Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

  Oh, we're in the loft.

  He grunted and pulled her closer, tossing and twisting a little. No wonder he was so uncomfortable; they were sleeping on rough blankets over straw, instead of in their bed. They must have come here last night after... What had they been doing last night? Examining coastal defenses? Planting explosives along railway lines? Sabotaging munitions dumps?

  And to think Mom wanted me to become a doctor. Imagine all the fun I'd have missed.

  Gabrielle sighed in her sleep and adjusted to his shifting and fussing. Her breath was soft and warm on his neck. Her breasts pressed lusciously against his ribcage, and one silken thigh rested across both of his. He could feel some sort of soft material around her hips, like she'd worn a half-slip to bed. He tried to remember last night, starting to feel confused, as he fumbled to pull the blanket more snugly over their bodies. He was naked, he now realized, and chilly.

  "Close the window," she murmured.

  "I can't. It doesn't close," he reminded her.

  She didn't respond, evidently already back asleep.

  His body felt achy and sore. It didn't help that the bed of straw was lumpy. He felt as if he were sleeping on a bad-tempered camel. A few particularly hardy stalks were poking him sharply. He didn't move, though, not wanting to wake her again. Her steady breathing, and the soft warmth of her cradled in his arms and pressed against his body. They spent too many nights apart, and both woke up alone too many mornings. He just wanted to hold her for a while.

  He inhaled the damp, barn-scented air... then smiled wryly when he felt his cock stirring. The first night they'd ever spent together as lovers had been right here, a frenzied marathon of sating hungers too long denied. They had come back here a number of times since then; and for the rest of his life, he was sure, the smell of straw in a dusty old barn would always give him a hard-on. He inhaled again, feeling warmth creep through his cold limbs as erotic images of his wife, making love with wild abandon in this very spot, flooded his mind.

  They'd both been clumsy and frantic the first time together, but not at all shy. They were too eager and aroused for reserve—or rational thought, or conversation, or even coherent one-syllable words. He remembered buttons flying everywhere while he tore at her blouse, struggling to undress her while she was frantically trying to undress him. They were lucky they hadn't broken their necks climbing the ladder up here, since his trousers were down around his knees by then and he was reaching up to tug off her skirt as she ascended the rungs above him.

  They didn't pause to make a bed of blankets up here that time. He kicked off his trousers, backed her into a pile of straw, fell down on top of her, and was inside her within seconds. He'd be ashamed of that gauche performance, except that she came within moments and he—with a superhuman effort that amazed him even now—held back long enough for her to come again.

  Oh, yeah, he thought, inhaling the familiar scents again and feeling heat pool in his loins. Every damn time. It was a good thing he didn't have a farm to go home to when the war was over; how embarrassing that would get before long!

  His erection poked eagerly at the blanket covering the two of them. The rough, impersonal texture was not what he wanted, so he fumbled for his wife's hand, which rested on his collarbone, and dragged it down to his groin.

  Maybe I'll wake her, after all.

  The shyness had come afterwards, of course, while they lay panting in post-orgasmic exhaustion, their arms and legs all tangled together as they stared at each other in amazement. They were happy and excited, but also stunned—and a little unsure of how to proceed. The newness of each other, of this hot intimacy between them, of giving into their feelings and also stirring up brand new feelings together...

  We figured it out pretty quickly, though.

  He rubbed his cheek against her hair and smiled when he felt her hand close gently over his erection. She stirred in her sleep. A little moan in her throat, a flexing in the fingers which cradled him.

  They had talked, and looked, and touched, and then made love again, much more slowly and deliberately the second time. The third time, the fourth time... He didn't really know how many times. Enough, anyhow, to make the climb back down the ladder, the next day, a precarious enterprise on wobbly legs. Heads light, stomachs empty, hearts full—and loins rather sore.

  They had belonged to each other ever since. He'd known without question or pause that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He only hesitated for a while about marrying her because of the danger it might expose her to while she remained in occupied France.

