“Of course.” In minutes she returned with two freshly ironed hankies. “Do you need to return to the airbase tonight?”
Christine sniffed and swiped a handkerchief over her reddened eyes. “No.”
“Good, you can stay here.” Pamela bustled around getting glasses and pulling her Scottish whisky from the depths of her kitchen cupboard. She poured a little into the two glasses and handed one to Christine. She wanted to ask about Michael, but didn’t know how to do it tactfully. Hesitating, she finally took a sip of her whisky, shuddering from the burn of liquor traveling down her throat. Finally, she couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. “Is Michael okay?”
Christine gave a stiff nod. “I saw him this morning. He … he told me about Owen.”
Pamela tried to hide her relief, once again aware of her cousin’s heartache. But thanks filled her inside. She knew it could have just as easily been her grieving for Michael. She bit her lip to stem the sudden welling of emotion inside her.
“I tried to tell Owen we should get married, but he refused.” A sob came from deep down in her cousin’s chest. “He told me he loved me.”
“He loved you, Christine.” She’d seen his devotion in his face.
“He’s gone, Pamela. What will I do without him? I loved him so much.”
Pamela swallowed the lump in her throat. There was nothing she could say to help her cousin. Nothing.
She kept Christine company, pulling out her tin of sewing materials to do some darning while they sat in silence. The intermittent spates of tears tore at her heartstrings, blurring her sight. When she pricked her finger for the third time, she gave up and set her mending aside.
“I think you should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll run you a warm bath first.” In the bathroom, Pamela ignored the level line drawn on the inside of the bath and let the water run longer than she should with the current restrictions. She hunted for the perfumed soap she used for special occasions and set it out for her cousin’s use.
“Thanks,” Christine croaked when she helped her disrobe and get into the bath.
“Take your time.”
Half an hour later, she put Christine into bed, leaving her with more dry handkerchiefs. Pamela decided to go to bed too, but didn’t sleep well. Christine’s heartrending sobs kept her awake into the small hours of the morning.
* * * *
“Michael, please come inside.” They’d met up at the cinema but neither of them had wanted to sit through Gone with the Wind again. Instead, they’d gone for a walk to the wishing well at the far end of the village, skirting well-frequented places, before Michael escorted her home. Since the news of Owen’s death, she’d done a lot of thinking and had come to a conclusion. Time was short. Precious. Kisses weren’t enough.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” It was as if they’d exchanged shoes. Where initially she’d been hesitant, now she wanted him to stay and hang the consequences. He wanted to leave.
“Your neighbor’s curtains twitch every time I come anywhere near your cottage,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before she catches me. Besides we shouldn’t—” He stopped abruptly. After speaking with Christine earlier this evening, she realized he was probably about to mention the likelihood of the enemy shooting down his plane or the possibility of becoming a prisoner of war. And he would’ve stopped because of simple superstition. Christine had mentioned how the pilots had their preflight rituals and she already knew about the lucky charms they swore kept them alive and helped them return to the airfield in one piece. Pilots seldom spoke of death, and Michael would be no different. He believed in his talisman and its power to keep him alive.
If her presence or company gave him a fraction of relief then that’s what she wanted to give him. Comfort. Happiness. She took a deep breath before attempting to persuade him to stay. “Let me worry about Mrs. Pearson. If she gives me a hard time, I won’t serve her in the store. I can act mean and tough if I have to. What time do you need to return to the mess? I’ll make a cup of tea.” With a quick glance at Mrs. Pearson’s house, she dragged him up the path to the door and tugged him inside, part of her astonished at her forwardness and daring. Owen’s death changed everything—certainly her thinking. If Michael wanted more than kisses then that’s what she wanted too. Christine was right. If Michael died and she hadn’t been intimate with him, she’d regret it for the rest of her years. She was old enough to know her mind and she wanted Michael. She bit her bottom lip to contain the nervous laugh straining for freedom. Thomas was probably spinning in his grave and muttering about whores to any devil in the vicinity who’d listen. “Michael, I’ve missed you.”
