The Moonlight Mistress

by Victoria Janssen

  She had to think a minute to make a sentence. “Not if somebody comes.”

  “I’m hoping that will be you.” She blinked, not having expected ribald humor from him, and while she was distracted, he gently blew on her cunt, warm air as shocking as the cold had been a few moments before. He really meant to do it, then. He was going to kiss her cunt, and she was going to let him.

  It was just as good as she’d heard. No, better. She stopped worrying about the time passing, except for the time he made her wait between delicate probes of his tongue and gentle shifts of his fingertips where he held her lower lips open. She seized a handful of blanket and pulled it to her mouth, biting down on it. Meyer looked up at her movement and grinned, then ducked down between her thighs and laid licking kisses along the tender creases where her thigh met her leg, and the soft skin between her pubic hair and navel, and the jut of her hipbone. She squirmed toward his mouth and he pinned her with one firm hand on her belly while he continued to tease, both letting her recover from his original intensity and stoking her desire higher. Then she felt his callused fingertips nudging at her, stroking back and forth until they slid easily, then sliding inside her cunt, only the tips at first. His mouth fastened over her clit and sucked hard, once; she arched and bit down on the blanket. Then his lips pulled softly at her while his fingers slid deeper inside her and his thumb rubbed her hair against her tender flesh.

  She was gasping now. “Hurry up, Goddamn you!”

  He pulled away enough to say, “I like this.” He reached up his free hand and caressed her breast. “Perhaps you’d like to rub these. I haven’t enough hands.”

  Bob meant to tell him where he should stuff his orders, except that her hands had moved as he’d commanded, cupping her own breasts, trapping his hand beneath one of hers. His palm shifted, abrading her nipple, and she gasped, then writhed the other direction when his fingers twisted inside her, sliding deeper. Meyer’s mouth moved back to her clit and, as she rubbed and pulled at her own nipples, he flicked her repeatedly with his tongue, harder and harder. She’d been building to a climax for so long that the actual moment took her by surprise. She was about to curse him, then she was coming, frozen and vibrating with the force of it, her hand clenched upon his.

  She was too limp after that to complain he’d taken too long, and in too forgiving a mood. When he joined her on the cot, carefully wriggling on his side and putting his arm around her, she snugged her arse up against his cock, so the weight of him pressed into the crease between her buttocks. He made a noise and she pushed back harder, shifting up and down a bit. “Come on,” she said, reaching back over her hip and patting him, maybe his flank.

  Meyer’s hand cupped her breast, fondling her softly. He blew in her ear and said, “Are you sure you don’t need a minute?” He reached over her and found a blanket, then tugged it over them. That was nice. She’d been getting a little chilled, once she was no longer in the thick of things.

  “Had one.” She followed the line of his hip toward his cock, trying to get hold of him. He nuzzled her neck and shifted her hips himself, then slid his cock into her, right then and there, still lying sideways. He didn’t go in as deeply as she would have liked, but it had been so long since she’d had a cock in her that that little bit was more than enough to make her breath seize and stutter. She breathed and pushed back against him, so he went in a bit farther.

  He rested his hand on her hip and squeezed. “Let me,” he said.

  “I would, if you’d get on with it.”

  He chuckled against her shoulder. “This cot isn’t that sturdy. We’ll have to do it this way.” Gently, he rocked his hips forward and back. The cot’s metal legs creaked, and it rocked, as well, just a little.

  Bob laughed, which felt odd with him inside her. “Jolts like a Jack Johnson hit,” she said, then wished she hadn’t, because a big shell like that might have killed Ashby.

  Meyer kissed her cheek and rocked into her again, soon easing into a steady rhythm. She curved her back into him, liking the soft rub of his chest hair on her skin, and his hot breath, growing ragged now, in her ear. He lifted her thigh up over his leg, and after that was able to work his way in deeper, the head of his cock brushing that sweet spot inside with each push. She also liked the way his arm encircled her rib cage, sometimes pulling her back against him even more tightly, sometimes sliding up to caress her nipples, sometimes sliding down and toying with her clit, circling and pressing in rhythm with the stroking of his cock in her cunt. She hadn’t had sex this sweet in a long time, maybe only once or twice before, and she didn’t ask him to hurry again.

