Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  “Like that?” he murmured huskily.

  “Yes—no—I mean, you shouldn’t do that with …”

  “Why not?” His slender hand was nuzzling experimentally and Kitty was having trouble thinking clearly.

  “It doesn’t …”

  “Tell me how it seems, little kitten,” his voice softly demanded. “I want to know,” and with a delicate slowness he slid the smooth cabochon jewel into the damp softness, his eyes watching her intently. He forced it upward into the tight passage, and when his fingers nudged it deeply, Kitty melted away from the sweet agony of sensation flooding over her. His tawny eyes lazily smoldering, Apollo, with a devastating gentleness, traced the emerald along the inner surfaces, guided by a light, sure touch, and as it moved higher, lower, from side to side, slick from her ardent arousal, cool against her heated interior, Kitty arched to meet the mounting, compelling rapture.

  “Does it feel good? Should I leave it in?” Huskily intimate and knowing, a half smile of pleasure tilted across his face.

  She gave a breathless little “No.”

  “No?”

  “No—yes—I don’t know. Lord, Apollo, don’t ask me … now.…” Each word was wrenched from a mind obsessed with other things.

  “Do you want me to stop?” It was a sensuous murmur, provocative, as his lean hand moved the pendant slightly higher.

  Kitty stirred against the smothering ecstasy and he had his answer.

  He continued to stroke languidly inside the heated woman, who was softly writhing under his feathered touch, and his deep voice lazily caressed her senses like the August sun. “I could unhook the pendant from the pearls and leave it inside you, as the Oriental women do. Then every time you moved, you’d feel it. Every shift and rustle of your body would make you ready for love, ready for me. You’d feel it when you walked, when you sat down to luncheon; you could feel it when you bent over to pick up your shoes or reached for a frock from your armoire.” The sound of his voice was a sensual whisper that curled through her heated mind like pale wisps of fog. “I’d have to stay close to you … to keep you satisfied.… Maybe you could stay in the bedroom and I’d come to you when you wanted more. Should I leave it in for a day or so?”

  He could always control her so easily with his adept expertise, with his touch that had known so many women, and a small corner of Kitty’s mind fought at that terrible loss of independence. “No, no, I don’t want to,” she cried through the blood pounding in her ears.

  He gave a very small smile as he gazed at the flushed, passionate woman. In that familiar, self-assured tone he said, “What if I say you do? You’ll like it, I know.”

  A tiny spark of resentment surfaced through the sexual haze inundating her. “How do you know what I’d like?”

  “I just do,” he said, and instinctively Kitty knew he was talking about women from his past.

  She fought against the peaking crescendo and tried to struggle free. “In that case, I definitely won’t—”

  One sun-darkened hand held her shoulder with an effortless casualness and the other hand shifted, two fingers going where one had been, and Kitty’s last words were lost in a soft, shivering whimper.

  “When I have you here like this, I can make you do anything, chérie. You know it and I know it. Your luscious body is quite insatiable. Am I right?”

  She was being very stubborn. “No.”

  “Am I right, kitten?” he purred, and his mouth closed over the hardened peak of one rosy nipple, lifting it lightly.

  Instantly beyond reason or mundane resentment, Kitty sobbed wildly, “Yes—yes … Apollo, save me!”

  He knew she couldn’t wait for him; it was too late already, so he let her go without him and Kitty crested beneath his hands in shuddering, convulsive waves. “Je t’adore,” he whispered against her warm cheek as she stilled in his arms. He did adore her, her open sensuality so fresh and pure; her vixenish impatience he hadn’t been able to curb; most of all, her demanding desire for him, and that, he happily mused, would, with luck, never be curbed.

  Kitty floated back to reality, sinfully pleasured, sinfully happy, in the arms of the man who imprisoned her senses, who could, at his merest touch, suddenly make all else illusion. She heard a metallic click, felt the pearls fall away, the emerald glide wetly from her body, and then her deep green eyes focused on the male-hard body poised above her. The sensation of warm legs easing hers farther apart tingled up her thighs, a hardness penetrated her yielding softness, filling her slowly so she felt each persuasive sliding pressure, and as hip met hip she rose to meet the man who made her complete.

  Sometime later, stripped of all her jewels which Apollo had casually tossed aside like yesterday’s croissants, Kitty lay across his chest, pouting a little. “It isn’t fair, when you stroke me, thus and so—” Her hands flew lightly over his shoulders and down delineated pectorals. “I’ll do anything for you.”

  “It’s the same for me, sweetheart, often, every day. All I have to do is look at you and I want you.” He smiled into the waves of her hair resting beneath his chin. “You don’t know how many times I’ve damned the number of servants we have underfoot.”

  “You’re always so much in control—or so it seems, curse your conceited hide.” The opulent curve of Kitty’s lower lip was distractingly petulant, like ripe fruit, and now that she had looked up, it was simply willing him to take a bite. He rigorously forced his gaze away. She was the most distracting female he’d ever known and he proceeded to explain that to her.

  “On the contrary, pet, look at me sometime, even in the midst of company. You’ll come walking into the room looking delicious and I’ll have to sit down immediately and cross my legs to avoid being indiscreet. You have me in a slavery of love, madame. There is nothing one-sided about this relationship.”