He stood stiffly, ill at ease, which was silly considering he’d visited her before. Pamela shut the door to halt any thoughts he might have of escape. The door squeaked when she closed it, reminding her she’d meant to oil the hinges. They’d all started to squeak recently. Before she’d left to meet Michael, she’d pulled the blackout curtains across the taped windows and now, she switched on the small lamp in the hall. Pamela removed her coat and hung it on the coat stand.
“This way.” She tugged on his hand again, leading him into the kitchen. After directing him to sit on a wooden chair, she busied herself with making tea.
“I don’t want tea. Don’t waste it unless you want some.” Michael checked his pocket watch.
Inhaling deeply, she studied him closely. Once again, his likeness to Thomas struck her. The only difference was Michael didn’t terrify her. A big difference. Slowly she walked toward him, catching his beautiful green gaze and holding it. She decided to make her feelings clear. “We haven’t known each other long, but I want you. We’re both adults. I think we should act on our inclinations.” She stepped between his parted legs and kneeled to rub her breasts against his chest. The contact felt so good she repeated the move before continuing with her argument.
At first, shock widened his eyes, then the corners crinkled in silent humor and the tension seeped from his large frame. “We can be adult together, then.” He reached out to cup her face with his hands and smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip before lifting her to sit on his knee. The muscles in his legs flexed beneath her bottom. “Since we’re being adult about this, maybe we should recline in comfort.”
“Good idea,” she said, but first she succumbed to temptation. She ran her hands through his dark hair. It was soft beneath her fingertips and smelled of fresh air and a hint of bay rum. She trailed kisses across his smooth cheek before slanting her lips over his mouth. Their mouths met and mated until desire rose between them. Each new touch and caress added a new layer to the sweet tension holding her in its grip. The man made kissing special. She could sit with him like this for hours and not become tired of it. Their tongues tangled for a long moment, exploring and teasing each other. Michael’s hands slipped over her shoulders before cupping her breasts. Sensation shot through her, even though two layers of cloth separated their skin.
“Are you sure about this? I didn’t think you wanted—”
She pressed her fingers across his mouth to stop him talking. “I’m sure.”
“Can I unbutton your dress?”
She loved the way he asked permission instead of assuming since it made her feel in control, as if this wasn’t about him, but about her and her pleasure as well. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
Michael’s fingers were warm, and they trembled when he maneuvered buttons from buttonholes. He kissed each inch of skin he bared until he reached the curves of her breasts. His tongue traced along the edge of her plain white brassiere. Her nipples pebbled and the ache at the juncture of her thighs intensified. She held her breath waiting for more of his touch, yearning for it. “You need to start taking liberties,” she blurted.
His bark of laughter made her smile with delight. He didn’t laugh much, and during each day alone, she’d treasure this moment.
In silent encouragement, she clasped his head to h
er breasts. His fingers slipped under the cup of her brassiere and his mouth followed when he pulled the fabric lower. The warm, wet suction of his mouth drove her crazy, his touch sensuous. Distracting. If he moved a fraction lower … Her nipples ached for the wet pull of his mouth. Tension pulsed through her, converging between her legs until desperation governed her. “Michael, please.” She attempted to wriggle from her dress but with him clutching her so closely, movement proved difficult. Realizing what she wanted, he lifted his head and smiled.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he said.
“Please, I don’t want to stop.”
“I won’t.” He nodded to confirm his words, his lips reddened from their kisses. “Can we take this somewhere more private? I’d hate Christine to walk in on us.”
She stood, deciding his suggestion was a good one. She wasn’t expecting Christine, but she often turned up out of the blue. After righting her dress and doing up the top button so it didn’t gape, she captured his hand in hers and led him into her bedroom. He shut the door behind them, the soft click reminding her of his words—it would soon be too late to change her mind. Did she want this? She glanced at his serious face and acknowledged her answer—an emphatic yes, despite the possibility of a backlash from gossiping biddies who wouldn’t recognize love or lust if it bit them on the backside. She didn’t know why she trusted him, but she did. Besides, with the number of bombs falling from the sky she faced as much danger as Michael. Tonight was a slice of pleasure for them both to hold close when they coped with an uncertain future.
