Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

  He lowered his head and started devouring her.

  She cried out. Her back arched, and her legs clutched him, her heels digging into him. He grunted and kneaded her firm buttocks while he kept ravishing her. She bucked awkwardly, moving convulsively as he made love to her with his mouth. Her slick flesh welcomed him, pulsing and quivering against his tongue, almost as if kissing him back. She moaned and undulated jerkily beneath his ravenous plundering, breathing in frantic gasps. Her orgasm, when he finally drove her to it, was long and violent. She almost twisted away from his hold in her wailing, writhing frenzy. Afterwards, he barely let her catch her breath before he started again, feasting greedily on her lush body while she groaned and begged, demanded and pleaded, moving her hips eagerly in response to his hungry mouth. He licked and kissed, rubbed and sucked, nuzzled and nibbled, losing himself in the soft, hot, slick petals where he could give her so much pleasure that she screamed for him.

  "That's a beautiful sound," he murmured, his face wet with her, his head spinning with the fragrance of sex as she came again. She didn't hear him, of course; she was lost in a loud climax while her fists tugged at the blanket in orgasmic fury.

  He didn't wait for her to finish. He hauled her upright while she was still panting and groaning, pulled her onto his lap, and plunged his straining cock into her. Still gasping and making those high moans that he loved, she wrapped her arms around him and braced her feet against the floor as he rocked into her, hard and deep and slow.

  When she started bouncing, he gripped her hips, stopping her. "No," he said raggedly. "Slow."

  "Mmmm." She circled then, undulating on the fulcrum of his shaft, moving like some sultan's dancing slave girl while she held his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes.

  "Kiss me," he said.

  Her lips were soft, her tongue a damp velvet luxury inside his mouth.

  "Again," he said, and she did.

  Her breasts were shiny with perspiration, her face flushed and drowsy with pleasure. Her breathing, like her groans, told him she was ready to come again and was just waiting for him to want to climax, too.

  "I love you," he told her.

  She smiled, pleased, happy. "Paul..."

  He moved with more urgency now. Ready. Overwhelmed. Unable to wait any longer.

  "Yes," she sighed. "Yes, mon amour, my love, yes... Now, now, now..."

  He was clutching her tightly, driving hard into her, gripping her hips and moving them the way he wanted. Yanking her to him in a suddenly frantic rhythm. Gripping.... Thrusting... Her sharp grunts of pleasure... Gripping him inside, so tight and wet and hot... Moving on him.... Moving inside of her... And coming in jagged shards of bright, hot, deep pleasure, crashing and burning and going to heaven in her arms.

  "Ohhh... Oh, yeah..." He sagged weakly, still moving her hips as he desired, trembling as he reached for every last frisson of pleasure they knew how to give each other. "Oh, God..." His hips still pumping... "Gabrielle..."

  They tumbled down to the blankets together, their arms wrapped around each other, their breathing harsh and fast and unsteady. She made a sound of mingled happiness and pleasure and rubbed her face into the hair on his chest. He stayed inside of her for a few minutes, relishing the closeness, the incredible feelings of peace and intimacy glowing between them.

  After a while she chuckled and said, "Yes, that was more or less what our wedding night was like." She poked him and added, "Two weeks after the wedding."

  Chapter Eight

  June 5, 1944

  A traitor among them. Didier had been right. It took a long time to figure out who it was, but now Paul knew. He blamed himself for not seeing it sooner. He supposed his mind had been too clouded by love to see what was right in front of him.

  Then again, Didier had probably never known. Well, maybe at the last—it may even have been why he was killed—but prior to that, no. He'd evidently been fooled, too, even if he had vague, private fears he couldn't form into coherent suspicions.

  Paul was a forthright man by nature, so confrontation was his immediate instinct now. However, espionage was not a business for rash decisions and unplanned acts.

  The warmth at his side was suddenly gone. He rolled over in the bedding, trying to reclaim her.

  And, please God, would this infernal rain never stop?

  So he considered all his options, keeping his bitter knowledge to himself, not even thinking about it around anyone else, lest one single moment or glance give away the game. After all, if Didier had indeed died because he suspected or found out the truth, then Paul needed to operate on the assumption that the slightest misstep could give him away and send him to the exact same fate. Espionage was a business for caution and ruthless self-discipline—though love had shattered these things in him.

  The rain... What would happen if the rain changed all their plans? Damn the weather!

  Plans... Yes, he formed a plan. His superiors approved. Just as well, since it was too late for him to change it.

  Keep playing the bluff. Use the traitor to concentrate Nazi attention on Calais.

  He heard her rummaging around.

  Disinformation...

  We should have thought of this tactic in the wine business years ago.

  Goddamn rain.

  All they had to do was save the world...

  Paul groaned, slowly climbing out of the depths of slumber and the chaos of his confused dreams... Thoughts? Memories?

  He didn't reach for her again. He'd felt her leave his side, and he could now hear her moving around. That was probably what had woken him.

  He opened his eyes, wondering how long he'd slept after they'd made love. The gray weather made it hard to guess the time of day. He got up and wrapped a blanket around himself—for warmth, this time—then climbed down the ladder in search of her.

