Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  “The servants … might walk in—” Kitty protested weakly. She had forgotten how quickly he moved.

  Holding her lightly, he parted her legs, intent on fondling the silken triangle between her thighs. “They wouldn’t dare,” he replied helpfully without looking up. Those incredibly adept, lean fingers that had explored every inch of Kitty’s body now found the soft, pouting flesh they had sought and slipped very gently past the entrance swollen from the night’s pleasure. Feeling the distended tissue, Apollo whispered an apology. “I’m sorry. Used you too hard … I’ll be gentle, dushka.” And he soothed, caressed, comforted, his gentle touch slowly stretching, entering, penetrating the moist inner warmth, drowning any discomfort in the tender flesh with new humid fires.

  The countess knew that propriety required she repulse him, but Apollo knew exactly where to touch her. His lightly brushing movements found the secret lodestone of her womanhood, and try as she did to persuade herself of the monstrous folly of her conduct, Kitty could not deny the surge of wild excitement, the shiver of agonizing need induced by those fingers which stroked her as a connoisseur would gently fondle the last Tanagra figurine in the world.

  With a soft moan she collapsed against him, blotting out all thought, abandoning herself to the exquisite chaos of sexual greed and desire. Kitty’s head fell back on his shoulder, a flood of honey-peach hair whispering across navy silk, and once again swelling passion exploded into flame deep inside her. Lying back against the powerfully muscled chest, solid as primordial nature, she gloried in the feel of hard, strong fingers sliding in and out, sometimes only an inch or two up, sometimes reaching as far as they could go, sometimes teasing until she restlessly arched upward, seeking the withheld delight.

  How many times in the last few hours had she felt this intoxication, the diabolical sensuality? She who had always only mildly enjoyed the marriage bed; she who had shyly understood the duties of wife but had never relished them; the same woman who only yesterday had considered herself content as estate manager and helpmate to her husband, ignorant of what passion was, how shameless she could feel. How could she be so wanton, hungering for this stranger as much and as often as he wanted her? Yearning, like the most depraved addict, to indulge once again in delicious excess? Then small explosions began building where the prince’s obliging massage penetrated so exquisitely, and awareness of the depths of her folly faded. She reached for him, whimpering soft little cries, overwhelmed by a blazing heat which rose from her parted thighs. “Apollo,” she sobbed quietly, “Apollo—”

  He’d only been waiting for her to ask this time. Satisfied the countess was ready to accommodate him, his hand wet with the evidence of her urgent need, he caught her around the waist and lifted.

  “Here?” Kitty was shocked.

  “Here,” Apollo murmured huskily, the roughness of his shaven cheek against the curve of her jaw, his lips brushing one soft, pink earlobe. Kitty’s exclamation which had begun on a whisper of dismay ended on a transported sigh, for strong hands slid her slim body very slowly, very carefully down the full, hard length of him.

  No sooner did he enter her than a wild and desperate passion conquered Kitty; in two strokes, with a shuddering sob and a cry, she blissfully succumbed. She clung to him, lying limp in his arms, her breath coming in gentle ebbing sighs. Apollo ran his hands leisurely up her naked back and smiled knowingly, his pleasure infinitely enhanced by hers, pleasantly envisioning many more panting orgasmic cries before he brought himself to climax. This wife of the leader of his troop was most delightfully eager—and surely one of the more voluptuous, greedy little vixens he’d seen. His hands glided to her narrow waist, lean fingers splayed over her reed-slim slenderness and gently rounded hips. He filled her still, his hardness undiminished; she was impaled on him like a willing sacrifice, her ivory arms, pale against the dark silk of his robe twined around his neck, her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. The hands lying on her hips tightened and pressed down, and Kitty tensed her arms around Apollo’s neck, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Both moaned very softly. Apollo’s heavy pectorals and biceps rippled and coiled as he raised Kitty then eased her back down by deliberate degrees. It can’t be happening again … so soon, she thought in a haze of spreading sensual languor. Surely … no. … But he was murmuring lovewords, suggestive, delicious words, very low in a rough-soft voice, telling her what he was going to do to her, telling her to look down and watch—making her look down and watch—and at the sight, at the enormous, terrifyingly delectable sight, she collapsed, tiny convulsive tremors rolling up the sensitized hardness buried deep inside her. She cried out and the sound of her surrender, her helplessness, triggered a primitive sense of triumph in him. He rested, brushing the long golden waves away from her flushed cheeks, kissing her face lightly, aware of the sounds of her breathing. Then he began again.

