LENA

I adored kissing Booker back in the day. Before we met, I knew from nothing about this smooching business, but it didn’t matter. I have the exact same feelings I remember: an enticing sizzle of energy that streaks like lightning from my lips to the pit of my stomach—and lower yet. We were good together back then. I have no doubt it was largely due to Booker being an expert kisser.

And yet, this, this thing between us, right here, right now—it’s even better. And ho-ly crow.

I have no words.

I’m in Booker’s arms—or, more truthfully, he’s in mine. I felt him start to pull back and it was as though my entire body stood up to scream a denial. The moments following his pullback are a blur. But I do know it was me, this time, left trying to hang on.

I had no trouble pinning the responsibility on Booker when he had his hands on my butt. (Hands. On my bare butt!) He didn’t simply put them under the skirt of my dress. He slid his big mitts beneath my knickers, to boot.

Heat crawls up my face at mere recollection. Okay, fine. I can admit, if only to myself, this burning in my face (as well as other places I’d just as soon not dwell upon) stems from how much I actually like having his hands on me.

That’s about as far as my thinking power will stretch, however. All these uncharacteristic emotions roiling in my head have left me with maybe two brain cells to rub together. I simply cannot think clearly with all these emotions, these sensations, sizzling through me. Lord, the man has a sweet touch! The truth is, I can barely breathe. Every inch of my body, where it touches Booker’s, feels scalded. Which is darn near all of it. The front half of me, at any rate.

Oh, who am I kidding? The whole shebang is like a gigantic overly stoked furnace. No bananas—I expect smoke to start curling up between us any second now.

Then Booker groans deep in his throat and wrests back control of the kiss. And not only are our bodies smoking, I’m now pretty sure the few thoughts I’ve managed to hang onto are at this very moment floating away on a poof of thin, grey vapor.

The next thing I know he’s rolling us over and I’m flat on my back, sprawled out against his lovely, lovely bedspread once again. Booker props himself partially over me, a heavy, muscular thigh thrown over mine to pin me in place.

His eyes have always been a lighter blue than mine, but they are unusually dark when he pushes up onto his palms to look down at me. In fact, they contain so much heat I’m surprised they don’t raise blisters in their wake as he slowly rakes that intense gaze down my torso.

And, at this very moment? I’m sort of loving the forcefulness of his regard, where it settles on my breasts. At the same time, I feel ten kinds of self-conscious, and I cross my arms over them, hoping to disguise the way my nipples are suddenly poking spikes into the stiff brocade of my brassiere. Okay, they probably don’t even show, the fabric’s that solid. Still.

“No,” he commands roughly, getting his knees under him in order to reach for my wrists. Straddling me, he presses my hands against the coverlet on either side of my head. “Let me look. I have imagined this so often and for so damn long. Don’t take away the first opportunity I’ve had to feast my eyes.”

I have no idea where my sudden courage comes from, but I shake my breasts at him. Or as much as one can, wearing such a binding garment.

Booker growls. He honest to God growls. Then he shifts his entire body down and slips his fingers inside the deep V neckline. I have no idea how he knows about the modesty piece, which can be left out or buttoned in to avoid showing too much skin. But within seconds, it’s been removed.

“Jesus.” He scowls down at the rigid barrier of my brassier. “It’s like a damn fortress.”

One that apparently holds no power to keep him away, because the next thing I know he’s worked the stiff fabric below my right breast. And before I have even a second to worry about my sudden exposure, he’s lowered his head to tease the nipple, which has been pressed back into my breast, into pointing in the right direction again. Once it is, he sucks it into his mouth. His eyes locked on mine, he scrapes the firm point between his teeth.

“Oh. My. Gawwd!” A crazily intense feeling zings from the stiff tip where his lips provide such wondrous suction, spearing straight down to that feminine spot deep inside of me. Swear to heaven, I think my already fairly prominent nipple grows a bit longer yet. I squeeze my thighs together.

Booker lifts his head, his lips releasing my nipple with a soft pop. He pushes back to trace his forefinger along the half of my dress’s neckline still in place with his free hand. “I haven’t seen this before. Is it new?”

I shake my head. “Clara lent it to me. I was telling her I wanted to get something like it and she said I should try it out.”

“Pretty. How do we get it off you?”

I freeze. Dear lord, do I really want that—to strip off the dress in front of Booker?

I’m surprised I’ve gotten to this point, and there’s a good chance I’ll talk myself out of something even more intimate. I don’t take chances on a personal, put yourself out there where you can get crushed kind of way. Not anymore. Not since Booker left me behind so many years ago.

