Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

  He wanted to say her name. He wanted it so much.

  "Paul," she murmured. "Paul..."

  He felt dizzy with passion, with the tumult she created throughout his body. Even the air seemed affected by this hot need and electric delight flowing between them.

  She sighed deeply, then melted over him, bracing a hand on his hip as she took him into her mouth. So hot and wet. So deep. Over and over. Sucking so hard. He was shaking. So hard. He was going to explode. Hard. She was nursing, her cheeks drawing in, deep, so deep, while she suckled him like she was starving.

  And then she was pumping her hips, grinding against his hand, rubbing herself urgently against his fingers while she continued making love to him with her mouth. She was so slick and wet and swollen... Nursing without mercy.... Rocking frantically against the hand he was rubbing between her taut thighs... Suckling him, sucking so hard... That swollen bud sliding between his rubbing fingertips... Oh, God, so hard... She reached between her legs to move his hand, pressing his fingers harder against her, so hard... Her tongue working him against the hard roof of her mouth... Slick and frantic in his hand... The soft back of her throat... Soft and wet and throbbing for him... Pressure, suction, wet and tight... Bucking as he touched her, writhing so wildly... He couldn't stand it... Pushing his hand so hard against her welcoming flesh... He would explode... Did she really want him rubbing her that hard?... Explode in her mouth, pour down her throat... Rubbing her so hard now, squeezing, pinching... Pumping into her sweet, sucking, wet mouth... Pumping while he pressed and rubbed and pinched... Coming in her mouth... Yes...

  "Yes," he groaned.

  Oh, yes...

  Her groans were wordless, her mouth filled with him as he came, shuddering and melting. Consumed and broken. Her ruthless hand on his balls finished him, ensuring he was as empty and helpless as she could make him. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and he flushed and trembled all over, shaken, shattered, defeated.

  And then all that slick, dewy sweetness drenching his fingers, pouring into his palm as her high, fast cries filled the air. She tugged on his hand, pulling it forward so she could grind against the heel of his palm, her hips straining as her cries turned throaty and harsh.

  He wanted to make love to her, and it was too late now. For the moment. For now...

  Use me. Do whatever you want. Everything you want.

  She was rocking hard, pumping her hips with violence, her face still buried in his groin, hidden by her hair, as she moaned and gasped, using him exactly the way she wanted. He smiled and watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she came, her body convulsing as her cries reached a dark crescendo, then relaxing into boneless satisfaction as she sighed in ecstatic relief and rested her head wearily against his belly.

  He left his hand resting in the damp warmth between her thighs, which she squeezed together as if to keep him there. With his other hand, he stroked the tousled hair now flowing across his stomach.

  He wished he had seen her face.

  "How's your back?" she murmured sleepily.

  "Mm..." He didn't know. Right now, he didn't care.

  He was nearly asleep again when she asked, "Could you eat something?"

  "Shhh..." He stroked the head resting on his body, afraid she would move away from him.

  He felt her smile. "I could sleep a little," she admitted.

  Oh, yes, next time, he wanted to watch her face.

  He closed his eyes. As he drifted off, it started raining again.

  * * * * *

  They were shouting at him in a mixture of German and French... No English. Despite his fear, he was relieved. Did it mean they didn't know who he was?

  Would they find out?

  Dark... Dark... His cell was dark all of the time. No windows. Old stone walls that stank of fear. Even when they interrogated him, they made sure he saw no windows. No sense of day or night. Trying to confuse him about time, to make him think he'd been here longer than he had... He'd only faked the unconsciousness twice. The other times—three times? four?—they really had beaten him unconscious, he hadn't been faking. So now he was confused.

  Not that he always had to be unconscious for the interrogation to stop. Just incapable of speech.

  Yes, very confused. Five days? Six? Four?

  He didn't know.

  One thing he did know: He would die here.

  He didn't cling to hope. He knew better. Knew that anything they promised was a lie. Knew that they would certainly kill him once they had what they wanted.

