He surprised me with this weekend trip. At the crack of dawn, he put me in his truck and drove three hours to attend the annual festival hosted by the six north-central tribes of Oklahoma.
We’ve spent the day watching inter-tribal dancing, browsing eye-catching paintings, pottery, jewelry, and clothing, and sampling traditional food.
I knew events like this existed, but I’d never been to one. The only exposure I had to my heritage was through my grandmother.
Being here among the culture and people, I feel a sense of belonging. It’s peaceful and eye-opening. But more than that, it’s nice to just let go and have fun. And boy have I had fun teasing my cowboy about his rugged, booted presence in a sea of tomahawks and feathered headdresses.
It’s been the best day of my life, and I owe it all to him.
He planned this trip for me.
And maybe for the tacos.
He bites into the fried bread and chili with a groan. His strong jaw flexes as he chews, his tongue darting out to catch a drip of salsa.
That sexy mouth is a potent, erotic power tool. Whether he’s eating, barking orders, or kissing me senseless, I’m captivated and shivering in ways I’ve never felt before.
There are a lot of things I never experienced until Lorne, like dancing under the stars, holding hands in the grocery store, romance and feelings, tender and slow, whispering, cuddling, and other giddy nonsense.
I used to grimace at the notion of making love. But that was before I understood the profound bond and commitment it requires.
Anyone can fake sex.
No one can fake making love.
“You’re smiling, shivering, and stroking your throat.” He watches me from inches away, his green eyes dancing in the sunlight. “You better be thinking about me and not the half-naked men on the stage.”
I drop my hand and glance at the traditional dancers as they stomp and twirl to the intoxicating beat of drums.
“Always you.” I cherish every second I share with him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
He wipes his mouth on a napkin and sets his empty plate aside. Then he leans in and runs his nose along my neck. The masculine essence of him saturates my senses, and the intensity of his love fires my pulse.
“I love watching you smile,” he breathes at my ear. “The way your eyes glow as they take everything in. The way your entire body comes alive amid the colors and music. All of this…” He motions at the sights around us. “It helps me understand the magic that lives inside you.”
“You’re part of that magic.” I trace a finger along the sharp line of his jaw. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.” He laces his hand with mine and sits back to watch the dancers.
He still wears my necklace on his wrist, and I treasure the guitar strings on mine.
Maybe it’s morbid to wear a murder weapon on my body. But after he scrubbed the strings and wove them back into a bracelet, he slid it onto my wrist and said, “This symbolizes the strength in our survival.”
I love that.
We survived so much just in the past two months. There were doctor exams, police interrogations, and plenty of gossip surrounding the death of Sandbank’s sheriff. But the skeletons John and Fletcher kept in their closets burned to ash along with their bodies.
The night they died, I was detained for hours of questioning, along with the rest of the family. By morning, we walked away with our freedom.
“You want to stroll through that section?” Lorne points at a row of tents on the far side of the festival.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
We spend the rest of the day perusing Native American crafts. When nightfall casts the streets in shadows, he drives me to a one-room cabin he rented for the weekend.
Isolated in the woods, it overlooks a pond that twinkles in the starlight. He builds a fire in the outdoor pit, plays mellow country music on his phone, and sprawls in an oversized wicker armchair like a lazy lion.
I sit beside him, close enough to touch, and wait for him to make his move.
What will it be tonight? A little spanking? Some growly dirty talk? Bondage with rope? Wild and urgent? Slow and torturous? Anything is possible as long as he’s the one commanding and restraining.
For a moody, complicated man, his sexual proclivities are straightforward. He simply wants to be inside me, in any hole, any time, any place, and any way he can get me.
As I watch the flames dance in the fire pit, my skin heats. It’s less from the warmth of the fire and more from the predatory gaze caressing the side of my face.
His silent assertiveness thrums my nerve endings and melts my blood into lava.
“You’re staring.” I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes on the crackling flames.