The journeys of the Threads West characters evolve on many levels. The physical – Westward; the spiritual — hearing the land, feeling its energy; the American — beginning to understand, assimilate and be assimilated by that unique spirit which is ours alone as country and a nation, and romantic — the reality of personal interaction and realization being inescapable in the context of a small band of people surrounded by inhospitable and dangerous wilderness.
Prophecy
From a Chapter of Maps of Fate—Book Two of Threads West, An American Saga
She felt the fire in the smooth caress of his fingertips as they traced across her breast, lingered on her erect and pulsing nipple, then continued down her hips and came to rest lightly, longingly, on the concave valley of smooth belly between her hips. The smell of him, and of them, mingled with the fragrance of sun-baked sage.
Her heart pounded, a strange tingling heat permeated her loins, and she could feel the blush in her face. This was a feeling she’d never known, could never imagine, could barely absorb on so many levels. She swept a soft palm over the cords of muscle in his arm. She was consumed by a desperate wanting, a deep primal need that overrode her butterfly fear of the unknown. She gasped, her hips writhing involuntarily as he lowered himself gently onto her. A momentary stab of pain was followed by overwhelming pleasure cum laude which enveloped her being as he slowly, carefully, began to sink into her.
She groaned, a muffled cry equally grounded in passion, trepidation, and longing. He stopped, tenderly brushed a calloused thumb slowly across her forehead and down her cheek and looked deep into her eyes, “Am I hurting you?”
She felt tears well in the corners of her eyes, bit her lip and shook her head, her full answer to him in the ever-tighter wrap of her arms around his shoulders, the increasing bend of her knees, and the firm plant of her heels against the muscular flesh of his buttocks, drawing him in.
“Don’t stop,” she moaned, “Oh God, please don’t stop.”