, but was that what she was supposed to do? Eleanor hadn't said anything about it, their chat having been cut short when Hawk had gotten the carriage wheel fitted firmly in place.
Should I do as my body suggests?
After all, there had been some talk of going on instincts.

As if he read her mind, Hawk reared up to look down insistently at her face. “Give me more, my Charity. Meet my lovemaking. Move with me.”

Their tongues tangled anew as they moved together in life's most beautiful cadence. Wild. They were wild with the need for each other, and her blood continued to throb hotly through her veins, as if Hawk were her very life source. Her toes inched over and between the back of his thighs to curl and anchor at the top of his calves. “I can't seem to get enough of you,” she moaned, gasping for breath.

“You've got all I can give,” he said. “And honey, I don't think you could find anything much bigger.” He bit her lip playfully.

“That's not what I mean. I am filled to my limit, yet I seem to be on a precipice, on the verge of tumbling over.”

He chuckled, or was it a growl? “That's exactly what is happening.”

One long, sure stroke accompanied his words. She bucked beneath him, and he growled his approval. Whirling, whirling, whirling . . . she lost the ability to make sense of anything except for Hawk. Hawk, her darling Hawk. And then it was as if something burst within her. Something wonderful and luscious and infinitely satisfying. She tumbled into it.

“I love you,” she cried.

At that same moment she heard Hawk groan harshly and felt him pulsate within her. He said something in his language that she knew must be an expression of release and gratification.

With a shudder he gently lowered his body atop her. She nestled her head into the crook of his uninjured shoulder; he rested his cheek low at her ear. His lips settled against her throat. It seemed as difficult for him to breathe as it was for Charity.

“Thanks be to
Wah'Kon-Tah,
you're wonderful.” He rolled over slowly, guiding them to their sides, sliding out of her. “So wonderful.”

“So are you.”

Tenderness in his tone, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Why, yes. Why wouldn't I be? Good gravy, I've never felt better in my life!”

She intended to write Olga and divulge her own information. Olga ought to know just how much she was missing by her adherence to Victorian mores!

“Charity, I want to give you something.” When she assured him that he'd already given her the best possible thing, he shook his head. “I mean this.” He pulled the silver neckchain over his head and wrapped her fingers around it. “Wear my totem, Charity.”

“I will be honored to,” she replied, her heart bursting with happiness.

He slipped the silver, turquoise-adorned chain around her neck, the heat of his flesh transferring to hers. “It matches your eyes, you know. Turquoise is a special stone to some Indians. Your eyes are special to me.”

Her fingers flattened over the chain as well as its warmth. “May I tell you something? My mother used to tell a story of a dear Osage lady. Red Dawn. When my parents were guests in her village, Red Dawn loaned Mutti a turquoise necklace. She had traded an Apache for it.”

“I traded an Apache for this one.”

“Why do you sound troubled?”

“Didn't mean to.” He rolled to his knees at her side and reached for his shirt. There was a note of regret in his voice when he said, “Let's get dressed.” Bending over her, he added, “We'd better get you cleaned up first.”

Without another word he gently rubbed the folded shirt between her legs. His touch was soothing. Marvelous. And it left her aching for more of his attentions. A glance at his again-stiffened shaft–how lovely it was, limned by the moon and the stars in the heavens and the stars in her eyes–assured her that he was likewise inclined.

“Charity ...” He swallowed, then tossed the blood-stained shirt aside. “Charity, did you mean it? When you said you love me.”

“It may have been spoken in passion,” she replied honestly, scanning his dear and savage features. “But it was spoken from my soul.”

“Will you promise me something? No matter what happens, remember I meant you no harm.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“We'd better get back to the hotel,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Earlier, he'd said a hotel room was no place for a chat. But everything had changed between them. She had realized the depth of her feelings for Hawk, and they had been together in the most intimate of ways. A hotel-room conversation with her beloved would suit her just fine.

“Is this the time you're going to tell me everything about yourself?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Maisie McLoughlin had been waiting in the lobby of the Wayfarer Hotel for over an hour. It was a high-priced inn, considering the amenities–Maisie liked value for her dollar. The rooms were spartan at best.

“Highway robbery, if ye ask me,” she groused to her driver, “the asking price of these rooms.”

Heinrich Weingard flushed. “Please,
meine gnädige Frau.
the clerk . . .”

She didn't care if that money-grubbing, air-sniffing room peddlar heard her. The man–probably English, being that laziness was all over him like a second skin–had kept his own counsel about Charity until a whole quarter had crossed to his greedy palm. Once the coin was tucked in his dungarees, he had become quite talkative.

Charity was indeed registered. And town gossip had reported that a lovely young woman, a stranger had been seen at a local eating establishment with a strapping young man who fit the description of Fierce Hawk of the Osage. Maisie had marched right over to the café where they had been spotted, only to find it closed.

Where were the lass and the lad?

Maisie marched to a horsehair sofa in a corner to the left of the door and sat down. A spring pinched her behind. “The stuffing is worn out,” she complained to Heinrich. “Go fetch my folding chair.”

The Fredericksburger nodded and quit the lobby.

“Ye got any cigars?” she asked the desk clerk, who was picking his nose and reading a book.

“Nope.”

“Well, then, get off your arse and go fetch me a couple.”

Naturally, it took another exchange of specie. But she finally got rid of the man. She didn't want anyone around when Charity showed up.

A nicely dressed couple descended the staircase. The woman, a plump redhead–as buxom as Maisie had been in her heyday–held onto a gentleman's arm. He looked pleased as punch. Maisie concluded they must have been up in their room doing what Fierce Hawk
had better not
be doing with Charity.

“Evening,” the man said to Maisie as they strolled by.

The lady nodded in greeting, then strolled on toward the door, saying to her man, “Norman, my dear, what do you suppose happened to our young friends?”

“Don't be daft, Eleanor.” He opened one of the double doors, then led her outside.

In the now deserted lobby, Maisie drummed her fingers on her knee, hoping Fierce Hawk had gotten her great-granddaughter into line. And that big Osage buck better not have broken her maidenhead. He just better not have.

“Ye old fool. They've been together betwixt Laredo and here, and he's a hot-blooded Injun.” Her eyes squarely on the lobby window, Maisie sucked her teeth. Anything could have happened. “Well, if he's done her wrong, I'll be making sure Fierce Hawk does right by the lass.”

Then Charity would be settled. Afterward, the lawyer would see to that smuggling business. And in time . . . “Great-great-grandbairns. Do ye think ye'll live t' see the day?”