She toed off her shoes and set them aside before turning back to face him. She found him studying her room and contents, as if he wanted to discover everything about her. Unashamedly feminine, her room was a haven. A vase of fragrant roses, picked from the garden, stood on a small corner table, their color matching the floral border on her wallpaper. The bed was an old-fashioned double instead of the latest vogue in single ones. Perfect for two lovers. She’d spread a delicate throw over her satin-covered eiderdown while her dresser bore witness to her anxiety from earlier in the evening. A pair of earrings and a discarded necklace along with a lipstick, perfume, a jar of face cream, and her hairbrush littered the top.
Michael picked up an earring, ran his thumb over the delicate golden hoop and returned it to the dresser. He fingered the petals of a pink rose before wandering back to sniff her perfume bottle. “It’s different from our barracks and mess,” he said. “More like a home. When we’re not flying, we go to the pub or locals invite us to dine with them. I told you we went to Marin House last week, didn’t I?” He grinned suddenly. “I scarcely breathed or touched anything in case I broke an irreplaceable item. The other blokes thought the same, but the visit was a change from routine. The meal was tasty.”
His words gave her new insight into their lives. Every young boy wanted to fly a plane and shoot down the enemy. When they became older, not everyone could fly, either for medical reasons or for lack of opportunity. The pilots were an elite group and this explained their confidence and cockiness. Yet they also encountered moments of vulnerability and stress. She’d seen it firsthand in Michael.
Pamela approached him with a smile. “Kiss me.”
He closed the remaining distance between them with two giant steps. Sweeping her into his arms, he squeezed her tight before loosening his embrace to tip back her head. Their bodies touched from chest to knee. She registered the flex of his muscles and the rigid length of his cock where it pushed into her lower stomach. While his lips slid across hers, teasing and nibbling, he unfastened the buttons of her dress again. Competent, steady hands undid her belt and tossed the fabric-covered strip aside. His expertise worried her a little, bringing with it an unwarranted flash of jealousy. She wondered about previous lovers. A first, and she didn’t know where the notion came from. A gasp of distress escaped and she pulled away. She scanned his face searching for truth, for reassurance.
“Are you married or engaged?”
“No, of course not. Why would you ask that?” He sounded confused rather than angry.
“I don’t know.” She scowled, fleeting thoughts of Thomas invading her mind. “No, that’s not the truth. Sometimes you remind me of my husband.”
It was his turn to frown. “I’m not your husband.”
“No, you’re not. I want you here with me, Michael. Please forgive me. Can we go back to kissing? Please. I guess I’m a bit apprehensive.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m suffering a few nerves too.”
“You are?”
“Yes. You matter to me. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”
Immediately the tension bled from her. “Kissing. Shall we start there again?”
“That sounds like a fine plan to me.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose and another smacking one on her neck.
“Why aren’t you engaged or married?” she asked, curious despite herself.
“Because until you I hadn’t met anyone I liked enough to ask out on a regular basis.” His gaze held steady on her face after an initial flash of pain flickered through his green eyes. “I’ll admit there have been women, but no one serious. I didn’t think it was fair to become attached to a woman or allow her to come to care for me when I mightn’t make it through the war.”
“And now?”
“And now I want to make love to you regardless of the war or the fact we’re not married. I want to make good memories with you.” Michael’s words rang with truth and sincerity. On this they agreed. Waiting and acting prudently was silly.
“Are you going to see me again, after tonight?”
“Of course. I don’t intend to walk away after we’ve had sex,” he said. “Any other questions?” A faint thread of irritation colored his words. He didn’t like her prodding and she couldn’t blame him. Suddenly her behavior was uncharacteristically ambivalent. Stupid. Stupid! He’d leave if she didn’t watch what she said.
“Would you like me to leave?”