  She closed her eyes, paying attention to the tight slide of him in her and his lips playing in the prickly hair at her nape, breathing and nipping and licking a little, as if she were a sweet. The only thing she missed was being able to have her arms around him, which was a lot easier when one person was on top. This way, he was holding her, but she could only hold on to his arm or the top of his thigh. When his thrusting sped up a bit, though, she forgot all that and grabbed on to the edge of the cot, using it to brace herself as she pushed back onto him. Gradually, she turned more onto her belly, pulling him with her until he was almost straddling her arse, and his cock suddenly sank deeper than it had yet. “Oh, Goddamn it, yes,” she said, having lost her grip on the blanket at some point. She arched up toward him, managing to shove a wad of blanket under her like a pillow, and he had to readjust, but then he was in her again, this time from above and behind, fucking her faster and deeper, his hands gripping the sides of the cot as it shivered beneath them.

  She buried her face in the edge of his pillow and let herself moan as his thrusting rubbed her clit against the blankets, rubbing her raw, but at the moment it was what she needed. His balls slapped on her arse now, and his breath sawed in and out of him like sobs. The sound of him, his bitten-off groans each time she clamped down on his cock with her cunt, pushed her into wild spasms of pleasure and she screamed into the pillow, pouring out all the tension and fear and grief at once. Minutes later, she was still quivering from the force of her release when Meyer thrust once more, as deep as he could get, and she felt his seed gushing hot into her cunt and down her thighs.

  Afterward, she wouldn’t let him cuddle too long, as someone would need something soon and come barging in regardless. Regretfully, she had a wash over in the corner, where she wouldn’t easily be seen from the door, then hurried into her clothes. Her cunt felt tender, and she didn’t enjoy tying down her breasts, but it had to be done. Meyer had only half dressed by the time she looked up, the flap of his trousers hanging loose and his braces down. He’d wiped the sweat from his chest, but sat on the cot still, the wet cloth dangling listlessly from his fingers.

  She took it from him. “You’ll get cold.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes a bit vague without his specs. “Noel’s still dead.”

  “We’re not.”

  “No. I suppose not.” He picked up his shirt and slipped his arms into it, but kept looking at her.

  She fidgeted with her top button and said, “That was good.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Thanks. Likewise.”

  “Why so glum?” She turned away after she’d asked, picking up his tie to hand to him.

  Still watching her, he began to button up his shirt. “My best friend is—” he hesitated a split second, then continued “—dead, and you ask me what else?”

  She flipped up his collar, looped his tie around his neck and touched his chin so he’d lift up. It was easier to talk to him while she fussed with the knot. “You’ve been funny,” she said. “Since before that.”

  He cleared his throat. “So now I get the traditional advice of the officer’s servant?”

  “Maybe.”

  Meyer gently grasped her wrist and lowered it. He looked up at her solemnly for a long time, his eyes searching her face. He didn’t do anything else, but she felt as if he was touching her delicately all over. “Thank you,” h
e said.

  “What for?”

  He grinned again, briefly. “Persuading me. I do feel much better.”

  He obviously had more to say. She took her hand back from him and tightened the knot of his tie a bit more.

  “You don’t even have to say anything, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right, then. I fucked Crispin Daglish.”

  She might have been more surprised about that before she’d known about him and Ashby. She wondered what he meant by fucked, if it meant sodomy or something less serious. It was clear they hadn’t been caught, and she hadn’t seen Daglish trying to eat his pistol or poke his head into a sniper’s rifle, so it didn’t make much of a difference, did it? She shrugged. “Where?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “Yes, sir.” The logistics stymied her. Whose idea had it been? Daglish had been smitten with Meyer since he’d joined the regiment, but hadn’t made any kind of advances that she’d seen, or that any of the men had seen, and that kind of thing got around, fast. The men would have been on Daglish like a pack of wolves if they’d suspected him of anything sexually untoward. Even if no one else would have noticed, she would have; she was used to keeping a closer eye on men, simply for her own safety. What had changed? And why was Meyer upset, if men fucking men didn’t shock him?

