Untamed Fire by Donna Fletcher

his back and slowly savored the
wine.
    The dream remained on the fringes of his
thoughts nagging to be accepted for what it represented, but he
fought against it. He forced his thoughts on his vineyards and the
yield they would produce in another year. He thought of his
orchards and the fresh fruit they provided year-round. He bravely
resisted the dream’s interference until he rested his head back and
closed his eyes and Gaby’s face filled his vision.
    The dream came again. He was in a small
cell. It was dark except for the flicker of light from a small,
melted-down candle sitting on a bench. Across from the bench sat
Gaby on a narrow bed. She was dressed as usual, a brown skirt and
white blouse, only her hair was different. It wasn’t braided. It
hung loose and free over her shoulders and along her breasts.
    He walked over to her. He wore only his
black pants. Neither of them wore shoes, and the thought made him
smile.
    He sank down beside her and pushed her silky
dark hair back over her shoulders. “You are my prisoner,” he
said.
    “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
    Before her second ‘yes’ escaped her lips,
his lips were on hers. His taste was hungry, almost savage, as
though he couldn’t get enough of her. She didn’t resist, she
encouraged. He slipped her blouse off her shoulders and bared her
large breasts. They were round and plump and his hands found them
pleasurable. His mouth soon followed, teasing the nipples with his
tongue, licking and suckling until Gaby’s moans grew in
intensity.
    “You’re my prisoner,” he said once
again.
    “Yes, yes,” she cried.
    His hands remained firm on her breasts while
his lips searched and found the throbbing pulse at her throat. He
ran his tongue along it, feeling her lifeblood flowing until he
came to rest on her lips.
    “Prisoner,” he whispered repeatedly.
“Prisoner.”
    She stopped him then, pulled up her blouse,
and stood. She walked away and the flickering candle’s light
followed her path to the door. She opened it, smiled at him and
walked out shutting it behind her.
    The click of the door told him she was gone,
but the whisper remained.
    “Prisoner.”
    His eyes flew open and he shivered, wiping
the sweat from his brow. It was obvious, so very obvious. She was
not his prisoner. He was hers.
    ~~~
    The dance was one week away and Gaby felt as
though her chores would never end. Every time she thought she had
caught up, she found she herself further behind. Of course, it was
all Rafael’s doing. Dona Maria had lightened her chores, but when
Rafael discovered this he added more to her workload. She refused
to give up. She had accepted Sanchez’s invitation with a smile,
which he had returned, promising her an evening of fun. She was
looking forward to it. She needed it. She needed to get away from
Rafael.
    She had picked fruit for Lupe knowing it was
Rafael’s order; she had polished all the silver knowing it was
Rafael’s order. She would never, never give in no matter how many
chores he dumped on her.
    She was braiding her hair for the day when
she noticed the bruise on her right arm. It was purple and red and
it hurt. Then she recalled the bruise on her leg and the one on her
thigh. She hadn’t thought anything of them at first. Her own
clumsiness she reasoned. But of late she wondered if the children
were playing pranks.
    The first incident was a few days ago. She
had come out of the hen house, her arms wrapped around the basket
of two dozen eggs. She hadn’t looked down, the path had always been
clear of any debris. That was why she was so shocked to find
herself tripping over the wood crate that had always sat beside the
cookhouse door filled with kindling. She came down hard against it
and a thin sliver of wood had ripped through her skirt piercing her
thigh.
    Lupe had tended the wound and threatened the
small boy whose job it was to keep it filled. He had insisted he
hadn’t moved it. He had placed it where it belonged. Lupe