Sweet Love, Survive (6 page)

“More tea? And your mother—what historical research project is she working on now?”

“A new one, last I heard,” Apollo replied, holding out his glass. “Apparently there’s a remnant of some ice age migration locked into a valley somewhere in the mountains of Hungary.”

“Your father?”

“Devoted as ever to polo. Only Maman can get him off the field.”

And thusly the patois of mannerly discourse went on. Everything was so ordinary they could have been married twenty years. But during the course of that very polite breakfast, so circumspect and correct, Apollo noted the quick little glances of shy admiration Kitty flashed at him when he appeared to be absorbed in his food. He saw that beneath her charm and graciousness she was tremblingly aware of him and thought to himself—with the arrogance born of perpetual success with women—that he’d further their acquaintance and have her again just as soon as the meal was over. Once the lady’s inhibitions had been overcome, she was quite insatiable and much better, he decided, than what he could have found at Zadia’s. Intercepting another surreptitious glance, he smiled warmly at the lovely countess, who flushed and looked away.

Twenty minutes later, Apollo’s healthy appetite appeased,
he set his tea glass down. Breakfast had been superb and he said so, particularly praising the Kyakhta tea. It was the best tea in the world, fragrant and heavy as alcohol.

“Would you like more Kyakhta?” Kitty asked.

“Later.” He smiled affably, stretching lazily before catching his hands behind his head.

“I’ll ring for it now,” Kitty said. “It’ll take some time to prepare and bring upstairs.” One beautiful breast was partially revealed by the deep cleavage of her white eyelet robe as she rose from the table. Turning toward the bellpull, she inquired, “Would you like anything else?”

Apollo’s eyes narrowed, his gaze raking her slowly as he unlaced his fingers. “Perhaps one thing,” he murmured, reaching out to catch her wrist. The strong grip arrested her progress and Kitty turned to look questioningly at him. He smiled then, a brilliant, flashing smile of mischief and friendship. “Ring for tea later,” he suggested gently, drawing her close, holding her immobile.

Glancing down, Kitty flushed crimson, feeling breathless, flustered, embarrassed. The navy silk dressing gown was lifted in a very obvious way. Apollo had been erect from the first intercepted, tremblingly aware glance over the breakfast table, but he had known enough to let the lady’s desire grow, one tiny reluctant glance at a time, before alarming her with his rigid maleness. Her passion needed time to stir and blossom, and, over the leisurely, intimate breakfast, it had. Need for him shone in the quiet mossy pools of her eyes.

“Come, Kitty,” Apollo coaxed huskily, totally relaxed and unashamed of his arousal. “Come sit on my lap. The tea can wait.” Disregarding Kitty’s irresolution, he reached up for her, lifting her effortlessly onto his knees. The silk robe fell open and Kitty, seeing the extent of his arousal, shivered uncontrollably. Gently Apollo took her hand, guiding it to him, running her fingertips up the sensitive underside of the engorged shaft, rubbing them delicately in a slow circle around the quivering crest, bringing fresh blood to swell the starkly prominent veins.

“Dear Kitty,” Apollo breathed softly and he flexed his spine
languidly in an unabashedly sensual way. His eyes closed, long dark lashes resting briefly on prominent cheekbones as all sensation centered on the countess’s delicate touch. He sighed deeply in blissful appreciation. Moments later when his golden eyes slowly reopened, genial amusement blended with smoldering passion in their tawny depths. “See what you do to me?” he said in a light tone, then his slender fingers closed entirely over Kitty’s small hand and he moved it down to the base of the swollen maleness pulsing in her grip. “Sweet, sweet Kitty,” he murmured, his smiling lips in her hair, his free hand untying the belt of her ruffled wrapper.

Kitty tensed when her robe fell open, felt her heart give a sudden, nervous jolt. “Apollo, wait,” she gasped uneasily, fearful and alarmed at the sudden heedless flame he so easily provoked in her. Ignoring her admonition and her rather feeble attempt to push him away, he raised his fingers to her exposed neckline and slid his hands under the lace gown, knowing only that her skin was like silk and that a devouring need raged within him. Kitty sat quietly beneath his hands, conscience-stricken at the almost unbearable, searing desire kindling like wildfire at his slightest touch. She should resist. He had said only friends … no designs … what was he doing to her? Why was she allowing it? Gentle fingers were forcing the fine fabric from her shoulders, gliding the material down her arms, lifting her to pull the wrapper free. Impatiently, Apollo tossed the garment to the carpet.

