Free Vision of Love by Xssa Annella Page B

small area around our teepees. Only with a hunter’s strong arms around me would I feel safe.
    I can’t see him. He is gone. Too fast for me. I stand on the trail, disappointed, with the sweet scent of pine everywhere, the wind in my hair. I am exposed, my dress slipping off my shoulder to hang across my nipples, scratchy and rough. There is a touch of winter in the air, the barest hint of frost. The days are no longer scorching.
    I could go hunting myself, but I have no weapons. The only things I can gather are berries—if I weave a basket—but I don’t want to. Or I could gather some more roots for tonight’s stew.
     It has taken me hours to follow him that far, and now half a morning has been wasted. With a sigh, I decide to walk back down the trail and to the lake. I see a deer bounce by and think, If only I had—
    Redbush.
    He jumps out of the ferns and lands on the trail, looking at me and laughing.
    “Why didn't you get the deer?” I ask.
    “Because it was such a gorgeous day, I wanted to just live it.”
    I have no idea what he means. I don’t care.
    His face is turned up to the sky, alight with joy. He’s in a good mood. Now’s my chance to ask.
    “Oh, Redbush,” I say, in what I hope is a coy manner. I untie my dress top. But now I have nothing to say, too shy and shocked by myself. Both breasts are free. I have taken care to wash them every morning, hoping he would see them.
    And now he has. He is frozen, a statue, staring. He licks his lips and I feel powerful.
    The smile on my face is wide enough I can feel it in my cheekbones. I tone it down a bit and let the dress slip a bit lower.
    So daring! My breath races. I feel as though I have sprinted all morning, shaky and trembling and excited and breathless.
    Casually, slowly, he leans over with his hand raised and pulls the dress down farther, daring me, seeing how far I’ll go. I don’t know either.
    I let it fall off completely. I don’t know what to do now.
    I wove a flower into my pubic hair this morning, laughing to myself, not really believing he would see it. But he has.
    The rose tickles, the thorns a pleasant graze on my skin.
    He plucks it free with a hand. Brings it to his nose.
    It has been against the sweat of my belly but he half closes his eyes as though it’s lovely. Fragrant.
    I step closer. I can see his breath is also fast, hard, like mine. I can see the pulse in his throat and know I have one pounding just as hard.
    His hands on my shoulders are steadying, yet at the same time make me feel as if I’m floating.
    Again he touches his lips to mine, so softly. I inhale and smell man, a faint hint of smoke from last night’s fire, dirt and so many things.
    I realise, suddenly, that my mouth has travelled to the side of his. He keeps going and nuzzles my ear.
    Oh, sweet sensations. Can it get any better than this? Oh, yes. It can.
    He trails his fingers down my stomach and I groan. He touches my pubic hair and I actually flinch. There is warmth and wetness.
    “Have you ever touched yourself down there?” he asks me, his voice husky.
    “Yes. But not like this.” I raise my arms up wide and wrap them around his neck in a hug.
    He crushes me to him, of course, my breasts flattening between us, but his hand—oh, that magnificent hand—is still between us. I move my hips back a bit, trying to give him room. He twists to the side and there is space for his hand, for him to caress in an oh, so good, heady sensation, to move deeper between my sweet thighs.
    His fingers part my lower folds and tentatively touch me, my most inner parts.
    I bite my lip and tremble. I want to savour every moment, but I also want him to move faster to the next glorious touch.
    He lowers me to the path, right there, where we nestle on the soft, mossy ground, and he removes a few rocks from under me as I lie there, enjoying his touch. The ground is blanketed by softness, old pine needles and moss and bits of ferns and stray grass.
    Then, he looks down,