  Captain Prince Apollo Kuzan, as it turned out, had the Countess Kitty Radachek not only after breakfast, but after lunch and dinner as well. In fact, she was his constant, luscious, inexhaustible diet for the next three days. Thoughts of Kyakhta tea were quite forgotten that morning, lunch was very late, dinner later still. Indeed, the conventional routines of dining were completely abandoned for the following few days.

  And once, very late one night, the prince, taken by surprise, was heard to remark with mocking gruffness, “Hasn’t anyone explained to you, darling, that making advances is unladylike and wholly a man’s prerogative?” At which point he laughed softly at the lady’s muffled reply, reached down to run his fingers lightly over tousled honey-rose curls, and said with a teasing smile, “Well … as long as I’m awake now …”

  There was something of triumph in that lazy smile, for the lady’s burgeoning sensuality was in part a tribute to his talents. Where at first she had been only eager, now she was demanding of her own pleasure, craving him, wanting to possess him, joyfully squandering all her silky treasures on him. And soon, very soon, he was as ravenous as she. He groaned softly, his fingers tightening in the gilt strands of hair, and he murmured pleasantly into the darkness, “Darling, if this is going to be another sleepless night, I’ll have to pray to God for strength ….”

  He interpreted her “Umm-m-m” as an affirmative response. His smile flashed in the dark, and he settled back to enjoy himself.

  4

  Very early on the morning of the fourth day, before the sun was more than a mellow gray light on the distant horizon, Apollo was on the road to Niiji, Karaim and Sahin once more by his side. There was no other sign of life on the vast, empty steppe, only drifted snow and utter silence. At a signal from Apollo, the three powerful thoroughbreds broke into a loping gallop.

  He had left Kitty asleep. Apollo had been touched by her beauty, grateful for her company, enchanted with the blazing excitement of her passion, but there would have been nothing to say this morning except good-bye. He didn’t know where the war would take him; with the boiling caldron of civil war engulfing Russia there was no guarantee he would ever see Kitty again. Conversing around that kind of uncertainty would have been awkward, even painful. Capricious fate would determine the direction of all their lives in the next few months; capricious fate and the bloody buildup of Red Army forces in the north. He hoped she’d understand. He had said his good-byes in bed last night.

  During their three days together, Kitty had talked of her marriage, about Peotr, trying to comprehend what had shockingly come over her with Apollo. Peotr was never home, Apollo had wanted to say; it was understandable, her need for a man. And such great loneliness as Kitty’s was no protection against a cajoling, determined man like Apollo, used to having his way with women and intent on shutting out the war for a brief time.

  Kitty’s softly spoken, unreserved comments concerning Peotr and their marriage were by way of thinking aloud, a mental catharsis to which Apollo quietly listened. If he had chosen, he could have told her he knew more about her marriage and about her husband than she did. He and Peotr had ser
ved in the Corps de Pages together, had campaigned for two years on the western front together, had practically lived within sight of each other for twenty months in Mamontov’s renegade unit.

  Apollo knew all about Peotr’s marriage and was acquainted, as well, with Peotr’s mistress and two children in Baku (of whom Kitty was ignorant). He had companioned Peotr in scores of revels in scores of brothels from Petrograd to Kabul. He even knew exactly why Peotr had married Kitty (the land—marriages of convenience were still the norm in the aristocracy) and exactly why they didn’t get along (Peotr found chaste, young girls for company and apparently had never sought to know the woman).

