Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  Released from those dangerous, encroaching lips, Kitty cried, “Apollo! No! Please stop! Apollo … you mustn’t—” She ended in a wail, struggling to push the heavy body away.

  There was amusement in his voice. “Why did you tumble into bed with me, little Marousia, if I mustn’t? Ah, dushka, hush. Hush, you always say no, at first; I know you.” He laughed softly. “No games tonight, ma petite, not tonight,” he murmured into the hollow beneath her ear while his hands played down her waist and over her slender hips. His fingers slid under her. Large hands grasped firm buttocks, pressing her fiercely, impatiently, against his body. Kitty gasped at the imprint of his hands burning through the sheer material of her nightdress and inadvertently whimpered in response to the urgent hardness pressing into her belly.

  Catching her breath, she frantically whispered, “Apollo! Please! I implore you!” But her agitated request was strangely breathy.

  Raising his head, Apollo smiled teasingly and laughed again. “You needn’t beg, little Marousia. I’m more than willing.”

  Kitty was seized with both outrage and a terrible excitement. What was he talking about? Who was Marousia? Kitty nervously searched the amused face so close to hers and looked into half-closed, tawny eyes; eyes strangely opaque, dimmed by alcohol. She realized with a sudden sinking feeling that Apollo didn’t know who she was. Good God, he didn’t know!

  The tearful “No!” the gentle resistance, like a scented gauntlet thrown down in the game of love, was a piquant challenge to the prince, whose brain was being forcefully guided by the tightness of his breeches. His head dipped to kiss his little Marousia again, and while his lips stifled a muffled protest, his hand slipped beneath her nightdress, gently touching the smooth flesh inside her thighs. Kitty pressed her legs together, but one strong, bronzed hand, remorseless as a steel wedge, nudged them apart and the light strokes resumed, moving slowly upward. Apollo was enjoying the feel of velvety skin, taking his time, touching, rubbing, his lean, experienced fingers fondly playing with the sensitive fragrant flesh; wooing the lady. Kitty’s brain was reeling uncontrollably; she was incapable of protest as inexplicable emotions terrifyingly mingled with guilt and common sense all cascaded headlong down a turbulent Whitewater of desire while those questing hands took liberties, leisurely explored.

  Apollo’s tongue claimed her mouth without haste, alternately demanding and cajoling, lingering to experience the sweet pleasure it gave him. Then his fingers encountered damp silken hair and a great heat. Kitty moaned, a shattering surge of passion and soaring pleasure burning through her trembling body.

  It appeared—the prince’s inebriated brain registered from vast experience in these matters—it appeared the lady was ready. Rolling over, he sat up to pull off his boots and breeches.

  When Apollo moved away from her, Kitty was left breathless, feeling strangely bereft. But freed as she was from his disturbing embrace, in a few cool moments, commanding purpose was restored to her fevered mind.

  “I’ll scream,” Kitty hissed in a stage whisper. “Every servant will be here in a minute!”

  Apollo looked over his shoulder at her briefly and considered the threat for a moment. His sense of situation in these boudoir encounters flawless, he resumed unbuckling his spurs.

  “So help me, I swear I’ll scream,” Kitty continued lamely, but even as she threatened, she knew she wouldn’t scream. How could this scene possibly be explained to the servants who would come running to her rescue?

  And Apollo also knew, however drunk he was, however vague and hazy his senses, that the threat was quite empty. He had divined the lady’s desires with a sure libertine’s expertise. He recognized the signs—could feel, taste, smell that delicious stirring of female response. He knew it from one end of Russia to the other. Yes, the lady was ready. No, the lady wouldn’t scream.

  Apollo stood for a moment or so unbuttoning his shirt and breeches, then, discarding his clothes, moved back to the waiting woman. Broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, he displayed an arousal so blatant the sight sent a quiver melting down Kitty’s spine, half fear, half anticipation. The illumination from the bedside lamp played over bronzed skin and rippling muscles as he came toward her, splendid as a half-tamed leopard.

  Kitty had known Apollo casually for years, but Captain Prince Apollo Kuzan asserting his full powers at close range she had never known. He was so near she could feel the warmth of his skin; his hair seemed in the fragmented light like spun gold. Without touching her, he swept his gaze over her body, his pale eyes attentive, flaming with gathering violence. She was held fast by those heated eyes, by his physical magnificence, by the sight of him naked and aroused, and a sudden turbulence exploded quietly within her like a blaze on a cool autumn night.