“The servants … might walk in—” Kitty protested weakly. She had forgotten how quickly he moved.

Holding her lightly, he parted her legs, intent on fondling the silken triangle between her thighs. “They wouldn’t dare,” he replied helpfully without looking up. Those incredibly adept, lean fingers that had explored every inch of Kitty’s body now found the soft, pouting flesh they had sought and slipped very gently past the entrance swollen from the night’s pleasure. Feeling the distended tissue, Apollo whispered an apology. “I’m sorry. Used you too hard … I’ll be gentle,
dushka.
” And he soothed, caressed, comforted, his gentle touch slowly stretching, entering, penetrating the moist inner warmth,
drowning any discomfort in the tender flesh with new humid fires.

The countess knew that propriety required she repulse him, but Apollo knew exactly where to touch her. His lightly brushing movements found the secret lodestone of her womanhood, and try as she did to persuade herself of the monstrous folly of her conduct, Kitty could not deny the surge of wild excitement, the shiver of agonizing need induced by those fingers which stroked her as a connoisseur would gently fondle the last Tanagra figurine in the world.

With a soft moan she collapsed against him, blotting out all thought, abandoning herself to the exquisite chaos of sexual greed and desire. Kitty’s head fell back on his shoulder, a flood of honey-peach hair whispering across navy silk, and once again swelling passion exploded into flame deep inside her. Lying back against the powerfully muscled chest, solid as primordial nature, she gloried in the feel of hard, strong fingers sliding in and out, sometimes only an inch or two up, sometimes reaching as far as they could go, sometimes teasing until she restlessly arched upward, seeking the withheld delight.

How many times in the last few hours had she felt this intoxication, the diabolical sensuality? She who had always only mildly enjoyed the marriage bed; she who had shyly understood the duties of wife but had never relished them; the same woman who only yesterday had considered herself content as estate manager and helpmate to her husband, ignorant of what passion was, how shameless she could feel. How could she be so wanton, hungering for this stranger as much and as often as he wanted her? Yearning, like the most depraved addict, to indulge once again in delicious excess? Then small explosions began building where the prince’s obliging massage penetrated so exquisitely, and awareness of the depths of her folly faded. She reached for him, whimpering soft little cries, overwhelmed by a blazing heat which rose from her parted thighs. “Apollo,” she sobbed quietly, “Apollo—”

He’d only been waiting for her to ask this time. Satisfied
the countess was ready to accommodate him, his hand wet with the evidence of her urgent need, he caught her around the waist and lifted.

“Here?” Kitty was shocked.

“Here,” Apollo murmured huskily, the roughness of his shaven cheek against the curve of her jaw, his lips brushing one soft, pink earlobe. Kitty’s exclamation which had begun on a whisper of dismay ended on a transported sigh, for strong hands slid her slim body very slowly, very carefully down the full, hard length of him.

No sooner did he enter her than a wild and desperate passion conquered Kitty; in two strokes, with a shuddering sob and a cry, she blissfully succumbed. She clung to him, lying limp in his arms, her breath coming in gentle ebbing sighs. Apollo ran his hands leisurely up her naked back and smiled knowingly, his pleasure infinitely enhanced by hers, pleasantly envisioning many more panting orgasmic cries before he brought himself to climax. This wife of the leader of his troop was most delightfully eager—and surely one of the more voluptuous, greedy little vixens he’d seen. His hands glided to her narrow waist, lean fingers splayed over her reed-slim slenderness and gently rounded hips. He filled her still, his hardness undiminished; she was impaled on him like a willing sacrifice, her ivory arms, pale against the dark silk of his robe twined around his neck, her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. The hands lying on her hips tightened and pressed down, and Kitty tensed her arms around Apollo’s neck, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. Both moaned very softly. Apollo’s heavy pectorals and biceps rippled and coiled as he raised Kitty then eased her back down by deliberate degrees. It can’t be happening again … so soon, she thought in a haze of spreading sensual languor. Surely … no. … But he was murmuring lovewords, suggestive, delicious words, very low in a rough-soft voice, telling her what he was going to do to her, telling her to look down and watch—
making
her look down and watch—and at the sight, at the enormous, terrifyingly delectable sight, she collapsed, tiny convulsive tremors rolling up the sensitized hardness
buried deep inside her. She cried out and the sound of her surrender, her helplessness, triggered a primitive sense of triumph in him. He rested, brushing the long golden waves away from her flushed cheeks, kissing her face lightly, aware of the sounds of her breathing. Then he began again.

