The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [90]
Darkness crept around the edges of her mind but she fought for consciousness. She looked up at the officer through the hair that had fallen over her eyes, forcing down her anger. He spoke to his men, his tone disinterested. The solider guarding Anna laughed and leaned back against the truck’s grill. His gun was pointed at the little girl, his gaze on the show.
Claire pulled herself to her feet and straightened her rumpled dress, frowning at the marks on her dress and knees. She rubbed the back of her hand across her aching mouth and tasted blood and soil on her tongue. With as much poise as possible, she spit out a wad of dirt. Her eyes flicked over the edges of the yard. Where was Marta?
The officer spoke again, his voice commanding.
Claire smiled at him through the pain. She knew only one phrase in German. From Albrecht von Richter. Perhaps useful. She licked the blood from her lips and took a step forward. “Ich will dich.” I want you.
The officer studied her with cold eyes. The soldiers at his side smiled, nodded. The soldier to her left reached for her. He spoke over his shoulder at the others, pulling her toward the barn.
“Nein.” The officer glared.
The soldier frowned but released her.
Claire smiled at the officer, lifted the hem of her dress up to her thighs. She took a step back toward the barn. “Ich will dich.”
A quick command and the officer sent a soldier into the barn. After a moment of searching, he reappeared, a shrug. The officer sheathed his Luger in the holster at his hip. With the flick of his head, he and the other two soldiers shoved Claire inside. The man watching Anna shouted, the complaint clear in his tone. The soldiers walking into the barn laughed back over their shoulders.
Claire walked over to the hay piled loosely next to the empty stalls and patted the surface with a hand. The officer took a step closer, still not committed, hand firm on his holstered gun. As the other two soldiers watched, Claire pulled off her dress over her head and let it drop onto the ground. In one movement she kicked off her underpants.
He examined her, his lip curving back like a cat eyeing a trapped mouse. It was plain how much it pleased him, the white skin, the taut body, the curve of her hips, the tawny swirl between her legs.
She ran her hands through her hair, let her fingers slide down her cheeks, over her breast, down past her stomach. “I remember the taste of dirt,” she said, her voice low like a promise.
His forehead wrinkled as he tried to understand. He moved closer.
“Of all the things I’ve tried to forget, I still remember that specific taste.” Slowly, Claire reached out, resting her fingers on his chest until she felt the heat from his body through the fabric of his uniform. Her fingers trailed down his torso.
He struggled to keep his breath calm. His fingers clenched the gun handle.
“When I was real little, I remember Pa’s big hand picking up a fistful. He’d let it slide out between his fingers, like he could feel what would grow from it.”
He looked at her questioningly. Claire smiled. She moved her hands toward his belt and began to unbuckle it. He held completely still, watching her hands.
“Like he was caressing it.” Claire slid her fingers between his legs and rubbed the tightening fabric.
A muffled grunt escaped his closed mouth.
She leaned in, murmured into his ear. “Then the drought came and the winds started. The dirt came alive. It didn’t lay there nestled with growing things. It howled and wailed. It flung itself at the world.” Claire looked into his eyes as she took a firm grip on him, cupping him in her palm.
He watched her, enthralled, his eyes half-closed. His tongue flicked over his lips.
“It baked in the sun, then peppered us until the livestock went mad. It burned and stung our eyes, tore at our skin, and filled our ears and noses with grit.” Claire gripped him harder with her right hand then unbuttoned his trousers with the other. “And even inside at night when the dirt settled into the parched ground