  "Oh, you're awake," she said as he reached the ground.

  "Yes."

  He turned and looked at her. She was wearing her dress and her shoes. Her hair was neatly combed. There was a small purse on the table beside her. "Where are you going?"

  "Into Caen. We need food."

  "And I need clothes."

  "Yes, of course."

  Something was wrong. He studied her, trying to figure out what it was. "We need to talk."

  She froze. "You've remembered something else?"

  He had, but it was too vague to put into words. Besides, that wasn't what he wanted to talk about. "We need a plan."

  "A plan?"

  "Beyond me hanging out in this barn while the war rages on."

  "Well, I suppose so, but you're still injured—"

  "If I'm well enough to keep making love to you, I'm well enough to get back to work," he pointed out.

  "No!" Her vehemence surprised them both.

  "I won't let the Germans see me," he assured her, "but I—"

  "No." she repeated.

  "—want to get out and see what's happening. It might help me remember more, and then—"

  "Or it might get you killed!"

  "And I would like to hear reports from other members of your group, find out what—"

  "No!" She looked horrified now.

  "Gabby, I should at least—"

  "I'll do whatever needs to be done."

  "While I do what?" He was getting annoyed now.

  "While you get better. Get your memory back."

  "There may be things—important things—that I'm just not going to remember sitting here—"

  "You will," she insisted, picking up her purse. "The swelling is gone now. And every few hours, you remember a little more. Soon you'll remember everything."

  He switched the subject. "You're not going out in this rain, are you?"

  "It's just a mist right now."

  "Gabrielle, I want to—"

  "You can't come with me today, at any rate," she said. "You have nothing to wear."

  "So you win. How convenient."

  "Why are we fighting about this?"

  "
Because..." It clarified for him, like a wobbly note suddenly achieving perfect pitch. "Because there's something you're not telling me."

  Her silence and physical tension were better than a confession.

  He came forward and took her by the shoulders, searching her face. "What is it?"

  She lowered her gaze. "I want to go to town while there's a break in the weather."

  "Gabrielle."

  "We'll talk about it later, when we have more time."

  "Let's talk about it now," he insisted.

  She stepped away, pulling herself out of his hold. "Rest now. Maybe you'll remember more when I get back."

  "We're wasting time," he warned her, knowing—without yet knowing why—that they had no time to waste.

  "Don't leave the barn at all while I'm gone," she instructed, heading for the door. "While I'm in town, I'll try to find out whether the Germans are looking for you."

  "Why don't you bring someone back here to talk to me?" he suggested, already knowing she'd refuse.

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. "Who?"

  He shrugged. "Deschamps, or someone else from the—"

  "No," she said firmly.

  "Why not?"

  She opened the door and looked outside, her movements stiff and lacking their usual grace. "What if there is a traitor among us?" she said at last.

  His blood chilled. There was a traitor. He knew it. Before losing his memory, he had even figured out who it was. "Don't go," he said suddenly.

  "I have to, Paul."

  "Wait." Clothes... He suddenly remembered where he could get some clothes quickly. "I'll get—"

  "I'll be fine."

  "But—"

  "You should stay here and rest."

  "Just a damn min—"

  "Please don't argue with me about this, Paul." She was halfway out the door. "Not right now. It'll be better if we discuss things after I get back. I'll know more then."

  He watched the barn door close.

  A traitor among us.

  She was hiding something.

  Jesus...

  No. What he was thinking right now made no sense. It was impossible. He couldn't believe it.

  No.

  He remembered being so in love that he didn't trust his own judgement anymore. Remembered knowing that his thoughts had become clouded with her. Too much of his attention was fixed on protecting her while she resisted protection.

  Gabrielle...

  No, it made no sense. If she had—no, he couldn't even think it!

  If it was her...

  Oh, Christ, maybe it did make sense. Who was in a better position to betray him, after all? To let the Nazis know when he was most likely to have current and accurate information about the imminent invasion?

  His memories tumbled over themselves as he opened the barn door to the damp day with its gloomy skies and low-hanging thunderclouds... They walked up the hill and prowled the damp, tumbled ruins of her uncle's abandoned house, but there was nothing there either except some books, moldy furniture, and broken crockery...

  Sometime before marrying Gabrielle, Paul had started using her uncle's abandoned wreck of a cottage as a safe house. He occasionally hid someone there, and he kept items there which couldn't implicate Gabrielle in anything serious if they were discovered in a search: money, clothes, a bicycle...

  He had never told her, because he wanted to ensure that her surprise was real and her denials convincing if she was ever questioned about the belongings he kept there.

  Because he was secretive, just as she had said. Exactly as she complained about. There was so much he didn't tell her. He did it to protect her. Did she feel he didn't trust her? Had she wanted his trust for some reason other than love, other than the needs of a wife? Had she even made herself the woman of his dreams to try to win his trust?

  No. She'd never had to play him like that. He'd belonged to her from the start. And he had trusted her, always, completely, without conscious decision.

  Had he been a fool?

  His mind raced as he walked uphill, wearing only the blanket, to take advantage of his hidden stash in the old house.