Not to mention my long ago experience getting naked with the guy. Heck, we didn’t actually even get naked back then. We were in his flivver out by the onion fields, so it was more a matter of rearranging our clothing. Do I really want to take another chance on him?

And yet...

The question isn’t even fully born before I find myself pushing Booker aside. He swings his left leg over to join its mate and sits back on his heels beside me as I sit up. My sudden tension takes off for parts unknown as, from there, I roll up onto my knees.

“You have to pull it off over my head.” Facing him, I hitch the hem up to a point where I, too, can sit back on my heels without having to worry about trapping the fabric. Then I raise my arms so he can remove the dress.

I’m pretty certain I do want this. My body feels crazy restless and I ache in places I had no idea could feel the things they’re feeling. I want to see where indulging this urge takes me. I clearly remember making out and petting. And, lordy, but I loved that part. The actual sex was far from swell, but I did love the kissing and petting stuff leading up to it. Apparently, that’s called foreplay—at least according to one of the waitresses at my gig before last.

So, I’m gonna do it. I’ll tolerate the Booker-inside-of-me part in order to experience once again the glorious foreplay I still remember so well. It’s been years. But I’ve never forgotten the truly fabulous moments before things went south.

Unlike me, there is zero waffling on Booker’s part. Taking me at my word, he rises onto his knees in front of me and gently works the dress off over my head. He tosses it aside.

A wordless protest involuntarily sounds in my throat and he halts mid reach toward me to study my expression. “Shit. You’re going to worry about wrinkles in Clara’s dress, aren’t you?”

“She lent it to me. That means she trusts me to return it the way I got it. I can’t give her beautiful dress back to her all balled up.”

“Gotcha.” Booker climbs off the bed and snatches the dress up off the floor. He gives it a brisk snap to straighten it, then swiftly and competently folds it into a smooth little square. He places it atop the nightstand.

Then he dives back onto the bed, grabs me and rolls us until he is flat on his back and I’m somehow sitting astride his lap.

Smack dab on top of an extremely hard ridge pressed up between my legs.

Booker stares up at me. “I’m definitely doing something wrong if you have time to worry about the state of Clara’s dress.” He hooks a hot hand around my nape and tugs my head down. “Kiss me.”

I inhale sharply when I lean down to do exactly that and feel Booker’s hardness rubbing over a spot very happy with the attention. I cup his cheeks in my hands and lower my mouth to kiss him. Mimicking his actions, I rock my slightly open lips over his and search for his tongue with mine.

And immediately make a rough noise deep in my throat. Holy, holy crow. I am steeped in so many simultaneous sensations I hardly know what to do with myself. Booker’s mouth is hot and damp, his tongue aggressive and knowledgeable as it duels with mine. His early morning stubble scratches lightly against my palms and I slide my hips back to feel that rigid length glide along the furrow between my legs once more. Only a scrap of fabric separates me from the slacks separating him. Fabric that is growing embarrassingly wet. The movement also makes my bare shins slide against the magic bedspread’s satiny fabric.

Booker’s long-fingered hands slap down on my butt and his fingertips curl to grip it in a take no prisoners hold. He uses it to guide my movements atop his...pecker, the boys in the B of C used to call it. But that seems so boyish.

I lift my mouth off his. I’ve heard a lot of different names for that particular body part over the recent years, but I don’t have a clue which one to go with. “When you think of this—” I grind against his length, and the sensation promptly firing through me darn near sends my eyeballs rolling back in my head “—what do you call it?”

“My cock, my dick. Hard-on. You can call it whatever your little heart desires.”

“Pecker?” I murmur.

Booker grimaces. “Except that. Little boys have peckers.” He lifts up against me. “You can call this bad boy a cock. Or Master of all my pleasure.” He grins up at me. “That would work.”

“Sure.” I roll my eyes. Lightly slap his chest with the flat of my hand. “Hold your breath waiting for that to happen.”

“Oh, Booker,” he moans in what I’m sure he considers a feminine voice, “I need the Master of all my pleasure. Neeeeeed it, I tell you!”

“You idiot.” But I laugh. He sounds so much like the boy I used to know. Then I have to go and blush, darn it all.

His eyes light up in the dim, fire-lit room. “You do blush all over,” he says, reaching up to attempt sliding the other, too small cup of my brassiere aside. I hate this thing; hate the way it squeezes me down. But I needed the flattening effect to fit into Clara’s dress.