  Granted, Apollo’s information had been primarily one-sided, but at least he was familiar with the arrangement—although he had never intended to become this familiar with the wife. As graphic memories of Kitty surfaced, of her captivating innocence and shy boldness, his hand inadvertently tightened on the reins and his splendid horse fidgeted nervously. Apollo was startled from his musing. “Sorry, Leda,” he apologized, stroking the carefully groomed golden-chestnut neck.

  Hell, he thought reasonably, it wasn’t so uncommon. Many wives had lovers of their own, and in a sense Peotr and Kitty’s arrangement had never been a marriage. In any event, Apollo decided sensibly, it was nothing to lose sleep over. He had wanted her, he had taken her, he had found her company enjoyable and felt no regrets over the enjoyment. In these uncertain times, one took one’s pleasure where one could. It had been a pleasant, very charming three days, that was all. Now back to the war. Back to the damn war they were losing inch by inch, mile by mile.

  • • •

  Kitty stood at the bedroom window watching Apollo ride away. He sat on his horse with a careless arrogance, broad-shouldered under the heavy marten officer’s coat, all the accoutrements of war buckled and belted on once again. Apollo was riding hatless in the chill December morning, and his long, golden hair shone like a saintly aureole in the blue-gray light preceding the dawn. She had curled her fingers in those golden waves, Kitty recalled vividly; had been lured into the smiling depths of Apollo’s great tawny eyes.

  Pensively, she wished she were a gypsy or peasant girl or one of the new Cossack women who fought as soldiers, so she would have dared to ride away with Apollo. It would have been joy to travel by his side, sharing the pleasure of his presence; she envied Karaim and Sahin. But it didn’t really matter, any of her wishes … because Apollo hadn’t asked her to come with him. Hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing her again. Of course he hadn’t, she quickly told herself. Even if he had wanted to … And a hundred excuses for his reticence poured into her brain.

  In any event, she wasn’t a gypsy or peasant or Cossack girl. No matter what happened, she still remained Princess Kurminen and Countess Radachek, was very much married, and carried sole responsibility for the land that had passed unaltered in these adjoining estates through fifty generations. No, she couldn’t leave, no matter how pleasing the dream. Her audible sigh broke the stillness of the room.

  Kitty’s small hand let the lace curtain drop back into place, obscuring the distant figure of Apollo behind the delicate filigree. She turned away from the window and turned away from the man who had given her warmth and laughter, had taught her the vital spirit of passion. A man who smiled easily, charmed irresistibly, emanated the very essence of life. Kitty looked at the white birchwood bed where she had learned to love and knew she would never be the same again.

  In little more than an hour Leda covered the short distance to Zadia’s, and Apollo dismounted before an elegant marble pavilion, architecturally derived from Madame Pompadour’s Petit Trianon, the dalliance ground of an earlier courtesan of splendid taste—and in those opulent terms Zadia styled herself, despite the remote geographic situation of Niiji. Wild and uncivilized the terrain might be at the base of the savage Caucasus foothills, thousands of miles from the leading cities, but Zadia’s was not even marginally provincial. It had the advantage of being scant hours from Besh-Tau and Kislovodsk, the richest spas in the world.

  Apollo turned to whisper briefly into the mare’s ear, soothed the long, silky mane with a leather-gloved hand, then handed the reins to Karaim. The two bodyguards remained behind as Apollo strode up the gentle rise of marble stairs, slightly numbed from an hour’s ride in the arctic temperatures. Heavy wooden doors opened at his approach—Zadia prided herself on her liveried staff of servants—and Prince Apollo walked into the familiar travertine-floored foyer. Hovering footmen divested him of his weapons, coat, papakha, and gloves, and at his request ushered him into the small breakfast parlor in the east wing.

  Moments later, as Apollo was contemplating a serving of curried eggs, his solitude was broken by several companions of his cavalry unit. His cheerful greeting was met by a variety of responses, individually dependent on the exact nature of the addressee’s alcohol consumption the previous night. Some were genial, others slightly subdued, a few merely acknowledged Apollo with a short nod of recognition—verbal exercise, at the moment, being beyond their capabilities.

