Where The Rain Is Made - Keta Diablo
A paranormal (time-travel/shapeshifter) Native American novel.
Cesca had never seen him so calm. Vapors rose from the water like a fine mist, sheathing his shoulders and head. Meko moved not an inch, and for a moment, she wondered if he was breathing. He came toward her, the ripples circling, beckoning her. “It will never be over between us,” he whispered.
His words threw her mind into total disorder. She stiffened and thrust an arm out, hoping the action would be enough to hold him back. Yet still he advanced. He encircled her outstretched wrist with a gentle hand and pulled her to him. His warm breath fanned her wet skin. Drawing her head back, he bared her throat and delivered a series of lingering kisses to the throbbing pulse in her throat. His lips traveled along the damp flesh of her shoulder before he claimed her mouth.
A hot flame clawed through her belly when he slipped one hand beneath the water, pressed it against the small of her back and pulled her closer . . . closer until she felt the full length of his hard body against hers.
All desire to claw his face vanished. Any shred of resistance she intended to use disappeared as quickly as the space between them.
His tongue probed the inside of her mouth. She clung to him with her legs wrapped around his hips. When he pulled back, her breaths came in short bursts. She heard a moan and prayed it wasn’t hers. Lucifer, she was such a fool for the man!
Meko cradled her in his arms and pushed through the water back to shore and laid her in the tall grass. A Cheyenne curse fell from his lips as he looked down at her. Events happened so fast, she couldn’t think. The soft beating of the drums, distant laughter, and the soothing sound of water trickling over rocks came to her through a fog.
And then she surrendered.
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