Become a Fan
A Find Through Time
By Marianne Yvonne Petit
Friday, December 21, 2007
Rated "R" by the Author.
Struggling with severed family ties and a love life gone sour, forensic artist Gabrielle Camdem immerses herself in sculpting the face of a young Native American woman whose parallel life takes her on an incredible journey back in time to Custer's Last Stand. The path leads her deep into the heart of the Sioux nation and into the arms of a Lakota warrior named Two Moons. Gabriele must reconcile her life on the plains with the one she left behind and the man who awaits her return. But before she can give her love to one man, she must lose the love of another. . .
"Wiwasteka, my beautiful woman..."
Gabrielle opened her eyes and gazed deeply into his. He thought her beautiful. She had wanted this, to see his desire. She had waited patiently for him, knowing what would happen once he saw her. She had scrubbed her skin until it tingled and then dried herself with fur. A mixture of pulverized columbine seeds and water, perfumed her entire body. For what had seemed like an eternity she'd brushed her hair until it shone. For what seemed like an eternity she'd waited, letting the warmth of the sun shining from the opening above finger her naked body, preparing herself for his return.
"I burn hot for you," he whispered against her ear.
His voice soft, deep and sensual, licked her skin like the heat of a flame.
"And I for you."
"Listen to the language of my heart." He placed her hand against his bare chest. She could feel its rapid thumping.
"My heart too, speaks your language." She brought his fingers to her breast.
His dark velvet eyes beheld hers. Slowly, seductively, his gaze slid downward over her body - a gaze as soft as a caress.
The air around them seemed electrified. She drew in a shuddering breath. The fresh scent of pine and mountain mahogany leaves, that lay scattered around them, filled her lungs.
He leaned closer, wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her near. She encircled his neck with her arms. His leather loin cloth pressed against her hips. His chest crushed her breasts.
"Winyan. Tanyán yahí yélo."
Their lips only inches apart, she could taste his hot, hypnotic whispers upon her mouth. The need to touch him - to feel him touch her, was insatiable.
She stared deeply into his eyes. Magnificent dark eyes, warm with desire. "I do not understand your words–"
"Woman," he repeated. " I am glad you came."
His musky scent intoxicated her. "I love the way you speak.
Tell me more."
"You wish to speak my tongue?" His brows rose and he smiled. "That is good. There are many words I'd like to say; much I'd like to teach you." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. His long hair tickled her collar bone.
"This is ituhu and this..." His lips were warm upon her nose. "Poge."
He ran his finger lightly across her cheek, then down, trailing a blaze of heat to her mouth. "Wicai." The word, a bare whisper, fanned her face. "And one such as yours was made to be kissed."
His moist, firm lips pressed against hers. His tongue gently coaxed her to let him in - and she did. He tasted of tobacco and sweet grass.
His kiss grew hungry, urgent and she returned that kiss with the same wild intensity. Breathless, they parted.
He kissed the pulsating hollow at the base of her throat. "Tahu," she heard him say before he moved to her earlobe and sucked.
Between each whispered, erotic word describing her body, he planted kisses on her shoulders and neck, down her arm and kissed her knees. When he edged his way back up to claim her lips, his eyes burned with a savage inner desire that made her head spin.
His large hands explored her body. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth. She breathed quickly between parted lips. He eased himself lower and playfully planted kisses around the outer part of her breast, then worked his way in a circular motion coming closer and closer to her nipple. She could feel her tips grow hard. "Azepinkpa..." He swallowed the word in his throat.
She groaned. Her gaze drifted to the jagged gash marring his shoulder. "Your wound. We must–"
"It is nothing but a scratch I barely feel."
She stroked his cut lightly. "I promised I'd clean this–"
"And the thought of your touch upon my skin sets my heart a flame, but it is not a bath I need right now." Again he kissed her. "The flame that burns..." He nibbled her neck. His fingers played with her hair. "...is not of my shoulder. The fire that burns is much, much lower."
Site: Marianne Petit's homepage
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