“No!” Pamela said, panicked at the thought of him walking away. In that second she knew she’d sleep with him, despite her lingering reservations, and hope for the best. One day at a time. Christine was right. The uncertainty shouldn’t stop them from reaching out for the future or security. A bomb had fallen on one of the nearby village schools two days ago, killing twenty-six children and adults. Chances were it would happen here. Besides, she couldn’t let Thomas rule her from the grave. Time to move on. She settled the matter by removing her dress and leaving it over the back of a chair. Turning, she stood in front of Michael dressed in her brassiere, knickers, and stockings. She posed, holding her breath while she waited for his reaction.
Her determined denial had dispersed the tense set of his shoulders. Now heat smoldered in his eyes, darkening them to a deep green. Raising her hands, she slipped the pins from her hair and set them on the dresser. One by one, the brown locks fell to her shoulders. She ran her fingers through the long strands, carefully watching his reaction. Mesmerized. He watched her like a starving man in need of a meal. A grin sprang to life at the analogy while sensations sizzled through her body. She hadn’t looked at a man with lust for over a year, well before Thomas’s death. She hadn’t wanted to, but now the desire for a man’s touch ran out of control, memories of good sex from the past propelling her onward.
Michael prowled toward her, backing her up until the backs of her legs hit the bed. She toppled backward with a cry of surprise, not hurt but a little flustered. Before she scrambled to her feet, Michael had unlaced his boots, kicked them off and joined her on the bed. The dip in the middle made her feel like a stranded fish at times. Tonight, the hollow worked in her favor. She smothered her amusement and stilled, soaking in the sensations. His bay rum filled her every breath while his shirt and trousers rubbed against her skin. The amount of clothing between them frustrated her fevered need for nakedness. She trembled when she imagined two bodies sliding together, skin against skin. The more she let thing
s advance the more she became aware of how much she’d missed a man’s touch.
He cupped her face in his hands, threading his fingers through her hair. “You smell good,” he whispered, leaning closer to inhale. His lips grazed her temple before he angled a line of kisses across her cheek. Michael took possession of her mouth. Their lips slid together like old friends. Firm and masterful, his mouth moved without a hint of hesitation. His fingers tangled in her hair, gently kneading her scalp while his kiss turned rougher. Hot and raw, he drew a response from her. Sensual flames licked her flesh with an intense burst of excitement. She moaned her pleasure, his for the taking, with not a single doubt remaining. He nipped her earlobe, the jolt of pain echoing in her pussy.
“Time for this to go.” Michael tweaked one brassiere strap, a charming smile lighting his face.
Her heart skipped a beat when she turned toward him to allow access. One twist of his wrist and her swollen breasts spilled free. He peeled the fabric away and dropped her brassiere over the edge of the bed.
“Beautiful.” He stroked the back of his hand across one pouting nipple, the appreciative glow in his eyes bringing a flush of pleasure. Her thighs clamped together to try to hold the burst of physical sensation.
“Please touch me,” she whispered in a voice hoarse with desire. Impatient with the need for direct stimulation, she lifted a hand to stroke across one breast. She pinched a nipple between finger and thumb, the sharp pleasure tearing a groan from her throat.
Michael watched closely, a gleam in his eyes along with intense interest. “Show me what you like.”
She hesitated since Thomas hadn’t liked the way she pleasured herself. Unnatural. Against God’s laws.
“Go on,” he encouraged. “I like watching you.”
She compromised. Instead of touching herself, she grasped Michael’s hand and showed him what she wanted him to do. A quick learner, he plucked at her nipples until they turned a rosy red. He moved down the bed and anticipation rose. Her heart lurched painfully in direct contradiction to the eagerness rising inside her. Part of her wanted to direct him, but past experience kept her quiet. Instead, she trembled, every brush of his calloused fingers sliding across the smooth flesh of her belly, an exercise in torture. Her muscles contracted at his touch while her feminine folds moistened, preparing for his possession. With competent moves, he unclipped the stockings from her garter belt and rolled them down her legs. Now and then, he paused to stroke the skin he revealed. A kiss. A puff of warm air from between pursed lips heated her skin and made it tingle. And sometimes he used his teeth, nipping suddenly and keeping her on a knife-edge of pleasure.
A Discreet Affair Page 7