  If Gabrielle was the traitor—No, stop it!—it could well explain why Paul had been released after days of beatings and interrogation. Maybe she had betrayed him in exchange for the Nazis sparing his life and returning him to her, damaged but not dead. There were any number of reasons she might have done it.

  Paul entered the ruined house, went into the main room, pushed aside a heavy settee destroyed by damp, and pulled up the floorboards underneath its usual spot. The cubby hole there was, he saw, untouched since his last visit. He reached inside and started pulling out the few possessions he kept there.

  Money, clothes, a flashlight, boots... and a flask of Irish whiskey. He'd forgotten about that.

  Thank you, he said to himself.

  He dressed in the simple clothes while he considered a particularly appalling reason he might have been released: If the Gestapo couldn't make him talk, maybe they decided that a better alternative than simply killing him in failure was to see if his beloved wife could make him talk.

  Paul's amnesia had been an obvious shock to Gabrielle, and was now a source of continued frustration to her. If the Germans had released him without realizing how badly they'd damaged his head, they might have believed—just as Gabrielle might have believed—it would take only hours of his wife's tender loving care for her to learn what they had wasted days trying to learn.

  Even now, she might be on her way to report to a contact. To advise the Germans that she needed more time with him because they'd been so clumsy with their beatings that something had gone wrong with his brain.

  Jesus, no! Please, no...

  He couldn't stand the idea. He hated himself for even thinking of it in a moment of madness, let alone seriously considering it with deliberate reasoning.

  Gabrielle....

  He loved her more than he loved being alive. He would die for her. He'd rather die than discover she had betrayed him.

  But although he'd gladly give his life to be wrong about this, he couldn't risk everyone else's lives just because he found the prospect of her betrayal too horrifying even to consider. A whole lot more than his personal happiness was at stake here.

  So he was going to follow her.

  He stomped his feet into his worn boots as he thought of the events of the past couple of days, which were much clearer to him than the vaguely-remembered nightmare of imprisonment and torture in the days preceding this strange idyll in the barn.

  Gabrielle had asked him a couple of times if he remembered anything about plans for the invasion. He'd taken it for perfectly normal curiosity about the biggest impending event of their lives, the longed-for yet much-feared military assault upon which their future—their entire world—depended. But had there been more than that to her questions? And, if so, had she thought he would tell her everything under the softening influence of mind-blowing sex? Is that why she'd gone down on him yesterday at dawn, when he was barely able to speak or think? Was he supposed to lose control and babble everything he knew about Operation Overlord to the woman who gave him such intense pleasure? Was the hot eroticism and warm pleasure they always shared in bed that coldly calculated on her part?

  No, she loves me. I know she loves me.

  The only thing in the world he was more certain of was that he loved her.

  Ah, but history is full of men who just knew that the women they were obsessed with loved them... and who were wrong.

  His heart hurt like someone was shredding it. He stuffed some money into his pocket, took a longed-for swig of whiskey, then replaced the floorboards, pushed the settee back into place, and went into the kitchen—where he found the bicycle he kept here for emergencies.

  And suspecting your wife of collaborating with the enemy surely qualifies as an emergency.

  He wheeled the bike outside, mounted it, and started pedaling. Gabrielle had a good head start, b
ut she was on foot, so he would be able to catch up, going by road on the bike. He assumed she'd take the usual shortcut, walking cross-country, until she reached the main road junction. Whether or not she had told the truth and was going into Caen, she'd have to get to that junction to proceed on to any destination.

  His blood was roaring in his ears. While acting on his suspicions, he kept his mind busy searching for other explanations and alternate possibilities.

  However, he couldn't kid himself that she wasn't hiding something from him.

  She said we'd discuss it when she got back. When she knew more.

  Knew what? Knew what her new orders were in view of his amnesia?

  Stop it. She said we'd discuss our situation when we had more time.

  But there was no time. He felt more certain of that with every passing moment.

  She might be trying to protect him from something. Or she might need to discuss something so complicated that the task seemed pointless until his memory was mostly or completely restored. These possibilities cheered him, as they were also consistent with her behavior, even if they didn't explain why he had been released alive.

  Or do I just think these possibilities make sense because I desperately want to think so?

  There was no one at the junction as he approached it. He slowed down and dismounted, wary of being spotted. He did a quick recon—no one in sight. He pulled the bike into the bushes opposite from where Gabrielle was most likely to emerge and then hid there, waiting.

  Sure enough, she soon appeared. He saw her sun-bright hair above the rough line of a rocky hedgerow, then the rest of her as she climbed over it, athletic and graceful. Her dress rode up over her thighs and hips, and he felt a moment of possessive lust for his wife's body. All of that beauty was his, given to him freely and with joy.

  He'd been telling the truth this morning. He loved her beyond reason. His feelings for her were stronger than he was.

  Gabrielle straightened her dress, and wiped her muddy shoes on the ground. Her ankles and calves, he noticed, were also splattered with mud. All this rain had made a mess of the fields. Then she started walking down the road. His chest ached with momentary relief: She was going in the direction of Caen. At least she was telling the truth about that.