The Moonlight Mistress (19 page)

She needed to stand to properly undress. She didn’t want to fuck with clothes on. She might be blown to bits tomorrow. Today, she was going to enjoy being alive. She jerked her chin at Meyer. “Get your kit off.”

“You’re not at all worried about being caught, are you?”

She shook her head. Meyer’s hands went to his buttons. His
knuckles were scraped, from when they’d dug out the collapsed wall near the firestep. He always pitched in if there was work to be done, if his duties allowed. She liked that about him. She’d loved Wilks like an uncle, but he’d never gotten his hands dirty if he could help it. Meyer shed his uniform tunic and stopped, noticing her watching him. “What about you? Are you going to stop there?” he asked, challenging but not really. He was, she realized, giving her yet another chance to withdraw.

She stood up and flipped her braces off her shoulders, then shoved her trousers down. It didn’t make much difference, as her gray-back shirt hung down to her knees, and she had a layer of woolen long underwear. She went to Meyer, the dirt floor cold beneath her bare feet, and pulled him down to her for a proper kiss, which he gave without reluctance. His mouth tasted sweet, and she liked the rough brush of his mustache as he nibbled at her lips. She pulled away first. “More later,” she said. She started in on her buttons. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Meyer do the same. When she’d draped her shirt over a crate, he yanked his vest over his head. As his chest was revealed, the hair there caught the candlelight, sparking gold. She did like a man who looked like a man. His torso narrowed down nicely toward his waist, and when he turned she had a fine glimpse of his high, tight rear. She could just imagine her hands on it, his muscles flexing, her fingers digging deep.

Bob hurriedly stripped off her vest and shoved down her drawers, her stuffed sock with them; she quickly tucked that out of sight in the folds of her discarded clothing. The cold air made her scarred shoulder ache, and she rubbed it. She still had to unwind her breast wrappings, and step out of the
cropped drawers, her own invention, that she wore to keep her sock from chafing her thigh.

Meyer was struggling out of his boots, hopping on one foot. It was the first time she’d ever seen him be the least bit awkward, and she laughed. Meyer looked up, and stopped, one foot swinging in the air. Gently he put his foot down on the floor again and held out his hand.

She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He swore in a foreign language. She grinned. “Hurry up,” she said.

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then shook his head, grinned back at her and took his socks off. He looked happier than he had a few minutes before. More than shocked, he’d been relieved she was really a woman. She watched, expectant, as he shoved off his trousers. He wasn’t all the way erect yet, but she could see the shape of him through his drawers, and her mouth and cunt both watered a little, wanting him to fill her up.

He stopped with his hands on the string of his drawers and said, “I want to see, too.”

Abruptly, she felt strange. Since she’d first put on men’s clothes, she’d never unbound her breasts in front of anyone, not even Sister Daglish when she’d cared for her wound. It scared her to think of doing it now. She forced her feet to move, one step closer to Meyer, then another. She took his hand and brought it to the little flat hooks in the middle of her chest.

He seemed to understand. He kissed her softly, and then worked the hooks loose, one at a time. She watched his hands, slender and graceful, with those odd calluses he’d told her came from playing the cello. She hadn’t thought of music as work until she’d known that. She liked that his hands had
worked. She could understand the hours he’d spent, mastering a skill as she’d once mastered tailoring jackets.

The last hook slid loose, and he met her eyes, steady and reassuring. “What next?”

“Like this,” she said, unwinding the wrapping beneath her arm, around her back and beneath her other arm. Meyer took the fabric from her hand and continued to unwind it himself. Bob lifted her arms and, after a moment, rested her hands on his bare shoulders, letting him free her. His skin felt hot and smooth. She circled her fingertips on him and his breath caught.

His face was intent as the cloth loosened. She drew a grateful breath and rolled her shoulders; the binding slipped loose, and Meyer caught it in his hand, preventing it from landing on the dirty floor. Without moving his eyes from her chest, he wadded the cloth and tossed it accurately to the crate with her shirt. His hands slid up her ribs and cupped her breasts, so delicately her vision blurred.