  All he had to do was die without talking.

  The beatings were bad, but he could stand that. They did something with water and electricity, though... Terrifying. Like a bad horror movie, only the pain was real and truly excruciating. He tried to escape from his own body. From his own mind.

  Thank God they didn't seem to know about her. He'd been right to be so very careful about that. Because if they had her, yes, he knew he might talk. If they had her... No, he mustn't think about her. Not even a thought. He couldn't risk murmuring her name in his delirium. Couldn't let it slip out in his sleep or in his murky, pain-ridden blackouts... He drove her from his mind.

  Wouldn't think about any of the rest of it, either... Too many lives.. .Everything depending on his silence...

  He tried to escape from his own body. From his own mind.

  "Paul?"

  This time they didn't even ask him any questions. Maybe they decided he really was the nobody he pretended to be.

  "Darling?"

  Or maybe they were just bored...

  "Paul, shhh..."

  He heard moaning. Some panting. "No..."

  He didn't want to die. Wasn't as ready as he'd thought. No one ever was, of course.

  "It's all right, Paul. You're safe. Safe."

  He was thrashing, fighting back. Not ready to die.

  "Paul, don't! Stop!"

  Her voice.

  "It's me! Stop!" she cried.

  Head throbbing. Pounding. God, it hurt!

  The pain brought him to his senses.

  He opened his eyes. Only one really worked.

  Loft. Barn. Daylight. Woman.

  His blood was roaring in his ears. He was panting hard, damp with sweat. Fighting her as she tried to soothe him.

  He'd thrown off the blanket. He was still naked. She was fully dressed again.

  "What's..." He shuddered. "What's going on?"

  Her hands on his shoulders. His neck, his cheeks. Her palm on his forehead. "Nightmare," she said.

  "No," he said with certainty. "It happened. It's where I was. What they did to me."

  Her blue eyes flooded with tears.

  "Don't cry," he said wearily.

  She nodded and sniffed. "I think you have a fever."

  He stared blankly at her.

  "I expected it," she assured him. "It will pass. But you must rest."

  His breath started slowing down. "I have questions."

  "So do I," she said, surprising him. "But first, drink the broth I've brought, then rest some more."

  She started to rise from the bed of blanket and straw. He gripped her arm. "No."

  She sank back to her knees.

  Their gazes locked. She looked troubled, sympathetic, concerned. He was starting to feel angry with confusion and frustration.

  It didn't help his mood that his first question was incredibly awkward, given when what they'd done together on this rough bed at dawn. Still, he had no practical alternative other than a direct approach: "Who are you?"

  Her eyes flickered blankly. She clearly didn't understand what he was trying to say. "What?"

  He sighed and sat all the way up. Then he reached for the blanket he had kicked off, now pulling it across his lap. It was an absurd gesture, he supposed; she knew exactly what was there, after all. A vivid image of her sucking avidly on his cock clouded his mind. Her head moving up and down, her hair flowing around his belly and groin. Moaning with him in her mouth as she ground herself against h
is hand. Hot and swollen between her legs, so wet for him... Her mouth so good to him... Drinking him like nectar when he came. And coming the way she did, too, so totally uninhibited, eager, erotic... He felt his cheeks flush as he stared at her, recalling everything in vivid detail as he now tried to have this conversation with her.

  "Paul?" she prodded.

  "Um..."

  She seemed completely unself–conscious. She clearly didn't feel even a little awkward now, whereas he...

  He was going to get a hard-on if he kept thinking about it. Jesus, wasn't he supposed to be injured and weak?

  Snap out of it.

  Abruptly, he asked, "What's your name?"

  She frowned. "What do you mean?"

  He licked his dry lips.

  "I'll get you some water," she said instantly.

  "In a minute." He again stopped her from rising.

  She watched him. "Well?"

  "I don't remember anything," he said baldly. "Nothing before I woke up in that cart of yours."

