by Laura Leone
He kissed her softly, then coaxed her into a sitting position. "Sorry, ma mie. I can't go around dressed like a British paratrooper. If the Germans don't take me prisoner again, or just shoot me, then the British will want to know what I'm doing in one of their uniforms."
"Yes, let's go get your clothes while it's dark out."
He knew better than to suggest they split up, so he simply began dressing while she did the same. "As long as we're going back that way," he said hesitantly, "maybe we should spend the night with Townsend's men, after all."
She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "They'll know what we've been doing."
"They can't snicker. We're married. We're supposed to do this." He put his hand on her back and added more seriously, "We'll be safe there."
"I just don't...." She made what he always referred to as her "French noise." He was right, she realized. They'd both been too eager for each other to think sensibly earlier. Now, however, she knew that it made sense to accept British protection for the night. "Oh, very well."
He patted her and kissed her shoulder. "If any woman on earth can stare down forty paratroopers and keep them all in their place, chérie, it's you."
She grunted non-committally and finished dressing. Then she turned to follow him as he led the way back across the pasture. There was a showering of light in the sky, at some distance, followed by faint sounds of bombs exploding. A stark reminder of reality.
In another flare of light which briefly brightened the sky, Gabrielle said, "What's that on your back?"
"Hmm?" He paused and looked over his shoulder.
"Hold still." She looked more closely at what she had seen on the back of the dead young paratrooper's uniform. "Some kind of patch or..." In another flare of light, her eyes recognized the words in English. "'See you in Paris.'"
"Poor kid," Paul muttered.
Gabrielle had lived in Paris before the war, and she had seen the city if lights fall to the Nazis. "We must go there for him," she said firmly. "When Paris is liberated, we'll open a bottle of champagne there and toast his memory."
He took her hand and kissed it. "That's a good plan. We'll do it."
"Then in a way, he can see Paris liberated, too. If only through our eyes."
Fire and Flame
London, October 1940
Kate slept fitfully, as she had every night since the Blitz had begun. The air raids of the Luftwaffe had turned London into a charnel house during the past few months. Whole sections of the city lay in heaps of rubble, demolished by German bombardiers who set the nights on fire. Sometimes Kate awoke to the screeching of air raid sirens... only to realize that the sound existed nowhere but in her own nightmares at that instant. Other times, she lay in befuddled confusion for a few dark moments, praying she was still dreaming, but then accepting that the cacophonous horror was real and she must go to a shelter.
There was no such thing as "a good night's sleep" for Londoners anymore. Not unless the RAF could clear the skies over England. Until that happened, the syrupy dark of the imposed blackouts would hold the threat of imminent death for them all, the nights of screaming sirens and exploding fire would continue to ravage Britain, and Kate's dreams would be marauded by the same dangers which filled her waking hours.
Only when he was with her did she sleep well. And when they were apart, which was too often, her fear of German bombs multiplied to an unbearable level because of her fears for him. Tonight, as was so often the case, her shallow and restless sleep was disturbed by nightmares, terrible images of losing him, a vision of unendurable grief which she kept at bay by sheer strength of will during the day... but which preyed upon her in her sleep.
Even asleep, she longed for him, fretfully searching the empty darkness of her solitary bed for him. Even in her dreams, she was aware of his absence and craved the feel of his arms around her.
How she wished he would come to her! Wanting it so badly she somehow willed herself to dream it, she sensed the key she had given him turning in the lock of her humble bedsit, and then heard his muted footstep as he tried not to wake her. He wanted to surprise her with this unexpected midnight visit, and she dreamed that she remained asleep so that he could.
She smiled, anticipating what he would do next... and sighed when she heard, as expected, the faint rustle of his clothing in the darkness. Cotton and wool slipping away from the smoothly sculpted lines of his body, revealing the features she already knew so well: the hard muscles of his shoulders, the light dusting of hair across his chest, the scars which the Nazis had left on his body before he escaped them and fled France to join De Gaulle here in England...