  And their wedding night... They had no honeymoon, since the marriage was secret. Of course, they'd planned to spend the night together... but then he had to leave right after nightfall because of an emergency.

  War really is hell.

  Now he groaned as he felt Gabrielle start toying with him.

  "You awake?" he whispered.

  She said nothing, but he felt her smile against his skin as she skillfully used her knowledge of what he liked.

  It was here, that first night together, that they had started learning each other's bodies so well and with such frank, unabashed intimacy. Making requests and asking questions as they lay entwined, his body throbbing inside of hers: Do you like that? Is this too rough? Harder? Deeper? With your mouth, maybe? What about this? On my back? On your stomach? Slower...

  "Slower," he whispered.

  "I'm cold," she muttered.

  "And you think doing that fast will make you warmer?" he asked skeptically.

  She paused. "It's making you warmer."

  "Ah. Huddle," he advised her.

  She shivered and rolled over so that her back was to him, then scooted snugly against him again. He rolled on his side and spooned his body around hers, warming her chilly back with his chest and stomach.

  "That's better," she sighed as his arms came around her.

  She lifted one leg so that he could slide his cock between her thighs, then she closed them tightly, making him a captive in that delicious prison. He buried his face in her hair and hugged her as she slid her bare feet between both of his for warmth.

  "Perfect," he murmured. "Let's just stay like this until the war is over."

  "I wish we could."

  The frail wistfulness in her voice surprised him. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at her in the dim light of the stormy dawn... and that's when it all came flooding back. His whole body went rigid with tension and frustration.

  "Damn it."

  She turned her head. "Paul?"

  "Argh." He let his head fall back down to the blanket and buried his face in her hair again. "Damn, damn, damn..."

  "What?"

  He held her still as she struggled to turn to him. "No, don't." Having her wrapped in his arms like this, her smooth thighs cradling his swollen penis, was the only thing that made the crashing disappointment of the moment bearable.

  "What is it?" she demanded.

  "For a moment there... I forgot that I can't remember. That's all. Everything felt so normal for a few minutes."

  "Oh, mon amour." She pressed her back against him for comfort, and raised one of his hands to her lips for a soft kiss. "But that's good, non?"

  "No, it's not good," he said irritably.

  "But, Paul—"

  "What's good about it?"

  "It means your memory is really coming back, a little at a time."

  "Don't try to make me see reason," he snapped. "I don't want to be reasonable."

  "Yes, I can tell."

  "I want to indulge in my self-pity."

  "You're doing well, then."

  "I'm in a bad mood," he announced gruffly.

  "It's thoughtful of you to warn me." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I might not have guessed, otherwise."

  A loud burst of thunder made him tighten his arms reflexively around her. She grunted.

  "Mon Dieu, will this weather never pass?" Gabrielle muttered.

 
Paul felt his sense of proportion returning. "Maybe we should start building an ark."

  "I have no intention of rounding up two of every kind of animal."

  "Hmm. And the Nazis would probably require a million permits."

  "The war would be over by the time we filled out all the paperwork."

  End of the war...

  The liberation of Europe.

  What do I know? What have I told?

  He felt a sense of growing urgency, but he didn't know why. He could almost think of it. Almost...

  He sighed, frustrated and disappointed.

  She was right. He recalled things more easily when he was relaxed. Trying too hard didn't seem to do any good.

  He nudged his chin past her shoulder so he could rest his cheek against hers. "I have remembered something important though."

  She practically flinched. "What?"

  "I've remembered how much I love you," he whispered.

  She drew in a sharp, startled breath. "Yes?"

  He heard the catch in her voice and realized how much strength this ordeal had required of her. "Beyond reason," he murmured. "It's stronger than I am."

  "You really remember?" she asked anxiously.

