At Her Service

by Susan Johnson

  “Why would I want to,” he said, his answer unthinkable until today.

  “Would you have come to see me if I hadn’t met you at the races?” A blunt question, bluntly put. She reached for the tie on her drawers.

  He was stripping off his tunic and paused. “I was trying not to,” he finally said. “This is not the time to think about caring for someone—with a war raging. That was my thought”—another shrug—“but as you see I changed my mind.”

  The word caring strummed through her senses in a heavenly chorus, only adding to her joy. “For my part,” she said, a note of seriousness unmistakable in her voice, “I would rather have these few hours today than nothing at all. With war and death all around, I am deeply conscious of how fleeting is life, how pleasure and the very air we breathe can vanish. I want to take with both hands while I can,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, although he had gamely fought the impulse.

  “Life is uncertain, Gazi,” she softly noted, aware of the minute reluctance in his voice.

  “I know.”

  “You needn’t fear I’ll make demands.” Nor could she if she wished with her diverse duties and responsibilities. “This is a brief holiday, no more.”

  He took issue with her casualness even as he understood that the perimeters of his life didn’t allow him more than these few short hours. “Carpe diem it is,” he agreed with an obligatory practicality. Sliding off his riding pants, he stepped out of them and dropped a light kiss on her cheek. “I’m really pleased we found each other today—even more pleased to be here with you,” he murmured. Then reverting to a more comfortable stance that ignored intense emotion, he said in an altogether different tone, a teasing, playful one, “Now, do you need some help?”

  “Yes, indeed”—her smile was coquettish—“you are exactly the kind of help I need. He,” she added, glancing downward at his erection standing hard against his stomach, “in particular. I am quite enamored of your talented cock.”

  He grinned. “My cock thanks you. We thank you.” He dipped his head. “You’ve made a mess of that knot. Let me undo it.”

  The silk tie on her drawers was hopelessly tangled. “Such fumbling,” she murmured with a little moue. “Zania would never be so gauche.”

  Zania didn’t wear drawers, but he decided against saying so. “But then making love is less about dexterity and more about feeling,” he softly replied, his slender fingers unloosening the tangled cord with delicacy and competence while she held her skirts out of the way. “And you inspire rather strong emotions in me. So don’t worry about any gaucherie. There,” he murmured, pulling the knot free, watching the swift descent of her white silk drawers with a smile of appreciation. “Now, lift your arms,” he said, shifting his attention to removing her dress, “and soon I will have you naked in my bed. A constant dream of mine of late,” he added with a small smile.

  She raised her arms, and he lifted her muslin gown over her head, dropped it on the floor and removed her chemise with the same swift dispatch.

  “There—just as I remembered,” he said, husky and low, gazing at her intently. So she had looked in his dreams—shapely and nude, ripe with desire, a small impatience in her eyes. He traced the curve of her upper lip with a brushing fingertip, an intemperate territorial gesture. “You don’t know how many times I thought of you like this.” When he shouldn’t have. When he should have been concentrating on staying alive.

  She would have gone to him at the races today, she knew, whether he had come to her or not. She should thank Helena for saving her from the embarrassment of seeking him out. “It’s the war,” she whispered, perhaps needing an explanation for her own intemperance as well. “We are more alive to pleasure with life so uncertain.” Guarding against emotional involvement—highly impractical with a man like Gazi—she said, playfully, “For instance”—glancing down, she lightly touched the swollen crest of his erection—“he and I are equally impatient.” She looked up and smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

  He laughed, sensibly reminded of why they were both here. “So I have my marching orders.”

  “Nothing you can’t handle, I’m sure.” She must not consider this rendezvous as anything more than it was—delectable sport.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, suave and polished. “Now, if I lose control at any time”—picking her up, he lifted her up onto the bed—“hit me hard and there’s a chance I might notice. I haven’t had time for sex since last I saw you.” His brows flickered sportively. “There’s little opportunity in the trenches.”