  The little pout had eased and a faint smile had taken its place. “I’ll have to look next time.”

  “Please don’t. It’ll only make the obvious more obvious. Think how embarrassed our guests will be.”

  Kitty laughed then, the delectable, throaty peal that was distinctly hers. “It’s marvelous to know I have such power over you.”

  “I knew I never should have told you,” Apollo replied with an amiable twitch of his lips. “It leaves my libido vulnerable to all sorts of blackmail.”

  Kitty giggled delightfully and teasingly purred, her face very close to Apollo’s, “The next time we’re at a party, I’ll have to walk up to you as you’re seated sedately in your chair and say, ‘Apollo, will you get me some more champagne?’”

  “And I’ll say, ‘Have the servants get you some.’”

  “Then I’ll simply have to coax you up to, say, meet one of the new guests.”

  “If you do that, little vixen, I’ll call your hand and do you one better. When standing, my arousal will be patently clear to all, and I guarantee you, with or without polite excuses, you will be carried upstairs right before everyone’s titillated eyes.”

  “You wouldn’t!” The green eyes registered hesitant disbelief.

  “I would—and you know it, hussy.” He grinned. “Be warned.”

  Kitty’s long lashes lowered coquettishly and one bare foot laced itself around Apollo’s leg. “It might be amusing to call your bluff sometime. What would your parents say if you were to do something like that in Paris?”

  Apollo chuckled and Kitty felt the soft motion of his body. “Papa would say it was a marvelous way to duck another tedious evening party, and Maman would continue her conversation as though nothing had happened. And if anyone would be so bold as to call her attention to my behavior, she would simply shrug and reply that her boys were always so unpredictable … like their father. You see, you’re simply going to have to learn to do what you’re told. I always win,” he said with a grin, and only just in time caught the leg aimed at his groin.

  The playful tussle that ensued was not unlike that of a puppy battling a benign wolfhound.

  Much later Apollo drew
away and, reaching down to the foot of the bed, pulled up the remaining packages, saying, “Now that we’ve both caught our breath, see if any of this strikes your fancy.”

  Kitty unwrapped three more dresses and two tea gowns in pale lace. The third package yielded an extravagant chinese brocade in shades of black and silver, very theatrical and resplendent. “Everything’s magnificent! The Revolution hasn’t diminished the couturier’s trade, it seems.”

  “Apparently not. Karaim says the commissars’ wives and mistresses are quite insatiable when it comes to extravagant living.”

  “And the jewelry—” Kitty ran her hands over the pile of pearls, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and lapis that Apollo had tossed in a heap on one side of the large bed. “So much, Apollo, and all so lovely. It wasn’t necessary,” she whispered.

  “But I wanted to. When we finally reach Europe, I’ll be able to buy you so much more. I miss being able to buy you trinkets.”

  Kitty’s head was bent, but she was silently fingering the modest fortune in lustrous jewelry.

  When she remained quiet for several seconds, Apollo looked at her more closely. The firelight glistened off a tiny trail of tears, and when he reached for her, Kitty brushed them away in embarrassment. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter? Did I say something?” He tipped his golden head to look into her face, his dark brows furrowed in concern. “Dushka, if you’re worried about my fidelity, don’t. I was only teasing you. I’ve quite reformed. My word on it.”

  “It’s not that.” Kitty shook her head, reaching up to intercept two more tears racing down her cheek.

  “What’s wrong then, kitten?” Apollo inquired gently and, casually shoving aside the treasure in jewels, he gathered her into his arms. Lifting her into his lap, he sat cross-legged on the bed, holding her close, his hands stroking her soothingly. “Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me,” Kitty softly replied.

  “Then why the tears?”

  Kitty looked up into Apollo’s pale eyes, now filled with love and anxiety. “Peotr never bought me a present in all our years of marriage.”

  Apollo knew his self-centered friend well enough not to be surprised at this, but he still wasn’t reassured about the source of Kitty’s tears. “And you’re crying about that?” he asked with a certain perplexity—and, if he was honest with himself, a certain twinge of jealousy.

  “No, I’m happy,” Kitty said, which didn’t help his perplexity at all, although it neatly quashed the jealousy.

  “So, you’re crying.…” he said slowly.

  “Tears of happiness, dummy.” A quivering smile appeared.

  Although Apollo’s expertise with women covered certain areas in depth, this was his first experience with this particular cliché. “Ah.…” he said in apparent understanding, accepting Kitty’s explanation, but still prone to a vague uneasiness. “So you’re actually happy?”

  “Very happy.”

  “And you like the gowns and jewelry?”

  “Immensely.”

  “In that case, dushka,” he said with a wicked grin, “I’ll have to go on another shopping expedition very soon.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Kitty squealed, her pummeling fist accenting the exclamation, melancholy wiped clean from her fragile features.

