In the softness of her bed, Night Shadow Star stared up into the darkness. If she had asked the soul flier, Rides-the-Lightning, about the dream she’d just had, he would have told her that it was a longing of the souls, and that if left unfulfilled, it would lead to soul sickness and illness. The old shaman would have told her to fulfill the need, or run the risk of any number of maladies.
What is wrong with me?
The dream had been so real, so perfect. He’d come to her, a smile on his face, warmth in his eyes. Laughing, he’d taken her by the hand, and told her it would be all right as he pulled her into his strong arms.
She’d melted against him, desperate for his strength, frantic for the feel of his body. The first slight tingle had grown to fill her pelvis, her breasts sensitive as they pressed against his chest. His lips had moved on the curve of her neck, nibbling, tickling, sending a thrill through her.
She had tightened her grip on him as though to crush him to her, only to feel herself shift as she was laid on a soft hide. The muscles beneath his warm skin knotted as he lowered himself to cover her. She’d reached down, guiding him into her warmth. No sooner had he filled her than her loins exploded in pulsating ecstasy.
The dream was an old companion that had slipped into her souls after Makes Three left for the north. It had intensified after news of his death.
Now she reached down, pressing gently on her tender ovaries.
Soul sickness. Longing.
In the past, it had always been her husband who had lifted his head to look at her as she gasped with pleasure.
This dream was different, unsettling.
She blinked, wishing there were some way she could forget that the man who’d raised himself to look into her eyes was Fire Cat.