  When Prince Kadar Guirey sat down at the linen-covered breakfast table, his thin Tartar lips drew into an assessing smile. Slowly stirring his glass of tea, he said, “Lost your way, eh, Apollo? Knowing you, we didn’t send out a search party. She must have been superior to interest you for the entire three days. Anyone I know? But then, you’ve always been a shade careless where you’ve slept, haven’t you?” The leer was almost too obvious.

  Fitting his shoulders comfortably into the curve of the Chippendale chair, Apollo leaned back in an elegant sprawl. Smiling pleasantly, he merely said in a noncommittal way, “She’s shy.”

  “I didn’t think you liked them shy.”

  Apollo’s mouth twitched. “I like ’em any way.”

  “Regardless of age—right, Apollo?”

  “Leave off, Kadar. That was a bet. Anyway, Helene wasn’t that old—in her forties, probably.”

  “Try fifties!” his mirthful interrogator genially replied.

  Apollo digested this. “Really?” he said, amazed for a moment. “Well, regardless, it turned out rather nicely. In fact, I had lunch with her a few months ago, before she closed up her house and left for Europe.”

  “Just lunch?” Kadar was in waggish good humor.

  Apollo shrugged. “What can I say—Helene’s in marvelous shape. And—” his eyelids lowered suggestively—“there’s something to be said for years of experience.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Kuzan.” There was more than a hint of disapprobation in the languid drawl.

  “Hell, no. Just willing to taste indiscriminately from the, er, ‘smorgasbord’ of life.” Apollo’s face was bland.

  Prince Guirey drew in his breath sharply. Flushing under his swarthy skin he hissed, “Apollo! You promised not to mention that!”

  “Relax, Kadar, my lips are sealed.” A slow smile creased Apollo’s sardonic face. “By the way, how is your sister?”

  “Fine!” Prince Guirey snapped, his face reddened.

  “Good. Happy to hear it,” Apollo lazily drawled. “It’s not often brother and sister get along so famously.”

  A party several years ago had gotten out of hand, and when someone drunkenly suggested the lights be turned out and partners picked in the dark from a smorgasbord of willing, unclad females, a roar of young voices riotously agreed. When the lights were restored hours later, Kadar was aghast to find the young lady he had been making love to so long and so blissfully was none other than his sister.

  “So then,” Apollo went on convivially, his teasing tormentor neatly set down, “it looks as though everyone had an entertaining time without me.” His smile widened as his clear, alert, golden eyes regarded the variously slouched and sprawled officers. Only a few were eating breakfast; most chose to cradle their heads in their hands and stare at their coffee or tea. Moans and groans greeted his remark.

  “Christ, Apollo,” exclaimed one extremely young coronet. “How the hell do yo
u always look so goddamn fresh?” The speaker’s face was pale and of a distinctly greenish cast. Apollo threw him a commiserating look.

  “Mostly, Kolya, because I love the ladies, and it, ah, works out better if I pass out after the tumble in bed rather than before—so I pace my liquor. When you get older, mon pauvre, you’ll iron out the sequence.” Suddenly a small smile tugged at his mouth. “Although”—Apollo’s mind drifted back to his initial encounter with Kitty—“the sequence of events is not necessarily inflexibly rigid.”

  Another officer, arriving in time to see the roguish grin play across Apollo’s face, asked, “So who is she? I see that pleasingly smug smile. Don’t be selfish now, Apollo. You know how things are—here today, gone tomorrow. Give us a name, anyway, so we can warm her bed if you’re blown off your horse.” It was a sentiment silently entertained by more than one man there that morning, for Apollo’s standards concerning women were deliciously diverse, and always high.

  Apollo shrugged eloquently. “Sorry, Mahomet. Courtesy forbids me.” He arched one brow, the pleasant smile still in place.

  “Damn. So you found a high-class whore. Some people have all the luck!” Mahomet Shamkhal was a Baku Moslem, and in his culture, harems protected refined females. He didn’t understand the western distinctions regarding upper-class women and love affairs—the distinction that protected a lady’s name, but not a peasant girl’s. In Mahomet’s milieu, any female allowing herself to be touched by anyone but her husband was a whore.

  “Mahomet, you have no delicacy in matters of the heart.”