  It shouldn’t matter that he hadn’t had sex. It shouldn’t matter in the least when they barely knew each other, when one night in Sevastopol was the extent of their familiarity. “Don’t worry, I’ll find some way to get your attention.” Her tone was as flippant as his. “By the way,” she added, lying back on the pillows, “my opportunities for sex have been equally limited with nursing duties consuming my time.” Was she some infatuated young miss that she felt the need to offer him her celibacy? There was no earthly reason why she should. “Not that it matters in the least,” she casually noted.

  “It matters to me, darling. I like that you’re impatient for this,” he said, his gaze flicking to his erection as he joined her in bed.

  Such a splendid sight. A little shiver raced up her spine.

  He noticed and more gratified than he would have thought, he rested on one elbow beside her and spread her legs with a delicacy that was both mannered and prurient. He tried not to dwell on her recent celibacy; it made no difference, he told himself, whether she had been chaste or not. But his cock was less circumspect in separating sex and emotion, and in anticipation of a beautiful, eager woman his erection swelled to new heights.

  “Really, Gazi,” Aurore whispered, her gaze on his turgid penis, her voice pleading. “You can’t expect me to look at that and actually wait.”

  For a brute moment, he considered exerting his authority. She was so temptingly vulnerable it brought out the rare impulse in him. Quickly overcome. “We’ve both waited too long,” he murmured, moving over her with a lithe grace and settling between her legs. “So the first time will tamp the fire,” he whispered, guiding his rigid erection to her sleek cleft, pleasure washing over him as he began to slide inside her slippery warmth. “And after that we’ll play.”

  The phrase die of pleasure suddenly took on a tangible presence in Aurore’s mind and body, in every ripe, quivering nerve and cell and hidden recess. He filled her slowly, slowly, so she could feel the exquisite pressure, so anticipation shimmered through her senses, so she waited breath-held for that raw intense moment when he was fully, completely submerged.

  There. Now for the precise degree of ravishment.

  It was up to her to decide.

  He waited.

  She whispered, “More, more, more.”

  And he complied, driving in that small combustible distance to the ravenous center of desire where intellect gave way to something inexpressible. For an explosive, tenuous time, they were heedless to all but raw sensation.

  Reason ultimately prevailed, or Darley’s professionalism in amour came to the fore, and sensibly curtailing his forward momentum, he allowed them an opportunity to breathe. Drawing in deep shuddering breaths as though they’d broken the surface of a lake from thirty feet down, they basked in a gluttonous, unspeakable, rarely granted pleasure that rippled up his penis and down her vagina in spendthrift profusion.

  How could she live without this, she thought, dazed.

  Was it possible to forget the war and stay in this bed forever, he wondered, not dazed so much as champing at the bit for more.

  “Don’t leave me,” she breathed.

  “No, never.” And he kissed her hard, hard in an ungentle kiss that marked her as his.

  Nothing mattered to the reunited couple that fine spring afternoon in Simferopol but the blinding need for sensation and orgasmic release, and the sweet anaesthesia of tangled limbs and hot-b
looded passion. She came, then he, then she and she and he once again in an endless insatiable sybaritic give-and-take that ultimately made them uncomfortably aware of a new pitch and range of personal compulsion.

  Each in turn attempted to rationalize the inexplicable hysteria, the wildness and violence of their feelings. The war, the war—it had to be the war. Why else were they so unstrung, so fevered, so frantic for more and more and more? Why else was the pleasure so extraordinary, each climax bewitchingly excessive, the merest touch heart-stirring and vivid?

  But almost instantly, a new wave of ravenous lust swamped puny, intellectual conundrums, and hot-headed and impatient, they yielded to the rough and tumble ferocity of their vaulting desires.

  “I need a drink,” Darley finally said, an hour later, two hours later—who knew. His nerves were strumming at lightning speed, his heart was pounding, his judgment had run amuck. He’d almost hurt Aurore a second ago with the brute force of his downstroke. Rolling off her, he left the bed without waiting for an answer.

