Wet Indian Girl

“I stumbled coming out of the bathroom. I think I hit my head on the door frame.” He pointed at the door I had just come through.By instinct, I moved to him as if he were a little kid and had just fallen off his bike and needed a bandage.“Where does it hurt?”“Here.” He ran his finger through his hair, just above the ear. I reached out. He tilted his head away and guided my fingers to a raised spot above his ear.I was surprised at how his touches made me feel. His fingers were warm and gentle, moving my fingers through his hair. It took me a second to snap out of it.“You want me to get you some ice?” I asked.“Naaah,” he exhaled.“Could you have a concussion?” I asked.He just looked up at me, standing over him. The light from the hallway was silhouetting my form. His eyes seemed to trace the entire glowing outline of my body.“Maybe I died, because all I see is my Angel.”His hand slid up to my wrist and he tugged me to the bed next to him. I wiggled in objection, but he eased me back on. She was no fool! Martha knew what could happen to a teen aged girl who walked alone outside the protective ring of wagons. This was how Martha Goodall met Eddy Johnson."Who is that handsome man sitting back, leaning against the wagon wheel?" He was obviously tall and his long blond hair almost sparkled in the moonlight. His face had a classic look to be found on statues of heroes and his broad shoulders spoke of a physical strength able to conquer all he faced. He was undoubtedly the most handsome man she had ever seen!"Why is that beautiful girl staring at me?" This girl, no, young woman, was certainly a joy to look at. Her dark hair shown in the moonlight as if it were made of black diamonds, and her face was clear and free of pockmarks. Her lips were full, but not pouty, and her chin spoke of gentle determination. Her breasts under her high-necked dress were obvious in their generous size, but not out of proportion to the rest of her body.Martha felt compelled to stop and speak to.
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