  “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  Bob handed him his uniform tunic. He laid it on the cot beside him, stood and began to shove his long shirttails into his trousers. He should have done it the other way around; he was going to have lumps. She watched him and tried to figure out how to explain. She said, “He’s got a passion for you.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Since the first.” She thought back to when she’d noticed. “Before Southampton.”

  Meyer strode forward and grasped her shoulders. “Did he tell you that?”

  She shrugged. “Saw it. He’s a sodomite.”

  “I’m a bloody sodomite and I couldn’t see it.”

  “No, you’re not. Not like him,” she said, lifting her chin to indicate the cot. He’d enjoyed fucking her, enough so he’d gone on for longer than she would have dared. “Daglish’d watch you. I watched him. Wanted to make sure he wasn’t a wrong’un.” Meyer wouldn’t have noticed that on his own, not in a thousand years. She’d practically had to bludgeon him to get him to notice her.

  Meyer covered his face with his hands. Should she do his trousers up for him, or yank them off and start over again, since he’d made such a mess of it? She found her cap and slapped it on. Meyer said, “I thought I terrified him.”

  Bob laughed. “I was proper terrified, sir, just now. If you want to terrify me again sometime—”

  “I’m not fit to be let out on my own, am I?”

  She grinned, patted his shoulder and yanked his shirttails back out of his trousers. “I say that about all the officers, sir.”

  15

  LUCILLA PLACED A FEW MORE BEAKERS INTO THE sterilizer and closed the lid, then put a brick on top in case ground shudders from distant artillery triggered the faulty latch. She straightened slowly, hand pressed to her lower back, and yawned before she saw Matron standing in the doorway.

  “Your brother is here,” she said.

  Lucilla’s insides went cold, and she felt short of breath. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry I frightened you. He only just arrived. I put him in the front parlor.”

  “Let me wash my hands,” Lucilla said. “May I have an hour with him?”

  Matron smiled. “Take the afternoon, Daglish. I know you’re on duty most of the night.”

  The casino’s former front parlor had been the smallest room, no use for a ward, but its brocaded couches had proved an ideal place to stash visiting officials and the occasional newspaper reporter until someone could see to them. Crispin looked both as if he belonged in such a setting—he’d taken off his cap, and his curls tumbled onto his forehead, giving him a vaguely romantic, vaguely dissolute look—and as if he’d never been inside so elegant a building before, his boots and puttees caked with drying mud, and his uniform showing the signs of some hasty stain removal. He smelled distinctly of one who’d been living in a trench.

  Joy spread out from her heart and into her face. He was someone she loved, and he was alive. She dashed across the room and kissed him warmly on the cheek, holding him close to her, not caring that he had come to see her before having a bath. “Crispin, love,” she said. “Is everything all right?” She sat next to him on the couch and clasped his hands in hers.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “But…Hailey told me you knew Captain Ashby.”

  Her stomach plummeted. “Oh, no,” she said. “How?”

  “We don’t know. We haven’t recovered…him yet.” Crispin looked down at his hands, twisting his cap between them. “We don’t always find—”

  “Oh, Crispin,” she said, and embraced him again. “I’m sorry. I liked him very much.” She could barely believe that he was dead. He’d been more alive than anyone she’d ever met. Belatedly, she realized she would have to tell Pascal.