  What he needed more than a drink was a few minutes to talk himself into a slightly more rational frame of mind.

  He wasn’t alone. Aurore lay panting, eyes shut, on the bed, her arms at her sides, her hands closed into tight fists, trying to compose herself. She’d turned into some wild, frenzied wanton so outrageously demanding the poor man had to flee. And yet, she wanted him still. Probably even more than Zania, who everyone knew was insatiable.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Turning her head, she opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said, thinking he was the most gracious man she’d ever known. “And I apologize for”—she sighed—“for being so completely obsessed. I have no explanation.” She grimaced faintly. “And it’s not as though I’m sated.”

  He turned and smiled. “Nor me.” He nodded at the clock. “There’s time yet—we’ll try.”

  “I think you must have drugged me. Why else am I still ravenous after how many orgasms?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I lost count a long time ago.” He turned with two glasses in his hands and walked toward her. The animal inside had been tamed; he could look at her now without wanting to ravage her. Moderation in all things. Remember that.

  “You’re too beautiful, that’s all,” Aurore said, struggling to achieve her own measure of sanity. “I am dazzled by your magnificence.” He was male perfection, flawless and superb. Classic features such as his had been portrayed by every artist of note through the centuries, his powerful form the standard for perfection—broad shoulders, lean torso rippling with muscle, long legs toned and strong. And yet over and above the paragon of manhood, it was the sensual fire within him that lured and enticed.

  “Or,” he said, waiting for her to sit up, “you’ve been celibate too long,” he replied, indifferent to his looks. Handing over her drink, he sat beside her on the bed and raised his glass. “To pleasure. It has taken on new meaning today.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Although she was struggling mightily to control her muddled, adoring sensibilities.

  “Tell me how Etienne is doing,” Darley said, gratified to feel his pulse rate diminishing. He preferred his sex without undue emotion. A drink, a moment or two to relax, a little conversation—everything would return to normal, he decided.

  “As you saw, he’s in fine shape and quite content to return to his former activities. I don’t see much of him between his friends and his paramours. And you? How are Cafer and Sahin?” Was she not capable of nonchalance, too?

  “Good. Excellent. They’re with friends tonight.” And then Darley couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Unless it had to do with sex and Aurore or her and sex or any combination thereof. As he searched his brain for a more appropriate topic—to no avail—the silence lengthened. He lifted his glass to his mouth, drained the remainder of his drink and set aside the glass. “What the hell,” he muttered, glancing at Aurore. “It’s not as though we have unlimited time.”

  “Or that there’s some reason we have to talk.”

  He laughed. “I can’t think of one.” He nodded at her drink. “Finished?”

  She quickly drank her brandy. “I am now,” she said, and handed him her glass.

  Setting the glass on the bedside table, he turned back to her. “I just want you to know, out-of-control sex is not the norm for me.” What he meant was that it wasn’t the norm with a woman he actually cared for.

  “I understand. I am not usually such an insatiable wanton—let me correct that…a wanton of any kind. I am astonished at my appetite for sex with you.”

  “Are we done justifying this”—he grinned—“aberrant behavior?”

  “Done,” she said.

  And in the remaining hours before dinner they capriciously and willfully ate at the smorgasbord of sensation. He would say, “Do this now,” and she would. And she would say, “You have to give me this,” and he would. Ultimately, they found themselves on the floor, although gentleman that he was he lay on the bottom. The carpet, while silk, could still scratch the skin. Aurore, seated astride him as the clock struck half past eight, said with a little pout, “We have to stop now, don’t we?”

  “We probably should. Helena’s dinner starts at ten and we might want to consider a bath.”

  “I don’t have to go,” Aurore murmured, bouncing lightly on his rigid erection. “Really I can see her anytime.”

  He gently stroked her nipples, the delicacy of his touch testament to a certain virtuosity. “Perhaps we should, darling,” he mildly noted, “although it’s up to you, of course.”

