The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [86]
His lips and tongue found the soft skin of her thighs. She shivered at the sensation and pulled him up to face her. His gaze was consuming as he traced her lips with a finger. With a glint of a smile, he pressed her against the wall. She shut her eyes, held him close, felt his breath on her neck, their sweat mingling, her fingers in his hair as she accepted him inside her. Their breath combined in a rhythm that took over all thought. An exquisite pressure mounted until she cried out. He responded, gripping her tighter, driving her against the slats. Pleasure exploded in waves that rippled through her body then his.
Afterward, they lay on the floor, his shirt, her dress stretched flat beneath them. More gentle now, he explored every inch of her with the tips of his fingers, then his lips. The cadence of their breath and their bodies became music, a world for them alone. They were drowsing, limbs intertwined, when they heard a burst of static from the radio inside the house, then strains of a song too faint to make out.
“I miss music,” Claire said drowsily to Grey’s neck.
He rolled over to face her, head propped up on an elbow. “Let me guess. Jazz?”
Claire smiled. “Billie, Ella, Louis.”
His eyes closed, with a finger he traced a line on her stomach, his voice a low whisper. “Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper—”
Walker whooped inside the house. They both jumped, sat up, stared at each other a moment then leaped up to slip into their clothes and stumble down the ladder. They didn’t look at each other as they raced across the yard.
“Our boys have landed in Sicily,” Walker yelled, his face beaming, as they stepped inside the door.
Anna bounded over to Grey. “Bombardier to pilot,” she said triumphantly in English.
“It won’t be long now. You’ll see.” Walker looked at Grey a moment then at Claire. “Shucks,” he added under his breath.
Claire ran a hand through her hair, found bits of straw. She caught Grey’s eyes and noticed his shirt was misbuttoned. To cover the flush on her cheeks, she went to the kitchen to start dinner. She felt his stare as she walked away.
As she stirred tomatoes into a stew on the stove, she hummed the Billie Holiday song that Grey whispered in the barn. The spoon froze, midair, when she remembered the next line. You’re too lovely to last.
The full moon lit the sky and still no messenger. They gathered around the radio during the nightly broadcast on the BBC for a coded message, for any news at all. But there was nothing. Grey, Walker and Claire debated the next step. They couldn’t take the truck back into Paris empty, Grey would need to buy a load of something and bury them inside. But where would that leave the girls? Claire couldn’t imagine sticking Anna back into that hole in the truck, the girls ending up trapped in Paris. I can’t stay here forever, Walker told them, glaring back and forth. Claire knew what he meant: You know you can’t either.
And they did know.
The next morning in the still shade of the forest, Claire found Grey. Or he found her. It didn’t matter. On a blanket laid over a bed of leaves, she slipped her hands beneath his unbuttoned shirt and traced the lines of his chest beneath her fingertips. Let the beating of his heart warm her palms.
He slipped the dress over her head, pressing fully against her as though he needed to feel all of her to know the moment was real. He cupped the back of her head and covered her face and stomach in tender kisses. She guided his other hand between her thighs then reached for his loosened waistband. His breath was hot on her neck as he slid between her legs. She smiled and bit her lip against the moan. A day had been far too long. Their moments together so short.
Afterward he cradled her, his body warm and solid against her. His soft words died away at the drone of bombers flying overhead. Claire reached for him to drown out the sound with their bodies. But her heart ached as she stared into his eyes. He might belong to her now, but for how long? And damn it, but it