She moved her hands atop his and pressed in. He made a small noise of appreciation and his grip shifted and tightened, his thumbs circling on her nipples, stirring them to prickling life after their long captivity. She hummed in appreciation. She put her arms around his neck again and pulled him down for a kiss, slick and exploring.

Meyer pulled back first. “Your name isn’t really Robert, is it?”

She thought about teasing him, then decided it could wait. “Isobel,” she said. The name felt strange in her mouth. She hadn’t said it aloud, or had it said to her, in five years at least.

Meyer’s face blossomed into a smile. “That’s lovely.”

She couldn’t quite bring herself to call him
Gabriel
. She’d
heard Ashby call him that once or twice, his voice rich with affection. She wouldn’t remind him of that right now. This was for feeling, not talking. “There’s a cot,” she pointed out, and stripped off her last layer of underthings.

“What about protection?”

Bob sighed. “I got a tonic. So I won’t bleed. All right?”

He cast a nervous glance at the doorway. She grabbed another crate, this one crammed with cookware, and laid it atop the first one in their barricade, shivering when a cold gust blew in under the canvas. She turned back to face him, hands on her hips. Cold air teased her ankles, and her nipples tightened with cold, a sensation she hadn’t felt in a long time. “That better?” she asked.

“Not really,” he said. “Come here.”

This time they made it to the cot, and she got his drawers off, only to be stopped again when Meyer wouldn’t let her yank him down to join her. His cock was interesting, dense and smooth with the veins showing; he’d been cut, his cock didn’t have a sleeve. So that was true, about Jewish men. She liked the way it looked. She was getting impatient to have him inside her; she didn’t want to risk being interrupted before that. The niceties could wait until they were done. She thought about the narrow space, and said, “I’ll bend over.”

“In a few minutes,” he said. “Lie back.”

“But—”

For all his reluctance at the beginning, he certainly liked being in charge. His hands pressed her hips into the blankets, soft blankets that smelled like him, and then rearranged her a little to the side. “Hush, you’ll like this.” He slid his thumbs down the crease of her cunt and her breath hitched at the delicate sensation.

She had to think a minute to make a sentence. “Not if somebody comes.”

“I’m hoping that will be you.” She blinked, not having expected ribald humor from him, and while she was distracted, he gently blew on her cunt, warm air as shocking as the cold had been a few moments before. He really meant to do it, then. He was going to kiss her cunt, and she was going to let him.

It was just as good as she’d heard. No, better. She stopped worrying about the time passing, except for the time he made her wait between delicate probes of his tongue and gentle shifts of his fingertips where he held her lower lips open. She seized a handful of blanket and pulled it to her mouth, biting down on it. Meyer looked up at her movement and grinned, then ducked down between her thighs and laid licking kisses along the tender creases where her thigh met her leg, and the soft skin between her pubic hair and navel, and the jut of her hipbone. She squirmed toward his mouth and he pinned her with one firm hand on her belly while he continued to tease, both letting her recover from his original intensity and stoking her desire higher. Then she felt his callused fingertips nudging at her, stroking back and forth until they slid easily, then sliding inside her cunt, only the tips at first. His mouth fastened over her clit and sucked hard, once; she arched and bit down on the blanket. Then his lips pulled softly at her while his fingers slid deeper inside her and his thumb rubbed her hair against her tender flesh.

She was gasping now. “Hurry up, Goddamn you!”

He pulled away enough to say, “I like this.” He reached up his free hand and caressed her breast. “Perhaps you’d like to rub these. I haven’t enough hands.”

Bob meant to tell him where he should stuff his orders, except that her hands had moved as he’d commanded,
cupping her own breasts, trapping his hand beneath one of hers. His palm shifted, abrading her nipple, and she gasped, then writhed the other direction when his fingers twisted inside her, sliding deeper. Meyer’s mouth moved back to her clit and, as she rubbed and pulled at her own nipples, he flicked her repeatedly with his tongue, harder and harder. She’d been building to a climax for so long that the actual moment took her by surprise. She was about to curse him, then she was coming, frozen and vibrating with the force of it, her hand clenched upon his.

