“But you didn’t, not unless I pretended to be wasted.”
“I was on duty,” he said. “I needed to watch for anyone who was looking at you.”
“Not after we were inside the grounds of Kensington Palace.”
Dieter looked up at the corner of the room and squinted. “You did seem to suddenly get drunker when we were walking from the car to our apartment every night. Once we were inside, you were astonishingly able to walk straight and were competent to make decisions. I chalked it up to metabolism.”
Flicka grinned at him. “Startling, in retrospect.”
“Certainly is.”
She looked straight at him. “It was almost as if my level of drunkenness had little or no relationship to the amount of alcohol that I drank.”
Dieter ripped off a hunk of French bread and ate it, not commenting.
“Let’s say this bottle of mineral water is vodka.” She gestured with the green bottle. “However drunk I got, whether I needed you to steady me or carry me to bed, might be the same, no matter what’s in it.”
Dieter toyed with his green bottle of water. “Why would you want to get so drunk that I carried you to bed?”
Ah, excellent. He had picked up on her wording perfectly.
“Let’s say I did.” She took a long drink of sparkling water. The water moistened her mouth and throat with a bitter trace of copper. “Let’s say, maybe it happened again. Maybe there were several reasons.”
“Maybe just to forget,” he said, shredding a piece of bread. “Maybe just as a way to not have to think about the last day or so.”
“Never really had a blackout drunk,” she said. “My liver is more proficient than that. Far more proficient. So trying to forget wouldn’t really work for me.”
His pale brown eyebrows dipped. “If you got drunk, you might do something that you would regret later.”
“That’s never happened.”
“Oh?”
“Of all the things I’ve done that I regret, I can’t say that any of the decisions were made hastily or under the influence of alcohol. Indeed, sometimes alcohol has cleared things up for me, made me focus on what was really important. I own all my poor decisions.”
“I’ve made some bad decisions when I was wasted,” Dieter said. “Maybe I shouldn’t get drunk.”
“You appear to be drinking mineral water,” she said, again lifting her green bottle. “Not straight vodka, like me.”
“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, if something else were skewing your judgment.” But even in the reddening sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains, his storm-cloud gray eyes were taking on that intensity that made her damp between her legs.
She pressed the base of the sweating green bottle on the beat-up table, overlapping the watery rings in a haphazard pattern. “Let’s say something was skewing my judgment. Let’s say that there was something in my rearview mirror that, every time I glanced at it, nearly killed me. Let’s say that it made me weak, and angry, and I was constantly on the verge of crying. Let’s say that I can’t even think straight with that thing right behind me, right there, that last thing that happened to me. Let’s say that, if I got absolutely smashed on this bottle of vodka here,” she shook the green bottle, and the mineral water hissed as it released its fizz, “and something else happened, something took the place of the stupid thing that made me weak and angry and crying, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”
Dieter nodded. “I’m not a psychologist—”
“Then don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”
“—but I wonder, if such a thing had happened, if something else happening might not make it worse for you, later.”
She sucked down another long swallow of bubbly water and held down the bitter burp in her throat. “If it did, I would deal with it later. Right now, I can’t stand that it’s right there.” She flapped her hand at something just behind her shoulder. “It’s like I feel everything, still. It’s like it’s still hurting me. But maybe, if I drank enough of this rotgut vodka and had a little while where I didn’t have to think about it so much, maybe if there were someone I could trust, someone who was there for me, maybe it would be better.”
Dieter held out his green bottle of mineral water. “Then, cheers.”
Flicka clinked her green bottle against his. “Salut.”
Drunk
Flicka von Hannover
I had sort of forgotten
what Dieter liked.
Sort of.
Flicka staggered out of her chair after drinking an excess of mineral water and stumbled toward the bedroom. “I am so messed up.”
Dieter caught her elbow as she was just about to tumble sideways. He whispered, “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
“I’m not pretending,” she slurred. “I’m sloshed.”
“Are you?” His voice sounded more amused than he should.
“That was strong vodka.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Well, you’re wrong. You didn’t drink as much of it as I did.”
He laughed. “I was worried about you when you opened up that second fifth of mineral water.”
“Fizzy vodka is the worst. Messes you up way more than the other kind.”
She fell against Dieter, and he caught her in his arms. He touched her face. “You fell.”
“Did I? I’m too drunk to know.” She forgot to slur that.
He moved toward her, pushing her upright. “Do you want this?”
She wrapped her arms around his chest and looked up at his strong jaw and kind, gray eyes. “I need this. I need to stop thinking about it.”
But Flicka wasn’t the only person in this equation.
She stepped back, breaking out of his hold, and held her hands in front of her to ward him off. “But you don’t. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I presumed when I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry.”
Dieter grabbed her and swept her up into his arms, carrying her. He growled against her ear, “You’re too drunk to walk to the bedroom. You might hurt yourself. I won’t let you fall.”