She frowned, feeling her heart constrict painfully, and let her dream roam back towards sweeter things. His belt buckle clicked quietly, and Kate moaned softly in her sleep, thinking of his warm smooth belly, his sturdy thighs, and especially of the ripe curve of his buttocks... which she hadn't been able to stop herself from stealing glances at, even at first, when the two of them were fully-dressed strangers always surrounded by a dozen other people.
She smiled again, remembering the time, in this very bed, when he finally told her he'd known about her looking at his backside, right from the start. Even though they were lovers by then, she'd nonetheless been so embarrassed to discover that he knew, that he had known all along, how much she looked at his body. He had laughed, amused by his sudden attack of modesty after what they'd been doing together all night long, and assured her that only one thing in life pleased him more than her looking at him, and that was her touching him...
The bed sagged a bit under his weight, and she felt him pull back the bedclothes enough to ease in beside her. Then she felt the weight and heat of him all along her body, pressing against her shoulders, her back, her bottom, her calves. His hands were cold and she squeaked when he touched her, then sighed when she felt his soft puff of laughter in her hair.
Don't wake up, don't wake up, she ordered herself.
If she woke up, he'd be gone, vanished as thoroughly as any other dream. She missed him so much, she couldn't bear to let him disappear now. Not just yet. Just a little while longer of dreaming he was here, feeling his night-chilled skin warming against hers, feeling his breath against her hair, then against her neck and her ear as he brushed her hair aside to kiss and nibble and tease.
She stretched sleepily and rolled harder against him, reveling in the weight and warmth of her lover's embrace, as lush in tonight's dream as it was in real life. She arched her neck to encourage him and was rewarded by the heat of his mouth exploring the curve of her throat.
Good, she tried to tell him, this is so good.
But, in the manner of dreams, she couldn't make her voice work, couldn't move her mouth. She knew he knew, though, even if she couldn't say it right now. He had taught her not to hide how much she loved his touch, how much she loved touching him. He had taught her, so prim and reserved when they first met, to revel in the pleasure they gave each other, to indulge every one of her senses in him and to enjoy the way he indulged his in her.
He stroked his hands all along her body, soothing and arousing at once, and then started tugging gently at her nightgown, trying to pull it up so he could find the tingling flesh of her thighs...
Yes.
And the quivering mound of her belly...
Oh, yes.
And the round globes of her breasts, which were moving in unison with her suddenly quickened breath.
Yes, yes...
He pushed her nightgown up until it bunched around her neck and shoulders. She tried to lift her arms so he could pull it over her head, but her body wouldn't answer her commands. She whimpered in frustration and tried harder.
"Shhh..."
She felt his breath against her ear, soothing her even as his hands toyed with her. He murmured to her, saying things she couldn't really understand while he massaged her breasts in the dark honey of her dreams. She whimpered again, and this time she felt him laugh silently before he kissed her ear, her cheek,
her jaw... She felt his weight shift, felt him move away from her, and she tried to protest but couldn't form the words to beg him to stay with her.
Don't go, don't go.
Then his mouth was on her breast. Hot and wet and not at all gentle. Her head jerked sharply on the pillow and she heard a high-pitched cry of pleasure. The sound confused her, but then she realized she must have made it. She thought she was trying to speak to him, but all she heard were rapturous moans, soft and close together. She sought his face with her hands, and felt like she was falling through soft darkness when he kissed her fingers and palms with shattering tenderness.
"Je t'aime."
It was his voice. Soft and husky. His breath on her skin. His words—I love you. He usually spoke French in bed... unless he was teasing her, trying to prove to her he knew the English words for everything—even words she, his English lover, had never heard before knowing him. Even words for things she had never imagined before meeting him...
I love you, too.
Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
She was dizzy and spinning, stroking the soft waves of his thick hair, and still falling... falling. He folded one of his hands over one of hers, held it against his cheek for a moment... Then she felt his lips on her nipple, and his tongue, and the urgent heat of his mouth as he sucked, hard and strong and hungry for her. She arched off the bed, silent sobs of pleasure captive inside of her, and struggled against the hot rush of excitement which she was afraid would wake her and make him disappear.
No. No.
"No." She recognized her own voice.
So did he. He paused. "No?"
The brush of his breath on her wet, throbbing nipple made her shiver. He gently nibbled on it. She writhed and arched towards him again.
"No?" he repeated, sounding amused.
She was confused and on fire. Her hands blindly urged him to continue, even as she murmured "no" again, so afraid she'd wake up and lose this moment. He obeyed her actions rather than her words and closed his mouth hotly over her aching breast again.
The sirens went off.
He stiffened, stopped what he was doing, and lifted his head.
"Don't stop," she murmured, her arms moving sluggishly as she tried to prevent him from leaving her.
"Air raid," he said in English, his French accent soft and familiar as he gently tried to disengage from her.
"No." She held him to her, willing the sirens to stop.
"Chérie." He kissed her mouth and pushed her hair off her forehead. "Let's go to the shel—"
"It'll go away," she insisted, "I know it'll go away."
He met her kiss and shuddered slightly. "You're a bad influence," he chided, starting to relax into her embrace again.
"It's just a dream, I can make it go away," she murmured.
"That's no dream, my love. That's the Luftwaffe." He rubbed his knuckles against her cheek and said, "You're not still asleep are you? It's so dark, I can't tell. Are your eyes open?"
"What?" she asked, bewildered... and starting to realize just how real the heat and weight and scent of him was. "No..."
She shook her head and forced her eyes open. He hovered above her in the dark, only inches away, barely visible in the faint light of the war-darkened city which crept through the window.
She blinked in confusion. "Pascal?" she muttered.
"I think I'm insulted," he said dryly.
I'm awake.
"Pascal."
"You were expecting someone else?"
"You're really here!" she cried, fully alert as the realization rushed through her. "Pascal!"
And the sirens were screeching through the air as another attack descended upon London.
He accepted her enthusiastic embrace and asked, "Just who did you think was naked in bed with you?"
"I thought I was dreaming!"
"It might be better if you were," he said, referring to the air raid. "Let's go."
"No," she said suddenly, her mind still jumbled with the fear of losing this moment. She spread kisses across his face and pulled him down into the pillows with her. "No," she repeated. "I want you now. Right now."
"Sweetheart..."
She loved the way the English endearment sounded in his faintly accented voice.
"Sweetheart," he repeated. "This isn't... uh... Mmmm..."
She especially loved how breathless and weak-willed he suddenly sounded when she slid her hand down his naked body to cradle the erection which, she noted, the sirens hadn't affected at all.
"I've missed you so much," she told him.
"I..." He sighed and pressed his forehead against hers in the dark. "I've missed you, too."
"I haven't seen you for two weeks! Or heard from you. I was so worried!"
"I'm sorry," he murmured, kissing her hair. "De Gaulle sent me to..." He made what she always thought of as a "French noise" and concluded unhappily, "I can't tell you where." He tightened his arms around her and added, "And it wasn't nearly as nice as being here. Even," he added, "in the middle of an air raid."
She kissed him, drowning in the warmth and taste and scent she had grown to need the way she needed air and water. The sirens screamed wildly, but she ignored them, relegating the ugly clamouring to the horror if her nightmares. Only he was real to her right now. Only the rough demand of his mouth against hers, the loving caress of his hands, the tender nuzzling in between hot kisses... Kate wouldn't let anything but this be real to her, no matter how loudly the world wailed outside the little room where they clung to each other with fevered passion.
"We should..." He paused to meet another kiss. "We have to..." He let her kiss him again. "To go to..." He lost track of his thought and lowered his head, kissing her as she lay passive this time. "Shelter," he murmured unconvincingly while she cupped his muscular buttocks in her palms and squeezed with uninhibited delight.
