THE JOURNALIST

“Ssshhhh.” Leonhard stands behind her, his lips close to her ear. Warm. And his voice is little more than a whisper. “It’s Colonel Erdmann’s job to worry, not yours.”

“But—”

“Quiet, Liebchen.”

“He said—”

“I know what he said.”

Gertrud loves Leonhard’s hands. He is bright and educated and easily the funniest man she has ever met, but his hands are not the soft, indolent hands of an academic. They are broad and strong and calloused. They are the hands of a man who has never known a sedentary day. And right now those hands snake around her waist, stroking, massaging until they find the top button of her skirt. He flicks it open with two fingers and the fabric at her waist relaxes. Gertrud is never more aware of how much older Leonhard is than when he touches her. It is startling how much skill he has acquired in those two extra decades.

“I know what you’re doing,” she says.

When Leonhard tugs at her skirt it falls a few inches to settle on her hips.

“I’d say it’s fairly obvious.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

Gertrud’s skirt drops to the floor, and Leonhard moves those nimble, calloused fingers to her blouse. One button. Two. Three. He spreads the collar open, revealing an elegant sweep of clavicle and the pale ivory of her camisole. Next he shifts his attention to the opening at the back of her slip as he unbuckles her garters from behind.

“You never did tell me what you were thinking,” he whispers. Leonhard tugs lightly at her earlobe with his teeth.

It takes a beat too long for Gertrud to find her question. “When?”

“When you came out of the toilet after dinner. You looked sad and guilty, like you could cry but were too angry. Why?”

“Egon. I hadn’t thought of him for hours.”

“Ah. I thought so.” He gently pulls her to him, her back pressing against his chest. Leonhard is warm and solid, and she settles against him. “Egon is at home with your mother, asleep. You should sleep as well.”

“There’s little chance of that.”

“Oh?” One of those hands she loves so much drops between them and makes its way under her slip.

“It isn’t going to work, you know.”

“No?” The warmth of his palm high on the inside of her thigh. The stroke of one well-placed finger.

Gertrud clears her throat. “Absolutely not.”

“We shall see about that.” He nuzzles his nose into the soft spot beneath her left ear. Finds her pulse with the tip of his tongue.

“That’s not fair.” Her words come out in a rush.

“The rules of fair play do not apply in love or war.”

“Don’t you quote John Lyly to me.”

He does not answer, simply continues his gentle stroking against the soft skin of her throat.

“Which is this, then?” she asks. “Love or war.”

“Erotisch.”

So much for fair play. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, but I did, Liebchen.” Leonhard finishes unbuttoning her blouse. He slides it off her shoulders and down her arms with warm, long fingers.

This is how she found herself married to Leonhard in the first place. His single-minded, relentless ability to get what he wants. And for the last few years it appears that Gertrud is the only thing he wants. It started with a glass of wine after an editorial meeting. She hadn’t wanted to go with him that afternoon—he intimidated her with his age and self-assurance—but he just seemed so certain that he wanted to go with her, so she relented. Then dinner a few nights later. It must have been excruciating for Leonhard to wait the appropriate amount of time before he could employ his more persuasive abilities. She has wondered since what he would have done had she rebuffed him before he could put them to good use. Alas, she never got the chance to find out. Leonhard Adelt is not the sort of man to let a prize slip through his fingers.

And those fingers are quite busy now hiking her slip higher and higher until it rests at the top of her thighs. “Stop thinking of Egon. He’s fine,” he whispers as he hooks his thumbs into the edge of her stockings. Tugs. The sheer silk slides down her legs. Leonhard kicks them toward the growing pile of clothing, then systematically dispatches her garters as well. Leonhard lifts her hands and slides the camisole up and over her head. Unhooks her bra with one hand and drops it to the floor.

“I’m not thinking about him. Not anymore.”

“Liar.” He sets his hands on her hips and slides them slowly up the slope of her belly, over her ribs, until he cups a breast in each hand.

Egon is not quite a year old, and one month ago she was still nursing him twice a day. The process of weaning him was rushed and unwilling and fraught with emotion on both their parts thanks to this trip. And it is only now, as her husband’s strong and gentle hands massage her breasts, that she realizes how heavy they are, filled with a phantom ache.

“It’s gone,” she whispers, trying to reassure him, as she remembers the awkward pairing of motherhood and lovemaking. There is no polite way to escape the realities of biology when one has a child. Acceptance is the only real course of action. And good humor.

“It never bothered me, Liebchen. You know that.” His attentions are methodical as he explores all the dips and hollows, the ridges and mounds of her body, with those expert hands. “But I was right, you do need to be distracted. You won’t sleep otherwise.”

If Leonhard was careful in the removal of her clothing, he is efficient when it comes to his own. In a matter of moments there is no fabric between them. He pushes her gently onto the bed.

“It won’t work.”

“You keep saying that,” Leonhard says as he climbs in and hovers over her, “but there is so much you have to learn, Liebchen.” He graces her with a patient smile.

“You’ve been a thorough teacher so far.”

“Perhaps…perhaps I shall exhaust you so thoroughly that you will concede my point.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

He laughs. Then growls. Drops his mouth to her skin. Leonhard kisses the hollow where neck and shoulder meet. It takes only seconds for his ministrations to become more sensual.

Gertrud is not as crafty as her husband, but she’s every bit as provocative and quite a bit faster. “No so fast,” she whispers, pulling away slightly.

He shudders and his eyes take on a glassy, hungry look that only feeds her determination. He murmurs something desperate against her throat.

“Not this time, Geliebter,” she whispers. “It’s my turn to teach you a thing or two.”