Flicka tightened her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in the warmth trickling out of his collar.
Her chest clenched, and she stroked the side of his neck with her thumb.
He bent and lowered her to the bed in the darkening room.
She thought he was going to climb on top of her, and just the brief image of a heavy, male body weighing her down slapped her with panic.
But he didn’t.
Dieter walked around the bed and stripped off his tee shirt, tossing it onto a chair by the wall. Even though Flicka had seen him nearly naked just the night before when she had fled from Pierre and Dieter had only been wearing a towel, the amount of muscle packed on his chest, arms, and shoulders surprised her. Two years ago, his body had been leaner, though he’d been muscular then, too. Now, his shoulders were broader, and thick muscles braided his arms and stacked down his abdomen. He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the other side of the bed, but he sat up with his back resting against the headboard.
Flicka pushed herself up on her arms. “You changed your mind.”
“Not at all. You know how this always starts.” He patted his thighs, his palms slapping the denim on his long legs.
Flicka crawled until she was sitting. “Maybe I’m too drunk to do that.”
He tilted his head and smiled at her. “If you’re too drunk to sit up—”
“All right, fine. I think I can manage it.”
Flicka leaned over, her hand stroking the denim over his knee, and she found she couldn’t move any farther.
Her hand couldn’t even move, and she sucked in a deep breath.
Dieter said, “We can stop any time. If you touch my leg, that’s all it is. If you kneel over me, we can stop there. Anything you want, for now, for a while, or for tonight.”
The heat of his skin bled through his pants, warming her palm. “Some
times, when we were together, it seemed like you had lost control of yourself.”
“Sometimes, you seemed too drunk to walk.”
She looked up at him, realizing what that correlation meant. “Really?”
He ran one finger around her jawline. “You’re a beautiful woman, Flicka, but I’m a grown man. I can stop and stand up any time I want to. I’m not some rutting animal, controlled by instincts it can’t understand.”
She touched his face, fitting the hard line of his jaw into her palm. “I thought you were out of your mind with passion.”
He blinked slowly, an affectionate move. “Of course, I was.”
“I’m drunk out of my mind now.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m so drunk,” she crawled over him and straddled his legs, standing on her knees, “I’m not sure what I’ll do.”
He rested the back of his head against the high headboard, a simple slab made of white-painted wood. His mouth curved into a smile as he looked up at where she stood over him. “You’re that drunk?”
“Sure.”
“Kiss me, Durchlauchtig.”
She had loved it when he had ordered her around in bed, before. Removing the pretense that it had been her choice meant that she hadn’t had to be coy about wanting something.
And she did want to kiss him.
She rested her hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth and satin of his shoulders, familiar and yet different.
He reached up with one hand sliding his fingers around the back of her neck. His heavy hand rested back there, not pulling her, just heavy, making leaning down feel natural.
Flicka brushed her lips over his and felt his soft mouth open under hers.
She didn’t want to back off.
So she kept kissing him, bracing herself on his broad, round shoulders, his mouth moving softly under hers.
He sucked on her lower lip for just a flash, and Flicka found her tongue licking forward in response.
His other hand slipped around her waist, embracing her, not holding her down.
She sighed, mostly in relief.
In her hair, his fingers found the rubber bands that she had used to bind her hair back from her face, and he pulled them out. Her hair fell around her cheeks. The tension in her temples floated away.
She broke off the kiss, her breath catching in her throat. She rested her forehead against his, getting her bearings as his hand wove into her hair and his other arm firmed around her waist.
Dieter’s eyes were closed. Stress lines radiated from the corners. “You’re drunk, right? You’re so drunk that you probably wouldn’t remember anything I said, even if I told you that I missed you so much these past two years, more than I imagined.”
While questions percolated in her head—Then why had he left? Or why hadn’t he called her? And what did that mean?—Flicka was drunk on all that fizzy vodka and only wanted to survive this night in the comfort of Dieter’s arms again.
He tilted his face up and found her lips again, kissing her.
Flicka opened her mouth this time, deepening the kiss, touching her tongue to his.
He rubbed his tongue against hers and smoothed her clothes over her skin, stroking her curves.
Flicka struggled with her shirt, and she broke apart from him to yank it over her head and throw it on the floor.
She caught his mouth with hers again, and his fingers drifted above the waistband of the light canvas pants he’d bought her, light on her ribs.
Flicka’s hands wandered down his chest, tracing the hard swells and dips of his firm muscle and the soft brush of golden, masculine hair that gathered over his sternum.
She reached down, still kissing him, and ran her hands over all that hard, glorious strength that carried her when she needed it and his wide shoulders that shielded her when she huddled behind him.
He stroked her back, relaxing the strains and sprains from fighting and losing the night before.
He stroked her pain and fear away.
Flicka thought only about his lips on hers, his hands soothing her flesh, and his arms protecting her.