  She waited patiently, still clearly not understanding the extent of what he meant.

  "Oh, I'm getting some bits and pieces," he admitted. "Nazis... Gestapo..." He looked to her for confirmation. "I was a prisoner?"

  She nodded.

  "How long?" he asked hopefully.

  "I'm not sure." The admission seemed to pain her. "You don't remember when they caught you?"

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you," he replied. "I don't remember anything. Not when they took me, or where, or why. I don't know who I am, or who you are, or what the hell is going on."

  Her eyes grew rounder with every word. Her jaw dropped. "What?"

  "Who are you?" he repeated.

  "Paul!"

  "No, I think that's me."

  "Of course, that's you!" she snapped. Then the full impact of his problem hit her. She gasped and looked horrified. "You don't know who I am?"

  He shook his head.

  "Paul..." She spread her hands helplessly. "How could you..." Her gaze looked distracted for a moment, and then she seized his chin and turned his head.

  "Ow," he said as it pounded in response to this sudden movement.

  "Head injury," she murmured. "And..." She looked consideringly at him. "Trauma. Beating. Interrogation. Torture..." She nodded slowly, her expression dark with realization. "You've lost your memory."

  "Most of it, anyhow."

  Her gaze flickered again. "Mais tu me comprends assez bien en français?"

  "Yes," he answered, "I understand you in French." He paused. "But English is my native language, isn't it?"

  She nodded. "You're an American."

  "But we're... in France?" he guessed.

  "Yes, of course. I mean..." Her expression was settling into appalled shock. "You do know there's a war on?"

  "War." He nodded. He was pretty sure he knew that. "Germans, bad guys. France, occupied. England and America, allies." There was a lot more to it, undoubtedly, but that could wait. He briefly wondered why he wasn't in uniform, then realized the obvious answer. "Am I a spy?"

  "Office of Strategic Services," she supplied.

  "OSS..." Did that sound right? He wasn't sure. But something else came to him. "I pretend to be French, don't I?"

  "Yes."

  "Who knows the truth?"

  "Me. A small handful of people in the Resistance." She was still staring at him with that blankly stunned expression. "I don't know the exact number, because you're very secretive about your work."

  "But the Germans think I'm French?"

  "I don't know what they think now." The strain was starting to show in her face, her voice. "Until you were captured—"

  "How long ago?"

  She shrugged. "Less than ten days ago. That was the last time I saw you. Anyhow, until then, the Germans thought—at least, they certainly seemed to think—you were a wine merchant who lost everything when the war started. You pretend to be a bad businessman who keeps trying, without much success, to get your trade going again."

  "And do you know why I'm really here?"

  "Of course, I know."

  "Because you're in the Resistance?" he guessed, recalling what she had said earlier.

  "Well, yes. But also becau—"

  "Why am I here?"

  "To help prepare for the invasion."

  "The Allied invasion..." he said slowly. "They need... intelligence gathering. From within France." He nodded. It made sense to him. "German strength. Artillery. Troops. Preparations to repel the invasion. Defenses along the sea. Mine fields inland."

  She nodded. "And coordination of the Underground."

  "To support the Allies."

  "Yes." She nodded encouragingly. "You're remembering?"

  "Not exactly." He didn't know. "Maybe." He sighed. "I'm not sure." Was it memory, or just reasoning?

  He raised a hand to his throbbing head... and felt the lump there. "Head injury," he said, finally understanding.

  "Yes."

  "Amnesia." Wonderful. He hadn't just lost his memory—he had lost it while serving as a wartime spy in a foreign country occupied by the enemy. "What could be better?" he muttered.

  "There must be pressure on your brain. Surely when the swelling goes down..." she suggested.

  "Do you know anything about head injuries?" he asked hopefully.

  She bit her lip. "No."

  "I wonder if I do."

  "I doubt it." When he looked questioningly at her, she explained, "You really are a wine merchant."

  "Oh. Did I really lose everything when the war started?"