  “We all liked him,” Crispin said. “Everyone’s pretty broken up about it. Especially Gab—Lieutenant Meyer. They were best friends. Known each other since they were lads.” He turned his face away from her and swallowed. “I actually came to talk to you about something else, if that’s all right. If you have time. I know you’re very busy here, and if you haven’t time, I can come back some other day. I’m afraid I have to go back this evening.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, tucking her grief away for another time. “I know you can’t just pop over for tea whenever you like. Did you have any tea?” He shook his head. “Would you like some? We have a nook in the kitchen we use sometimes for chats.”

  “Please, if it’s more private,” Crispin said.

  Lucilla fetched her personal tin and slipped a lump of her hoarded sugar into Crispin’s cup while he warmed the pot. As the tea steeped, she sat across from him at the tiny corner table and grasped his hands. “It’s so good to see you.”

  He stared at their joined hands. “I hope you’ll still think so after I’ve told you.”

  Lucilla squeezed his hands. “You’re a soldier. I know it’s your duty—”

  “Not that.” He pulled his hands from hers. “I think the tea’s ready.”

  “You’ll have to tell me sooner or later,” Lucilla said. “Else why come all this way?”

  Crispin took his tea and turned the cup around and around between his palms. She noticed anew how square and masculine his hands were, his nails perpetually cropped short and the first joints of his fingers dark with curling hair. “Lucilla, I don’t think there’s another person in the world I trust more than you.”

  “Thank you.” She caressed the top of his head before she sat.

  Crispin lifted his cup, then lowered it without drinking. “I’m a sodomite,” he said.

  Lucilla blinked. She’d expected a bit more general conversation first. Still, he’d accomplished his purpose. He’d unburdened himself to her. And she found she was not shocked or even very surprised. A missing puzzle piece had slid into place. “That makes sense,” she said. Something else occurred to her; this wasn’t merely a matter of Crispin, but of laws, and presumably army regulations, as well. “You’ll be careful?”

  “I doubt he’ll ever know,” Crispin said dourly. “The man I want…we did some things, but not the real thing, you see, and now he hardly speaks to me. So I don’t think I’ll be caught doing anything I shouldn’t.”

  “Oh, Crispin,” she said. “I’m sorry.” It had to be terrible, wanting someone he could not have. “Are you sure that he—”

  He lifted a hand, and she stopped speaking. “You’re not going to say anything else?”

  “What is there to say? I don’t imagine there’s anything I can do to change you, if you’re sure. You’re still Crispin, and I still love you.”

 
He clasped her hands in his and lowered his head. “Thanks. You can’t know how much. I’m still getting used to this, myself. Not knowing—I’ve always known, I think—but deciding it’s no good to pretend otherwise.”

  “Drink your tea,” Lucilla said. “We’ll have a nice long chat about it.”

  After, Lucilla knew far too much about Lieutenant Gabriel Meyer, and not enough about what had happened to Ashby. Would Meyer, who knew Ashby’s secret, know anything more than Crispin did? Or perhaps she could obtain more news from Hailey. In the meantime, she passed on the news that she’d met up with Pascal again, fed Crispin all the fresh food he could eat, tucked a deck of cards into each pocket of his uniform tunic for his men and fixed up a tidy packet of sandwiches and chocolate biscuits for him to take back with him.

  Crispin stood straighter than when he’d arrived. Perhaps it was the tea; perhaps it was because he’d unburdened himself to her, of a weight he’d been carrying for a lifetime. He didn’t look exactly like the Crispin whom she’d known all her life. He looked like a soldier, entirely too much like the men whom she helped sew back together.

  “Do be careful,” she said, stroking his lapel, straightening his tie. “I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  Crispin grinned and embraced her. She’d forgotten how strong he was; he squeezed her hard enough to hurt for a moment. “Thanks, Luce. For the cards, too. And don’t forget to let me know what happens with your Frenchman.”

  Lucilla was so sodden with sleep that at first she thought she was dreaming the soft mustache brushing her cheekbone. She turned onto her back, stretching up her arms, and met a solid chest clad in scratchy wool. In her dream, Pascal would be naked or she would know the reason why. She squinted open one eye, feeling as if she stripped off a layer of skin to do so. “What.”