  The silence of the room, breathlessly still, remained unbroken except for the faint whisper of the bed dipping under its new weight. Apollo’s hands reached out to deftly untie the ribbon on the neckline of the white batiste gown. He opened the lacy décolletage, smoothing laces and ribbons aside with a sensuous brushing motion, soft as a held breath, and smiled in a lazy, leisurely way, his untamed, smoldering eyes sweeping the full gleaming ivory curves now rising and falling in breathy agitation. His dark fingers slid peacefully inside to gently cup the heavy breasts, his gilded head bending toward her upturned face.

  Kitty’s lips opened submissively and Apollo Kuzan found warm haven after weeks of war.

  With teasing lightness he nibbled at the fullness of her lower lip, slid the tip of his tongue over the fleshy moist verge, ran tantalizingly over Kitty’s small white teeth, across the delicate arch of her upper lip, teasing, tempting her, his smell of alcohol pungent and sweet, close enough to taste. The devastating tongue danced and incited and asked for more, but still his mouth remained a millimeter away, only brushing her lips occasionally with a touch light as dandelion down in the wind.

  Then his intent, busy hands released her nipples, now taut and achingly erect, and slid up over the flushed fullness of her breasts, squeezing gently, listening to her breathing, pausing to hold the weight of each breast in each of his hands, moving to drift up to the smooth whiteness of her neck, lean, splayed fingers softly gripping her small chin. Kitty, warming, breathlessly yearning for the feel of his kiss, twisted upward. With her small movement his grip tightened almost fiercely and suddenly his mouth moved swiftly down, fastening over hers like an animal with its prey. Kitty cried softly in surrender, overwhelmed by the burning contact, her lips crushed by the hunger of a man who has waited too long. Apollo’s golden eyes closed for a moment in homecoming before he stretched his long body over hers. Supporting himself on his elbows, Apollo rained little kisses of welcome, thanksgiving, and ungentle desire on Kitty’s eyes, forehead, cheeks, ears, always returning lingeringly to her achingly eager lips, taking her breath away with his searing kiss.

  Kitty responded with an unexpected hunger previously unknown to her, and while it excited and tantalized, it also shamed. She tried then, in a fit of conscience, to stop, to pull away … anything but give in to this madness. But when she struggled briefly, saying, “No, no,” in a despairing whisper, turning her mouth away, twisting beneath him, pushing at his muscular torso, Apollo took one of the hands beating at his chest and pulled it slowly down until it touched his rampant hardness. He drew in his breath sharply, his own hand shaking on hers.

  “Yes,” he said in a soft, ragged voice, knowing nothing could stop him from possessing her now—not the threat of hell itself. Then his mouth closed over one nipple, biting softly, tugging gently with teasing teeth, and Kitty, almost paralyzed by the electric flashes of desire tearing through her body, stopped her ineffectual struggles. For dazed, breathless moments Kitty was lost to everything but the glorious heat stealing over her.

  Apollo lifted his mouth when she whimpered a little, and when he moved to recapture her mouth her moans were lost in his breath. “So quiet tonight, Marousia,” he whispered. “Unlike you.” He laughed softly, possessively, assured. �
��Soon you’ll be screaming, dushka, soon.” His knee buried itself between Kitty’s legs, his aroused male force beyond further waiting. She was hot-blooded and ready, and he needed to bury himself into her, feel her close around him.

  All Kitty could think of was the enormous size of him, the hardness and length she felt under her fingers. “It’s too big … I can’t,” she faltered, a little frightened.

  Oblivious to her hesitant murmurs, Apollo swung over her and positioned himself. “You know very well you can, Marousia, my pet. You’ve been abstinent too long, that’s all.” He smiled faintly. “And I as well.”

  “No … I can’t. I mustn’t … I don’t want to.”