Captain Prince Apollo Kuzan, as it turned out, had the Countess Kitty Radachek not only after breakfast, but after lunch and dinner as well. In fact, she was his constant, luscious, inexhaustible diet for the next three days. Thoughts of Kyakhta tea were quite forgotten that morning, lunch was very late, dinner later still. Indeed, the conventional routines of dining were completely abandoned for the following few days.

And once, very late one night, the prince, taken by surprise, was heard to remark with mocking gruffness, “Hasn’t anyone explained to you, darling, that making advances is unladylike and wholly a man’s prerogative?” At which point he laughed softly at the lady’s muffled reply, reached down to run his fingers lightly over tousled honey-rose curls, and said with a teasing smile, “Well … as long as I’m awake now …”

There was something of triumph in that lazy smile, for the lady’s burgeoning sensuality was in part a tribute to his talents. Where at first she had been only eager, now she was demanding of her own pleasure, craving him, wanting to possess him, joyfully squandering all her silky treasures on him. And soon, very soon, he was as ravenous as she. He groaned softly, his fingers tightening in the gilt strands of hair, and he murmured pleasantly into the darkness, “Darling, if this is going to be another sleepless night, I’ll have to pray to God for strength ….”

He interpreted her “Umm-m-m” as an affirmative response. His smile flashed in the dark, and he settled back to enjoy himself.

Very early on the morning of the fourth day, before the sun was more than a mellow gray light on the distant horizon, Apollo was on the road to Niiji, Karaim and Sahin once more by his side. There was no other sign of life on the vast, empty steppe, only drifted snow and utter silence. At a signal from Apollo, the three powerful thoroughbreds broke into a loping gallop.

He had left Kitty asleep. Apollo had been touched by her beauty, grateful for her company, enchanted with the blazing excitement of her passion, but there would have been nothing to say this morning except good-bye. He didn’t know where the war would take him; with the boiling caldron of civil war engulfing Russia there was no guarantee he would ever see Kitty again. Conversing around that kind of uncertainty would have been awkward, even painful. Capricious fate would determine the direction of all their lives in the next few months; capricious fate and the bloody buildup of Red Army forces in the north. He hoped she’d understand. He had said his good-byes in bed last night.

During their three days together, Kitty had talked of her marriage, about Peotr, trying to comprehend what had shockingly come over her with Apollo. Peotr was never home, Apollo had wanted to say; it was understandable, her need for a man. And such great loneliness as Kitty’s was no protection against a cajoling, determined man like Apollo, used to having his way with women and intent on shutting out the war for a brief time.

Kitty’s softly spoken, unreserved comments concerning
Peotr and their marriage were by way of thinking aloud, a mental catharsis to which Apollo quietly listened. If he had chosen, he could have told her he knew more about her marriage and about her husband than she did. He and Peotr had served in the Corps de Pages together, had campaigned for two years on the western front together, had practically lived within sight of each other for twenty months in Mamontov’s renegade unit.

Apollo knew all about Peotr’s marriage and was acquainted, as well, with Peotr’s mistress and two children in Baku (of whom Kitty was ignorant). He had companioned Peotr in scores of revels in scores of brothels from Petrograd to Kabul. He even knew exactly why Peotr had married Kitty (the land—marriages of convenience were still the norm in the aristocracy) and exactly why they didn’t get along (Peotr found chaste, young girls for company and apparently had never sought to know the woman).

Granted, Apollo’s information had been primarily one-sided, but at least he was familiar with the arrangement—although he had never intended to become this familiar with the wife. As graphic memories of Kitty surfaced, of her captivating innocence and shy boldness, his hand inadvertently tightened on the reins and his splendid horse fidgeted nervously. Apollo was startled from his musing. “Sorry, Leda,” he apologized, stroking the carefully groomed golden-chestnut neck.