  She smiled weakly. "No. I gather business was hurt, of course, but you weren't ruined. Anyhow, you were recruited by the OSS and sent back to France when the Americans got into the war. Because you know the country and the language so well."

  "I spent a lot of time here before the war," he guessed.

  "Not in Normandy—"

  "That's where we are?"

  She looked surprised yet again. "Yes. We're just outside of Caen."

  "When did I come to Normandy?"

  "About eighteen months ago. You came here under orders. Claude Didier helped you establish your cover. He was the local Resistance leader."

  "Was?" he repeated.

  "He's dead," she said quietly. "The Nazis killed him last November. When he was arrested, we hoped it was just another round-up." She shook her head. "They killed him."

  "But he didn't talk," he guessed. "Or you and I wouldn't still be alive."

  She nodded. "He didn't talk." She sounded troubled, and her gaze was dark and worried as she studied him.

  "Has someone talked now?" he asked. "Is that how I got caught?"

  She looked away. "I don't know."

  It seemed like something was wrong. However, rather than worrying about her problems right now, he concentrated on solving his. "Well, since neither of us knows much about head injuries, is there a doctor we can trust?"

  "No!" Even she looked surprised at how vehement she sounded.

  "Not even one doctor who wouldn't turn me in?"

  "Not one we can trust," she insisted.

  "But—"

  "You'll start remembering," she said urgently. "The swelling will go down, and you'll start remembering. I know you will."

  Something was definitely wrong.

  He tried a different approach. "Do you have any idea where I was or what I was doing when they caught me?"

  She looked upset. "No."

  "Do you know who might know?"

  "No one would know." She was calmer now and seemed very sure of her words. "You were off on a mission. I think you were meeting someone who had information about the invasion. But, as I said, you're very secretive."

  Information about the invasion? "Well." He felt like she had just hit him with a baseball bat. "I guess that explains why the Germans wanted me."

  Her face clouded.

  He supposed he had important things to do now—but without his memory, he had no idea wha
t. He looked at the lovely woman who had hidden him here, tended his wounds, and made love to him with erotic abandon, and he realized he still didn't even know..."What's your name?"

  She looked appalled all over again. "You really don't know?"

  "As I've just been saying, I—"

  She gasped. "You have no idea who I am!"

  "No. I'm sorry." He shrugged. "I—"

  "You—" She looked him up and down. "You—" She looked down at his blanket-covered lap, and he suddenly knew exactly what she was thinking.

  "Mademoiselle, I—"

  The attempt at courtesy enraged her. "It's Gabrielle, you bastard!"

  "Gabrielle. That's a very pr—"

  She jumped to her feet. "If I hadn't just done everything I could to save your miserable life, I would kill you!"

  Even though he thought she had a point, he nonetheless said, "All right, let's try to stay calm. This is a strange sit—"

  "Calm! Calm?" Flushed with wrath now, she pointed to the rough straw bedding upon which he still sat and shouted, "You let me do that without even knowing who I am? Who you are? What my name is?" She kicked straw at him. "Cochon!"

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You were just so... Um..."

  "What?" she snarled.

  "Gabrielle, please." He put a hand up to his throbbing head.

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Yes."

  "Good!"

  He sighed. "Look, I thought I was going to die. I remember that much. And you made me feel... alive."

  For a few moments, he heard only the sound of her breathing. Then she said, her voice harsh and strangled, "I thought you were going to die, too."

  Her temper faded as quickly as it had flared. She sank to her knees again. Now he saw tears start to stream down her cheeks. "I thought I'd never see you again. Never feel your touch or hear your voice. I thought you would die and leave me forever."

  They were lovers? He should have guessed, he realized. His body had not forgotten her, even if his mind had.

  "But," she continued, broken-hearted, "I never thought you would forget me. I didn't think that was possible." She cried harder.

  "Gabrielle..."

  Her eyes, framed by lashes made spiky with her tears, met his. "I'm your wife."