  He rolled onto his back in mock affright, laughing softly as she followed him down, her fists bouncing off the hard muscles of his chest. Tears made him nervous, especially poignant tears about her past. He much preferred his independent, autocratic, vixenish Kitty, and, rolling away from her, he lightly leaped from the bed, raised his hands in a lazy gesture of surrender, and said, “You’re the boss, ma’am.” Splendidly naked, he stood there, just out of reach. “I’m resigned to life with a malapert shrew.”

  “A shrew! You beast! You incorrigible—” Scrambling across the bed, she lunged for him, and effortlessly he caught her. Slowly he slid her down his body as she continued the heated description of his character, until suddenly her downward progress halted and Kitty uttered a tiny, “Oh.”

  She looked up quickly and met warm golden eyes. “As I said, madame,” Apollo murmured softly, “I’m your slave.…”

  Whether slave or master of his fate, no further raids ensued, for a greater force held sway. The winter storms came howling down the rugged Caucasus range, and the mountain passes were either closed or barely passable. The village of Dargo settled into its winter hermitage. Word came through occasionally; the most ominous those concerning Georgia to their south, the only nation remaining independent in what had been old Russia’s borders. Although the Soviet government had signed a treaty with Georgia recognizing its independence, now, through the winter months, they were disputing a thousand and one diplomatic technicalities with the small nation. The fall of Armenia in December should have served warning to Georgia, but its politicians existed in a vacuum of diverse and warring political ideologies, so while the diplomats busily negotiated over trivial, minute changes in commercial treaties or railroad right-of-ways and the political parties in Georgia’s parliament scrapped over power, Soviet troops massed on the borders of Georgia and the Russian Eleventh Army prepared for a full-scale attack. Georgia’s independence was ticking away; it was only a matter of time before the last remaining sovereign nation would be “welcomed” into the Soviet Union of Socialist States.

  In fact, on the same day—February 25, 1921—the first foreign minister of Georgia, Chkhenkeli, was presenting his credentials to the president of the French Republic in Paris, hundreds of Georgian soldiers fell on snow-covered battlefields defending their country against attack. On that day, Red Army troops captured the capital of Tiflis. Commander Orjonikidze telegraphed Moscow, “The red banner of the Soviet regime is aloft in Tiflis. Long live Soviet Georgia!”

  18

  During the last week in March, the Cub fell ill.

  Apollo and Kitty had been carrying him for three days. He was so sick that it was the only way he would sleep. He would hold on to their thumb, and if they’d hold their hand very still he’d sleep. But the minute they’d move their thumb he’d wake right up. He could swallow only ice, so the kitchen staff delivered fresh fruit ices and sherbets every hour ’round the clock. On the fourth day of the fever his breathing became raspy and difficult, his little face turning blue at times from the effort to breathe. Kitty was terrified, and Apollo’s alarm mounted at the Cub’s labored struggles. All the village remedies and folk medicines had failed to help in any way.

  By late morning, fearful for his son’s life, Apollo abruptly declared, “I’m going to Shura for a doctor.”

  “Send someone, Apollo, please,” Kitty pleaded. “Don’t go yourself. Since Georgia fell there’s no safe haven, and they’re still killing any White officers they find. Please, Apollo, don’t! You’re known in Shura,” she cried in fear. “Someone might recognize you!”

  “He’s my son.” And as if that were explanation enough, Apollo handed the Cub to Kitty, walked into his dressing room, and began to buckle on his holster. Kitty’s face was contorted, her eyes wide with anguish—was she to lose both those she loved most in the world?

  Seeing the panic, Apollo returned and took Kitty and the Cub gently in his arms. “Sweetheart, now listen to me. The doctor won’t come up here unless I fetch him. You know that. No one in Shura trusts the mountain men. And I can’t sit here and watch my son die without help. Just take care of the Cub until I return.”

  “But Apollo, if you’re recognized …”

  He bent to kiss her gently on the forehead. “It’ll be dark by the time we reach Shura.” Placing a light hand on the Cub’s cheek, his fingers touched the feverishly hot skin. “Damn,” he muttered worriedly. The Cub was burning. “I’ll be back as soon as I can; eight hours at best.” With a light, brushing kiss into Kitty’s hair, Apollo turned on his heel and ran from the room, shouting orders as he raced down the wide stairway. Maybe if they tried the Erpeli-Gimri pass they could be in Shura earlier. Las
t week the snow was still too deep, but a week of warm weather in March could make a difference. It was worth the risk.

  Before Apollo was completely dressed in papakha and burkha, Leda was being led from the stables and Karaim had appeared in the foyer. Immediately out the door and down the steps, both were in the saddle before the horses were completely packed with gear, Apollo impatiently brushing aside the additional equipment. He didn’t have time. Apollo dug in his heels and Leda lunged down the mountain trail. Bending forward, Apollo spoke softly into the mare’s ear. Straightening, he gave her her head and she plunged and skidded down the narrow track. At the valley floor, the golden Karabagh sprang forward like a released crossbow. Understanding the tone of urgency, the panic in her master’s voice, Leda responded with strength and heart.

  “I hope you’re ready for a hard ride,” Apollo shouted to Karaim across the brisk and windy mountain air.

  “I’ll stay with you,” Karaim shouted back, and side by side they rode like madmen.