The hum of the quiet city outside the window faded with the setting sun. The room darkened around them.
Flicka slipped off the bed to untie the pants and shove them down her legs, and she held her hand to Dieter to stand up so she could push his clothes off, too.
He tugged her hand back. “You know what I like.”
Passion fogged her head. “I— What?”
“Come back. Kneel across me again.”
“But you’re still wearing—”
“Come back.”
She climbed on top of him again, kissing him.
His head dipped, and he kissed down her chin to her neck.
Flicka stretched against him, his warm breath ghosting over her as he nipped and sucked her skin.
She sighed, and the end of it growled low in her throat.
A ripple ran through Dieter, his flesh expanding in her arms.
He kissed lower, catching her nipple in his mouth and pulling. She gasped and arched into his mouth, and Dieter’s arms tightened around her waist and back. His mouth opened wider, pulling the softness of her breast inside, and he sucked until her breath became a moan. She ran her fingers through the velvet of his short, blond hair, luxuriating in the softness under her palms.
His mouth was on her breastbone, still kissing, and he whispered, “Grab the headboard.”
She did. “Why?”
“Because you know what I like.”
“But what—”
He slouched lower and lifted her ass with his hands so that he could slide down the bed. “Move your legs over my shoulders.”
“But—”
“No more questions. You know what I want.”
Yes, she did, but she hadn’t thought he would. Over the last few years, she had forced herself to forget the things that Dieter liked.
She had sort of forgotten that any men really liked that thing.
Dieter ran his tongue around her belly button, licking her, and he lifted her hips as he slipped lower, down the bed.
Flicka grabbed the top of the headboard and hung on for dear life.
He held her above his mouth first, running his tongue around and along her folds, sending shivers up her spine.
The whitewashed wall in front of her dimmed in the evening gloom, and Flicka closed her eyes.
He started slowly, gently, almost tickling except that every glimmer of sensation was pure pleasure. His tongue slipped deeper, warm and wet, sliding inside her delicate skin and pressing inside her body.
Flicka let her head drop back as she clung to the wooden headboard, groaning softly.
His arms settled around her hips, dragging her down, pressing her onto his face as he licked, mouthed, and sucked every spot on her, every mouthful grabbing more of her until he was devouring her from below, crushing her to him so she couldn’t escape his relentless mouth that engulfed her clit and folds.
The tightening inside her twisted hard, breaking with a starburst that sent shockwaves through her body.
Even then, he wouldn’t let go, and he gulped her and wrung every last throb from her body, until her head was hanging between her arms, and her panting breaths sobbed from her mouth.
He slipped farther below her, grabbed her shoulders from behind, and pulled her into his strong arms. She clung to him, still whirling and out of her mind, and he pressed her against his broad, warm chest.
Flicka wrapped her arms around him, holding on, while the world spun around her.
She breathed, “Lieblingwächter.”
Insomnia, Again
Dieter Schwarz
Sometimes, I knew what she needed.
Dieter lay still again on the bed and listened to Flicka breathe. He’d showered her and himself, but he’d dressed in just his boxers. They would need to buy more clothes soon.
He relaxed his body, even though every sinew was ready to leap and
defend her. His breathing lengthened, slowed, and he feigned sleep in the darkness.
A few minutes later, Flicka’s cool fingers touched his shoulder.
His breathing didn’t falter as he continued to pretend to sleep.
Her hand caressed his shoulder, and the bed creaked as she moved closer. The mattress bent under him as her warmth neared his side.
Her bare arm stole across his chest, lying lightly on his skin.
Her breathing softened, and her body relaxed next to his as she fell asleep.
He had missed this.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and by looking at the time, he knew that Flicka’s mass text had just gone out.
He stole away from under Flicka’s arm, taking his phone with him, and closed the door to the bedroom behind himself. “Ja, Durchlaucht?”
“We received a text from Flicka,” Wulfram von Hannover said.
Good. Wulfram believed that Flicka had sent it and would believe what the code told him. “I got it, too.”
“It was sent to my phone and Reagan’s. We’re not sure how many other people, but we’ve got a lot of people calling in to tell us they received it. Can you trace it?”
“I’ve already tasked my technical staff with tracing it.”
“I’m working on it, too,” Wulf said.
Damn it. Wulf had his mobile stock trading rig with him, even when he was getting married. He could do more with a phone and two tablets than most IT professionals could do with a server farm. “Yeah, great.”
Wulf said, “It appears that the mass text bounced around the world for hours. I can’t figure out where it initiated from.”
Dieter sat in one of the dining room chairs and raked his fingers through his short hair. “Oh, too bad. I’ll have my staff look into it.”
“It’s encrypted,” Wulf said. “The encryption looks professional.”
“Well, Flicka knows everyone. She probably knows some hackers.”
“I have a friend at the Government Communication Headquarters in Britain. I can ask him to make inquiries.”
In Shining Armor Page 13
