I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
A Breed Apart
*This is an iced tea chapter but it's written my way. Enjoy.*
Under The Waterfall and The Moon
Once she had stood under a waterfall, overwhelmed, afraid.
Moving as if a ghost, already perhaps a ghost in her mind.
Transfixed by the river crashing before her.
The thunderous roar constant, a dulling to her senses, her thinking.
The glow, the flashes, the water.
Unaware she ventured too close to the edge, to oblivion.
In a lull, she had been.
Astutter in the silent white screaming of her mind.
A dream of a nightmare.
And there, suddenly, an exhortation, . . .
"Get back!"
. . . a powerful grip.
That had jerked her back to herself, back to her dire situation.
And, quite literally, back to him.
A man, an Indian, full-blooded, and strong.
He had pulled her to him, arms tight and comforting around her.
She in his lap, shoulder and side pressed to his chest, torso.
Powerful legs crossed beneath her.
Her own together to the side and bent at the knee, buckle shoes scraping the rocky cavern floor beneath them.
Of their own accord, her arms had gone around him, clinging in panic.
Heart pounding, blood rushing.
Nerves rattled, senses ajangle.
Terrified and confused.
Panting, bewildered.
And held fast.
As a child in need of reassurance.
And thus she had stayed, safe and protected, until her heart had slowed and her mind had calmed.
She had risen from him after a time, gazing with wonder into his dark, piercing eyes as she had done so.
And he, his face a closed mystery to her.
Now, time has passed.
She is a child no longer.
Events have matured her, set in her a change and understanding of herself she finds reassuring and pleasant.
Gone he was and now returned.
Returned and, by her leave now, standing before her.
Here in the pale moonlight.
He is tall and she finds herself dropping her gaze from his deepset eyes to his chest.
Long has she desired to touch the blue ink of his chest. The mysterious patch below the hollow of his throat, below the loop of leather of encircling his neck.
Touch to feel the warmth of the skin, the smoothness of the muscle.
Touch to discover if the ink will smear onto her fingers, her flesh.
The flowing white of her shift billows ever so slightly with the breeze.
A breeze she feels more so here in the quiet night.
For the currents are cool.
And she, under the garment, is bare.
The moon is high above them as she lifts a steady hand.
Looks up to meet his dark eyes.
Finding permission within.
The ink does not smear on her fingers, does not leave the warm chest that is smooth and strong.
Her fingers glide across that skin.
That skin prickling to the light of her touch.
Her hand drifts away as she moves forward, lips now instead pressing to the warm tattooed flesh as she kisses it.
She feels his slow exhale, feels a strong hand on her head.
Her body atingle, she lets her lips linger across the exposed skin, the taste of him.
It is not enough, that small patch of skin.
She desires more.
Her fingers slip down his shirt.
Finding the cloth belt at his waist.
Unwrapping it, arms going 'round his middle, lower than she has ever touched him before.
As she raises her eyes up, finding his amused, handsome face in the dark.
And she cannot help but to smile back.
Even as the belt falls away.
And she grasps now the fabric of his shirt, pulls it up.
Exposing to her hungry gaze the flat stomach, the smooth chest she pretended not to watch when the men played at their game.
He acquiesces her desire, removing the garment entirely, to drop behind them in the dark.
And his hands return, cradling the pale oval of her face and lifting it up from the smooth expanse of his upper body to the eyes still gazing upon her.
The intensity of the emotion radiating from him inflames her senses and she presses her palms to his warm, smooth sides.
Her pale, his dark.
He moves then, a smooth, fluid motion.
Bending, powerful arms encircling her slender waist.
Her own slipping themselves about his neck.
And he lifts her up, bringing her face level to his.
Before slowly, movement controlled, sinking to his knees in the tall, tall grass.
She goes with him, knees separating comfortably to either side of his hips, legs folding under as she finds herself in his lap once again.
Face to face this time, body to body.
He presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed as before his autumn departure. And she can feel his breath upon her skin, warm and welcome.
Feel him, she can feel him.
Hands, fingers, lost in her hair now.
Her ears, the base of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone grazed, caressed by his smoky touch.
And him. She can feel him.
More and more, though he is making no attempt to make her aware of this.
And she does not shy away.
But takes his face in her hands.
Kisses it, slowly, languidly, the strong features she has so long mused upon.
His eyebrows, the ridges of his cheekbones.
And his brow furrows, crinkles appearing between the closed eyes in the perfectly smooth flesh.
She kisses that too, and slips lower.
Nudging his nose with her own.
His mouth, always so closed and controlled, falls open the slightest bit.
And she brushes his lips with her own, so ready and willing.
He does not take the advantage and she dimly considers if he even knows of kissing.
Reflects she is not the slightest knowledgable either.
And that they may learn together later.
For there is time.
Her hands move themselves to the hem of her shift.
Clearing it of her knees, of any impediment in their progressing coupling.
Reaching up now to his wandering hands, interlacing her fingers with his own.
The movement causing a whisper of a smile to cross his face as his deep, dark gaze returns to her.
She holds it as she guides his hands down to the exposed flesh of her thighs.
His palms are warm to her skin, fingers strong and gentle.
Given sanction by her to explore.
And he does.
Her breathing catches, releases, becomes erratic.
Voice a series of low sureeshed moans and gasps.
His breath thickening and heavy upon her.
And the fire between them grows.
When she is ready, she shifts her weight and he moves in tandem with her.
She cries out only a little, the pain sharp and fleeting.
She has been riding horses without saddle and there will be no blood.
He reclines slowly back in the grass, palms warm to her hips.
She raises her face to the sky, pleasure rising with it.
And there under the light of the moon, they rock.
Only the moon bears witness, only the moon sees their union.
There is only them.
And the moon.
Their movements have stilled, muted murmurings of ecstasy quieted.
She is no longer arched, but curled now upon his chest.
Head to one side and she can hear his heartbeat, strong and steady, slowing in the afterglow.
Her arms curled around his sides and up to his broad shoulders.
His hands cup her head, her back as they breathe together.
It lulls her almost into a trance and she drowses, the swift, steady rush of blood in his veins soothing as the waterfall.
After a lifetime of contentment in his arms, she feels the muscles in his torso contract and she lazily lifts her head.
To see him.
Looking upon her, a small smile upon his lips.
She mirrors, chest warming as he raises a gentle hand to her cheek.
And she covers it with her own.
Ahem.
Okay then.
Opinions?
Thanks to BrynnaRaven, DinahRay, MedicineGal815, The Guest Who's Glad Chingachgook's Cool With It, and BlueSaffire for your previous enthusiastic reviews!
Last chapter tomorrow. See you then!