  “You want to, darling. It’s very clear,” he said softly, probing the opening that lured him, touching hot, sticky dampness. “Now there.” Apollo sighed softly, feeling the velvety-smooth tightness. “I’ll go slowly … only a little at a time,” he soothed, having learned while still very young to use care in order not to hurt. His hands moved under Kitty’s hips and he lifted her. “Welcome me home, Marousia,” he whispered, “as only you can.” As her thighs parted to make way for him, he began sliding into Kitty’s slick wetness and warmth. “See,” he said hoarsely, “how easy it is”—with melting skill he drove himself deeply into her—“to take it … all.”

  Kitty’s breath suddenly lapsed as he buried himself, and a long denied blazing sensuality opened, exploded, flamed into ravenous need. With a plaintive whimper she threw her arms around his neck and, arching high, held him with all her strength, drawing in the exquisite pleasure. Her eyes, dark with desire, saw nothing, her ears were only tuned to his low, murmured lovewords, and the sense of ecstasy beginning to overwhelm her throbbed like a raging storm out of control.

  Once he was completely fitted into the shape and feel and contour of her body, driving upward Apollo nudged gently, a delicate skilled little nudge, meant to give pleasure, guaranteed to give pleasure, and Kitty’s world exploded, every excruciatingly tingling nerve, all sensation trembled on the edge. She reached for him countless times to pull him deeper, wanting the blissful oblivion, whimpering for the tantalizing delight she felt so near. But he broke gently away each time, withdrawing slightly, forcing the disciplined pauses, whispering as softly and quietly as a northern landscape at dawn, “Wait, Marousia. Don’t rush, little kitten … I’ll make it better.” And while her mind was screaming, No, I can’t wait another minute, not another angel breath of a second, he made her wait, knowing from long practice the importance of patience, knowing that the quivering holding back only made the eagerness peak more acutely.

  Each time he moved back on the withdrawal stroke, small fingers dug into his back, trying to hold him close, not wanting to lose the pleasure, and the clawing, passionate female desire triggered his own ardor, sending new blood into the engorged maleness, swelling him larger and longer. With only a slight pause on the brink of withdrawal to savor the frantic woman whimpering, moaning, clawing at his back, he sank in once again, hard, rigid, penetrating deeply. She was tight, silky as rose petals, and he drove home with a soft sigh of pleasure. His hands slid lower on her hips, he nudged her thighs slightly wider and, bracing himself, settled into a familiar rhythm of thrust and withdrawal that brought them both insensate enchantment. And he was right, of course. He did make it better. Much, much better.

  Abruptly, for their own private reasons of urgency, neither was interested in further delay, only in flesh-to-flesh convulsive need, raging passion, surge and countersurge. When Apollo’s breath broke against her cheek, Kitty, reaching her own rapturous paradise, sobbed quietly and opened wide to receive his seed pouring into her. Then, from a great distance, as if muffled through mountains of cotton wool, Kitty heard a panting scream. Too lost to everything but the pleasure searing the whole of her being, she never knew the unprecedented cry was hers.

  Apollo gazed down at the ripe lips half-open in ecstasy and, well pleased, afforded himself the smallest smile. There. He knew Marousia always screamed. Gratified with her obvious satisfaction, he tipped his head down to draw in the last dying sigh and, pulsing out his own profound release, spilled into the quivering, luxurious woman.

  With Apollo still inside her, Kitty, all warmth and contentment, lazily drifted away from a pleasure unlike any she had ever felt; and when, only moments later, Apollo, growing again, thrust delicately against the exact tingling focus of her bliss, shocked and surprised, she whispered a protest. “No …” She couldn’t again; she was too drowsy, too sore. But Apollo didn’t listen to her, as he hadn’t before, and within a quiveringly short time the building carnal sensations caught Kitty’s breath in her throat. Several careful, skillfully proficient movements later, maddened by long, slow strokes that teased and caressed, Kitty, astonished, unbelieving, with a low, keening cry experienced another violent climax.

  Swollen with blood, Apollo rode her still, bringing her up again and again, slowly, leisurely, exquisitely, until finally Kitty sank into a trembling exhaustion. Only then did Captain Prince Apollo Kusan, having politely pleased the lady, decide it was his turn again, and with a shuddering groan he ground into her, filling and filling and filling the lovely countess with a long suppressed orgasm so intense his hands shook.