  “Ummm…let me think about it.” She raised herself up his indefatigable penis and, hovering on the crest, smiled at him. “Maybe after another orgasm…”

  Chapter 16

  Darley and Aurore purposely avoided the before-dinner assembly in the drawing room. Neither cared to exchange tepid small talk with Helena’s guests. But provincial society being what it was—gossip the only excitement in an otherwise dull company—they were not able to avoid the numerous raised brows as they entered the dining room…slightly late.

  “Forgive our tardiness,” Darley mendaciously offered. “Since Miss Clement and her brother are staying at my house, we drove over together,” he went on, feeling the many rapt and inquisitive expressions required some explanation.

  “I see,” Countess Adlberg said, her tone gelid, her narrowed gaze on Aurore hard and assessing. The little baggage knew him better than she’d let on this afternoon. “Come sit by me, Gazi. Aurore, do keep the governor company,” she added with a sly smile, exiling her competition to the far end of the table beside her boring husband. With a negligent wave, the countess called servants forward to arrange two more places at the table.

  The dinner party was a large affair: retired military men like the governor; their plump wives with hair in tight sausage curls; the occasional businessman whose bribes for government contracts nicely supplemented Count Adlberg’s government salary; country gentlemen and their wives with suitably large estates or titles; several young officers on leave or unassigned for the moment; an equal number of young ladies whom Helena had carefully screened to not outshine her daughter. It was the usual blend of what passed for society a thousand miles from St. Petersburg.

  Seated at opposite ends of the long table, under Helena’s ever-watchful eye, Aurore and Darley could only exchange surreptitious glances from time to time.

  Helena was obviously jealous. Not that she blamed her, Aurore thought. On the other hand, the governor’s wife was far from her first bloom or even her second. Which only confirmed how age was irrelevant to infatuation. In fact, the older the less irrelevant was often the rule—elderly men in the company of their nieces, May/December liaisons between older women and handsome young men. Helena’s pleasant flight of fancy, no doubt.

  Although, as it turned out, Helena was not alone in her infatuation. Gazi, apparently, was universally adored by all the female guests tonight—young, old and in-between.<
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  Bombarded with flirtatious remarks and invitations, he responded to his admirers with unfailing graciousness, acknowledging their blandishments with that perfect balance of warmth and civility. And while the ladies did their very best to be noticed, Gazi was not without his male admirers as well. Those were more restrained in their flattery, but it was clear as male eyes followed him that many a young buck aspired to Gazi’s cool competence and charismatic charm.

  In the midst of all the flattering cajolery and dinner conversation that inevitably centered on the war, Gazi marked out Aurore for the odd stolen glance on occasion.

  She found herself unaccountably touched. She was not so naive as to be unrealistically sentimental over a few sweet glances. But clearly, she was no more immune to his captivating appeal—sexual and otherwise—than the other ladies.

  That she had recently enjoyed his undivided attention, however, did give rise to a sense of smug satisfaction.

  As if she had won the prize and these women had not.

  Or at least not yet.

  A likelihood she would do well to keep in mind. Gazi’s interest in her was no more than what he might feel for any other woman. Although her interest in him was equally conventional—was it not? Outside the force majeure of her physical desires, of course.

  Which must be contained. Particularly under Helena’s watchful gaze. Reminded of the social necessities required of a guest, she set about responding to her own many admirers at table tonight. To that purpose, she particularly recognized the governor, two elderly generals and a newly arrived guardsman from St. Petersburg in her immediate vicinity, all of whom were doing their best to attract her attention.

  Looking up from her veal cutlet, she smiled and with practiced grace offered them her undivided attention. An easy-enough task—Count Adlberg was a bureaucrat who liked nothing better than the sound of his own voice. The two retired generals were content to drink their dinner and send clumsy compliments her way. As for the young guardsman with slick-backed hair and immaculate dress uniform, his favorite topic was himself—his idea of flirtation apparently an immediate disclosure of his title and financial assets.