She was too limp after that to complain he’d taken too long, and in too forgiving a mood. When he joined her on the cot, carefully wriggling on his side and putting his arm around her, she snugged her arse up against his cock, so the weight of him pressed into the crease between her buttocks. He made a noise and she pushed back harder, shifting up and down a bit. “Come on,” she said, reaching back over her hip and patting him, maybe his flank.

Meyer’s hand cupped her breast, fondling her softly. He blew in her ear and said, “Are you sure you don’t need a minute?” He reached over her and found a blanket, then tugged it over them. That was nice. She’d been getting a little chilled, once she was no longer in the thick of things.

“Had one.” She followed the line of his hip toward his cock, trying to get hold of him. He nuzzled her neck and shifted her hips himself, then slid his cock into her, right then and there, still lying sideways. He didn’t go in as deeply as she would have liked, but it had been so long since she’d had a cock in her that that little bit was more than enough to make her breath seize and stutter. She breathed and pushed back against him, so he went in a bit farther.

He rested his hand on her hip and squeezed. “Let me,” he said.

“I would, if you’d get on with it.”

He chuckled against her shoulder. “This cot isn’t that sturdy. We’ll have to do it this way.” Gently, he rocked his hips forward and back. The cot’s metal legs creaked, and it rocked, as well, just a little.

Bob laughed, which felt odd with him inside her. “Jolts like a Jack Johnson hit,” she said, then wished she hadn’t, because a big shell like that might have killed Ashby.

Meyer kissed her cheek and rocked into her again, soon easing into a steady rhythm. She curved her back into him, liking the soft rub of his chest hair on her skin, and his hot breath, growing ragged now, in her ear. He lifted her thigh up over his leg, and after that was able to work his way in deeper, the head of his cock brushing that sweet spot inside with each push. She also liked the way his arm encircled her rib cage, sometimes pulling her back against him even more tightly, sometimes sliding up to caress her nipples, sometimes sliding down and toying with her clit, circling and pressing in rhythm with the stroking of his cock in her cunt. She hadn’t had sex this sweet in a long time, maybe only once or twice before, and she didn’t ask him to hurry again.

She closed her eyes, paying attention to the tight slide of him in her and his lips playing in the prickly hair at her nape, breathing and nipping and licking a little, as if she were a sweet. The only thing she missed was being able to have her arms around him, which was a lot easier when one person was on top. This way, he was holding her, but she could only hold on to his arm or the top of his thigh. When his thrusting sped up a bit, though, she forgot all that and grabbed on
to the edge of the cot, using it to brace herself as she pushed back onto him. Gradually, she turned more onto her belly, pulling him with her until he was almost straddling her arse, and his cock suddenly sank deeper than it had yet. “Oh, Goddamn it, yes,” she said, having lost her grip on the blanket at some point. She arched up toward him, managing to shove a wad of blanket under her like a pillow, and he had to readjust, but then he was in her again, this time from above and behind, fucking her faster and deeper, his hands gripping the sides of the cot as it shivered beneath them.

She buried her face in the edge of his pillow and let herself moan as his thrusting rubbed her clit against the blankets, rubbing her raw, but at the moment it was what she needed. His balls slapped on her arse now, and his breath sawed in and out of him like sobs. The sound of him, his bitten-off groans each time she clamped down on his cock with her cunt, pushed her into wild spasms of pleasure and she screamed into the pillow, pouring out all the tension and fear and grief at once. Minutes later, she was still quivering from the force of her release when Meyer thrust once more, as deep as he could get, and she felt his seed gushing hot into her cunt and down her thighs.

Afterward, she wouldn’t let him cuddle too long, as someone would need something soon and come barging in regardless. Regretfully, she had a wash over in the corner, where she wouldn’t easily be seen from the door, then hurried into her clothes. Her cunt felt tender, and she didn’t enjoy tying down her breasts, but it had to be done. Meyer had only half dressed by the time she looked up, the flap of his trousers hanging loose and his braces down. He’d wiped the sweat from his chest, but sat on the cot still, the wet cloth dangling listlessly from his fingers.

She took it from him. “You’ll get cold.”

He looked up at her, his eyes a bit vague without his specs. “Noel’s still dead.”

“We’re not.”

“No. I suppose not.” He picked up his shirt and slipped his arms into it, but kept looking at her.