  Neither spoke as they both lay there, momentarily overwhelmed with a delicious lassitude. Only the fire crackled in the ornate porcelain stove. The soft light from the small lamp played gently over the entwined figures on the rumpled bed; the long-limbed, bronzed male form almost completely covering the small, white woman. The embroidered counterpane Kitty had been so concerned about lay crushed under their feet. Kitty’s nightgown trailed forgotten, half-on and half-off the bed. Her delicate face, eyes closed, lay framed by gilded waves, and her tiny feet were dwarfed by muscular, tanned calves. The scent of sweet peas floated like a serene goddess over all.

  Apollo’s sweat-sheened body lay sprawled over Kitty, pinning her beneath him, throbbing and diminishing within her. His face was buried in her throat. After long, awkward moments, Kitty moved a little, but he didn’t stir except for a soft exhalation warm against her neck, the tiny motion rasping his stubble across her skin. She tried to ease away, murmuring softly, and only then realized Apollo had fallen asleep. His weight was heavy on her, his hands in sleep gripping involuntarily. Even the slightest movement brought a tightening of those sun-dark fingers. He could not be wakened, moved, or dislodged. And very soon, because she had no choice and it was very late and she was very tired, Kitty drifted into sleep, thoroughly astonished at what had taken place, but pleasurably, contentedly satisfied, Apollo’s sperm warm between her thighs.

  She woke to the feel of him swelling, an infinitely languid sensation that slowly filled her. And when he woke, too, to the realization that the warming flesh, the gentle urgency, was not a dream, his half-lidded eyes gazed indolently for a moment and then closed again as he concentrated on the rhythm set by the moist, tight sheath enfolding him. Small hands came up to pull his face down, and Apollo felt only the deprivation of a long starved man. Later she touched him and he touched her in every delicate, succulent, shameless way possible, and far into the night they explored the depth, height, and breadth of conventional and unconventional lovemaking. It was close to dawn in the dim grayness of the room before Apollo rolled away, flooded with a luscious, ringing weariness, and even then the delicate, soft woman nestled near into the curve of his arm. With the casual familiarity of well-versed practice, he gathered her close and peacefully fell asleep.

  3

  The bright winter morning insinuated itself through triple-paned windows into the master bedroom on the second floor; the late morning sun, creeping in all golden and scintillating past the lace curtains, cast a wayward beam across Apollo’s face. Like an unwelcome visitor the light woke him, and Apollo slowly became aware of two unpleasant facts: he had a violent headache, and his right arm was stiff and cramped. Opening his eyes with a certain reluctance, he glanced down at the small woman cradled in t
he crook of his arm and became aware of a third slightly staggering fact. He swore softly under his breath.

  My God! Bozhe moi! It was Peotr’s wife! The dainty honey-blonde with a face of jewel-like purity, breathing gently in his arms, was none other than his superior’s wife. Wonderingly and half-dismayed, he said “Christ” quietly several times. He knew he shouldn’t have had that last bottle of champagne. Then, like genial Mediterranean breezes, the events of the past night swam pleasurably into his brain and voluptuary memory warmed him. Christ, he breathed again, why had Peotr always talked of his Kitty in wifely terms, describing her as chaste and uninspiring? Were they talking about the same woman? A pensive frown creased his brow, adding to the pounding in his head. Maybe, he speculated with a neutral dispassion, she’d had some instructors since Peotr rode her last, for Sacristi, the countess he had reveled in bed with last night had been as uninhibited and passionately spontaneous as the most practiced whore. But whatever the circumstances, he acknowledged ruefully, he shouldn’t have bedded Peotr’s wife. It wasn’t good form. Actually, it was frightfully bad form. In the cold soberness of morning, several hours too late, he reminded himself reprovingly of the requirements of civility and good manners.

  Kitty woke at that moment, her lashes feathering open, and gazed into cool, golden Tartar eyes, scrutinizing her thoughtfully. The keen examination was sufficient to render the countess very uncomfortable.

  There was a long moment’s silence.

  But even in this most unusual of situations, the prince’s exquisite good breeding did not desert him, although he did look a slight bit disconcerted. “Accept my apologies, madame,” Apollo offered pleasantly in the sibilant French of the Petersburg aristocracy. “I had too much to drink.” She at least didn’t look surprised, he thought, which meant one of them anyway must have been sober.