He collapsed on top of her when she rocked her hips hard against his. Kate whispered, "You were saying?"
"I, uh..." He sighed when she spread her thighs and rubbed herself against his shaft, which quivered with sudden impatience. "Were we talking?" he asked weakly.
She laughed, reckless in her happiness, and squirmed beneath him, struggling to free her arms so she could pull her nightgown over her head. There was a distant explosion, startling them both. He trapped her arms at her sides.
"We shouldn't stay here," he tried again.
"It's already started," she said. "We shouldn't go outside now."
"Kate..."
Still captive beneath him, she arched her back to rub her breasts against him. "Make love to me. Make me forget about the bombs and the sirens. Make me forget everything."
As she had hoped, it was a request he was really in no condition to refuse.
His lips were hot on her stomach, his fingers insolent and knowing between her legs. "You're a very dangerous woman," he muttered.
"Until I met you," she reminded him, "I was a sweet English virgin without a—"
"You weren't that sweet," he interrupted, kissing her hip.
She grinned and stroked his warm shoulders, now scarcely aware of the sirens which flooded the night. "Well, I was a proper lady, anyhow."
"Only in disguise." He sank his teeth into her thigh.
She gasped in surprise, then added, "Modest and suitably ignorant."
He slipped a hand beneath her knee and arranged her position to suit him better. "Ah, you just needed a good teacher."
She slid down the mattress and shoved her pillow away. "I was saving myself for marriage to some respectable Englishman—"
He pushed her legs farther apart. "How lucky for you I made it to England in once piece."
"—from a suitable family."
"Who wouldn't have had the faintest idea what to do with you," he whispered against the springy hair he was busy nuzzling.
"He wouldn't have taught me words I can never... Oh! Mmmm... Never repeat to anyone else... Ohhh..."
For a momen
t, there were no words between them. Her harsh breath and throaty moans filled the night as his hot mouth revisited places which had missed him dearly in his absence.
Then he made her crazy, on purpose, by stopping and resting his cheek against her thigh while he murmured, "You were saying something about marrying a respectable Englishman?"
"What? No..."
"And you were complaining about my English."
She sputtered on a breath of mingled desire and exasperation, clenched her thighs against his shoulders, and begged, "Don't stop."
He kissed the throbbing place between her legs, his lips gentle and tender, but pulled back when she surged towards him. "So you like my English, after all?"
"Hmm... I suppose I do."
She smiled, remembering. They had met four months ago, only days after he arrived in England, still suffering from wounds inflicted by the Nazis. He had come to join the Free French in England, and was immediately assigned to De Gaulle's personal staff due to his skills and experience.
Kate was a volunteer with the Women's Transportation Service; she spoke excellent French, due to her privileged background, and was consequently appreciated by the disoriented Free French who were establishing themselves in Britain after the disastrous defeat of their nation. She'd been secretly pleased when De Gaulle's new favorite had specifically requested her as his driver and interpreter while he adjusted to England. He was charming in a soft-spoken way that particularly attracted her, his green eyes were intelligent and shrewd, his wavy brown hair begged to be touched... and, oh, yes, he had a bottom that she, who had never before ogled a man's butt, couldn't stop peeking at when she thought he didn't know.
Within a week or so, she discovered that he had been less than honest; in fact, he spoke English even better than she spoke French and had no need whatsoever of an interpreter. He also knew England extremely well, having spent a good deal of time here before the war. She couldn't be angry, though, since he had lied only so that he could make sure she spent her long working days with him, at least until she was needed more elsewhere. Besides, by then, they were already falling in love... And it took only another few weeks before she overcame a lifetime of propriety and asked him to spend the night, instead of kissing her at the door and leaving her in respectable solitude. She knew well before that, of course, that it was what he wanted; but he had never pushed, and she had also loved him for that.