“Why women wear this shit is beyond me,” Booker grouses, reaching behind me to unhook it. He slides it down my arms and tosses it aside.

And, even leaving me half naked, he hears no protest from me this time. Breathing a sigh of relief, I stroke back into shape the breast Booker hasn’t already had his hand and mouth all over. I’ve heard women who have bound their breasts for years complain their bubbies never returned to their former perky life. It’s not hard to understand why.

“Here.” Booker peels my fingers off my breasts and replaces them with his rougher skinned hands, cupping my breasts in his palms. “Let me help you with that.”

“You are such a charitable fella.” It is no easy feat keeping my voice steady when every glide of his slightly rough skin over my nipples robs me of breath. Without thought, I shift atop his slacks covered cock once more. And moan deep in my throat.

Booker’s groan sings a rugged two-part harmony with mine. He shifts his hands to cup the bottom curve of my breasts, then stares at them like he’s serving them up on a silver platter for his—what do the carnival barkers say outside the girly shows? Delectation! Like he’s serving them up on a silver platter for his delectation.

“Damn, you’re pretty,” he murmurs.

My skin heats up again and he smiles up at me. “Yep,” he murmurs, his voice somehow sounding deeper than usual. “You definitely blush all over.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I do what I do best—redirect. “How come I’m next to naked, but you still have all your clothes on?”

“Excellent question.” Sliding me down to perch on his thighs, he sits up and starts removing his shirt studs.

I brush his hands aside. “I’ll get these. You undo your cufflinks.”

Between the two of us, we remove Booker’s dress shirt collar and peel him out of the shirt itself. He pulls the hem of his white undershirt out from under his pants waistband and raises his upper body several inches off the mattress to tug it off over his head.

His skin gleams with health in the firelight and I gawk at his bare torso in ab-so-toot fascination. His arms and shoulders are muscular, his chest and stomach so hard and firm. His chest hosts a fan of fine dark hair which arrows down between those distinctly separate muscles in his abdomen to disappear beneath the waistband of his dress slacks.

I follow the trail with a fingertip and find the hair unexpectedly silky.

Booker lifts me off his thighs and reaches for his slacks’ zipper. I watch as he raises his hips and pushes the pants down. Notice, as he bicycles his legs to kick the pants off, he’s wearing a pair of the new boxer-style underwear. I stare at their three-button opening. See the ridge of his sex pressing against the fly.

And all of a sudden it hits me anew what I’ve signed up for. I’m starting to panic when a log in the fireplace pops and a larger than usual flame shoots up, making the room momentarily brighter. And I see the scar on Booker’s side.

“Oh, my God,” I lean forward to run my fingers over the irregular oval pucker under his ribs. “What happened to you?”

He curls his fingers around my hand, lifting it off the scar. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! You were clearly badly hurt at one time or another.”

“It’s a bayonet wound. From the war.” He shrugs. But my horror must show on my expression, because he adds softly. “Don’t worry, it was a through and through.”

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” I mutter.

“It means it went in here—” Booker reaches across to rub the scar “—and straight out the back here.” Rolling slightly onto his other side, he points out a nearly identical scar on his back just around his side and maybe an inch lower than its mate. “Without hitting any vital organs.”

“Good God, Booker.” I anxiously pat my fingers around the scar. Raise my gaze to meet his. “That had to have been horrid. Weren’t you scared to death?”

“It was no fun, I’ll grant you. But it happened so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid.” He rolls onto his back again. “We were in the forest where the battle for Verdun had been fought in ’16. That damn thing went on for three hundred days before the French finally claimed victory.” Booker shakes his head. Brushes off the aside with a choppy sweep of his fingers. “Sarge was trying to map out a route through the woods without getting any of us caught up in the barbed wire or setting off one of the unexploded shells still littering the ground. And, out of nowhere, this lone German soldier suddenly pops up and runs me through. It burned like the fires of hell, lemme tell you. But it could have been a lot worse.” He shoves up on his elbows suddenly. Pins me in his sights. “Bayonets are mounted on rifles, Lena. Kid could have shot me. I think he was taken as much by surprise as we were.”

“What happened to him?”

Booker’s eyes go flat. “He wasn’t so lucky.”

I have no idea how to address any of this. It’s so far outside my experience, I can’t even wrap my head around it. I hate the thought of all the death. But I hate the idea of Booker being wounded even more. So, I follow my impulse.

Leaning down, I kiss his old injury better.