  "I remember a lot about us. Everything else is still... vague. Maybe a little closer to the light, but nothing clear or certain yet. I remember you, though. I'm not lying to make you feel better." This was too important. Lying about remembering her would be like lying about loving her. "I wouldn't, sweetheart."

  "I know." He felt her start to shake. Heard a stifled sob.

  "Gabrielle... Ma mie..."

  "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I don't know why..."

  "Shhh... I'm so sorry I've put you through this."

  She made a watery sound. "It's not your fault."

  "True. But I'm sorry, all the same."

  "Tell me something you remember," she insisted through her tears.

  He was almost amused. "Are you testing me?"

  "Yes!"

  "Oh. Well... The day we got married, I had to leave before we could have a wedding night."

  She gasped.

  "Ah-hah!" he pounced. "You did think I was lying."

  "Well..."

  He pinched her, making her gasp again.

  "I felt bad about that, so I bought you silk stockings while I was away," he continued. "But I got them on the black market, and they were confiscated by some soldier at a checkpoint outside of Rouen." Paul scowled and added, "The bastard probably gave them to his sweetheart."

  She sighed. "A brand new bride, and I slept alone in a cold bed, like some nun, for the first two weeks of my marriage."

  He was pleased her tears were subsiding. "It wasn't cold. We got married a year ago. In summer."

  "It's cold right now," she pointed out. "Anyhow, I was speaking poetically."

  "Figuratively."

  "Poetically."

  He grinned, then whispered in her ear, "Do you remember when I finally came home?"

  Her thighs shifted, rubbing his cock. "Yes," she breathed.

  He gave a shaky sigh and pressed his hips into her bottom, feeling the crumpled material of her slip against his belly as her thighs created a delicious, tight friction on his erection. She had helped him climb back up the ladder last night, while his head pounded and he obsessed about the things he couldn't remember. And she had lain beside him, comforting him, with the slip he had pulled down earlier now bunched around her waist and hiked up over her hips.

  He tugged gently at it now and murmured, "Take it off."

  "That's what you said the night you came home," she reminded him.

  "So it is," he agreed, sitting up. He rolled her onto her stomach and stroked her back. "You were in bed. Sleeping on your stomach."

  "And you crept in like a thief."

  "I was trying to surprise you. Especially since I didn't have the silk stockings to surprise you with anymore."

  "And when I heard someone in the room—"

  "That was so impetuous of you—"

  "I reached under my pillow—"

  "—sleeping with a knife under the pillow."

  "—and nearly made myself a widow."

  "I thought my heart would stop," he said, still stroking her back. "I thought you had suddenly turned into Lizzie Borden."

  "Who?"

  "Or that you were a lot angrier than I'd ever suspected about my leaving on our wedding day."

  "Well, really, Paul. Creeping up on a woman that way. What did you expect?"

  He kissed her shoulder. "I expected a warm welcome from my eager bride."

  "Which you'd have gotten, if you hadn't scared me to death the way you did."

  He traced kisses down her spine, enjoying the way she sighed and seemed to melt beneath his touch. "And you were so tense, after that..."

  "Of course I was tense."

  "I thought we'd never have sex again. I thought you'd be pacing and shouting and waving that knife around—"

  "No, you took it away—"

  "—for the rest of my natural life." He pressed a slow, damp kiss into the small of her back. "I thought by the time you stopped quivering like an overstrung bow, I'd be too old to take advantage of the momentary lull."

  "You're not that patient a lover," she pointed out.

  "No, I'm not," he agreed affably, starting to roll her over onto her back. "So I made my move."

  She giggled. "And I was so overwrought—"

  "You poked me in the eye with your elbow. Actually, you were all elbows and knees and—"

  "You had made me very nervous," she protested.

  She laid on her back now, her pink-tipped breasts resting on her chest in round mounds that tempted his hands. He cupped them gently.

  "So it seemed only fair," he said, "that I relax you."

  "Yes," she agreed, her voice breathy and slow, "only fair."

  He kissed each delicate nipple, listening to her sigh and murmur his name, just as she had done that night. Then he pressed his lips to her midriff, her abdomen...

  "And this," he said, his hands closing around the crumpled folds of her slip, "was right about where I said..."

  "Take it off," she urged him.

  "Exactly."

  She lifted her hips as he pulled the slip down over her thighs and past her feet, then tossed it aside. Their gazes locked in the dim light. Her eyes were dewy and half-closed. Her lips parted and trembled in anticipation.

  "And then..." he said.

  "Yes," she sighed.

  He grinned wickedly. "Memory fades."

  "What?"

  "No idea what happened next."

  "Paul!"

  "If you could give me a hint," he suggested.

  She sat up and poked him in the chest. "You have not forgotten."

  He kissed her and breathed into her mouth, "Just a hint?"

  She arched one brow. "You did something you once told me Frenchmen were famous for."

  He snapped his fingers. "That's right! And the day I told you that... In fact, it was right here, wasn't it? The first night we ever spent together."

  "Yes," she replied with exaggerated patience.

  "You told me that, be that as it may, no Frenchman had ever done it for you. Which," he confided, "I thought was a national disgrace."

  "One which you were eager to rectify," Gabrielle said dryly.

  "One which I have rectified..." He kissed her mouth. "...on a regular basis..." Her neck. "...ever since." Her shoulder. "And me not even French." Her breast.

  "You'd be admired for this sacrifice," she assured him breathlessly, "if anyone besides me knew about it."

  "Very happy," he replied, pushing her gently down to the blanket again, "to oblige."

  "As you did," she reminded him, "on our long-delayed wedding night."

  "I think I remember," he breathed against her abdomen, "starting here?"

  "Yes."

  "And moving on to..." He kissed her thigh. "...here?"

  She closed her eyes
and nodded.

  He grinned and rested his cheek against the fragrant curls between her legs. "And then I told you not to close your eyes."

  "No, you didn't." She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  "The next time I kissed you, it was..." He turned his head and buried his face in her. "Here."

  "Yes," she said with difficulty, suddenly panting.

  "What else did I do?" he whispered.

  She made a frustrated sound. "You know what you did."

  "It was a long time ago." He kissed the damp cleft, nuzzled it, and prodded, "Remind me."

  "You..."

  "Or tell me what you want me to do now," he invited.

  "Mmmm..." She pressed her hips towards him, spreading her legs farther apart. "You know what I want you to do."

  He nibbled on her inner thigh. "Tell me."

  She reached down to touch his chin, her long elegant fingers urging his head down. "I want..."

  He blew gently on her hot flesh, enjoying the way it made her shiver. "What?"

  "Use your tongue," she whispered.

  "To do what?" He kissed her mound, the crease of her hip, the delicate edge of her labia, listening to the surprised little moans she gave each time his lips touched her without giving her what she wanted.

  "Paul..." She wriggled with impatience.

  "Hmmm?"

  "Please..."

  "What do you want?"

  "Lick me," she finally pleaded.

  "Oh, is that what you want?" he teased.

  "Yes!" Her voice was harsh with desperation.

  "Why didn't you just say so?" he murmured.

  "Now..." she begged.

  "Now," he agreed.

  He licked his way into her. Long and slow and languid. Taking his time as he entered the mysterious feminine territory which she opened to him in her passion and her trust.

  "Yes, oh, yes, like that, yes, yes..." Her voice was breathless, feverish, thin and wispy enough to blow away if he didn't listen well.

  She tasted salty and erotic, familiar after all this time and yet somehow always exotic, too, always a surprise to his swirling tongue.

  "More," she pleaded, "more..."

  He pulled her thighs over his shoulders, then seized her hips and tugged her closer, tilting her pelvis to make her more vulnerable to his invasion. She moaned as his panting breath tickled her, and her thighs trembled eagerly against him. He looked down at the darkly pink glistening secrets he was unlocking and felt his cock throb eagerly in response.