Cleopatra�s Perfume (3 page)

He applied his fingers in a circular manner to her throbbing bud faster and faster until she
couldn’t
hold back. She cried out, a starkness to her beauty that shook him, a fierceness in her eyes that pulsated with fear then anger then pain. Then it was gone.

She took a moment to catch her breath then became once again the quintessential blond vixen wrapped in her hunger for a man. Sweating, she threw her head back and cupped her breasts, twisting her nipples, then moaning, her eyes closed, her lips whispering, “Fuck me,
now.
"

Using the excuse this was no pulp-fiction plot but his life and he had no intention of losing it, he picked her up in his arms and laid her down on the soft white blanket in the sand. His heartbeat quickened when he felt her shudder underneath him. Then, teasing her, he inserted his impatient finger again and, feeling her wet, he plunged deeper, drawing his digit back and forth across the hard ridge of her clit, increasing his rhythm. He sensed she was exaggerating her emotions to impress the SS officer, gritting her teeth to avoid allowing herself to enjoy it. He moved across her pleasure bud faster, stroking it, then bending down and drawing it between his lips
and sucking at it, nibbling and torturing her with the tip of his tongue. He pressed her body to his lips and she shivered uncontrollably.

He had her where he wanted her.

He inserted two fingers and she trembled, her body arching upward, riding his hand, a rapturous expression on her face giving her away. He knew that expression well, whether it was the farm girls he’d fucked in the hay when he was barnstorming cross-country in his open-cockpit biplane or the sophisticated girls behind the perfume counter with their dark red lipstick and sheer black stockings.
She
was different. She was a member of the British aristocracy yet she possessed the same hunger for a man inside her, cock or tongue, she didn’t care. She wanted more, craved that glow in her belly that made wetness seep between her legs so she’d be slick and easy when he entered her.

Without missing a beat, he removed his fingers then pushed apart her thighs and entered her, moving in and out, slowly at first, making her moan and begging him to go faster. He picked up his speed as her body matched his rhythm, stroke for stroke. Yet never did he take his eyes off her face, her mouth as red as the ruby ring she wore, her lips glistening with the same sparkle.

Her eyes widened when he thrust deeper into her, her body closing around him, exciting him to the point where he couldn’t stop. The deeper he thrust, the more he swore she opened up to him,
yes,
but not in her eyes. Cool green eyes that made him shiver in spite of the heat of passion making their bodies sweat, eyes with enough dark green in them to shade her thoughts, her
soul, something he wanted to see, had to, for only then could he satisfy her
and
himself.

Grunting, he locked his body tighter onto hers with each thrust, his tall frame threatening to overtake her with his power. He held her by the hips, not too hard so he wouldn’t mark her skin, knowing when she reached that point of madness when neither of them could hold back, all reason would be lost. Then came pleasure, with its price to pay, for then he would also lose control and be at his most vulnerable.

The crack of the whip echoed in his ears, closer now. The SS officer also enjoyed their excitement, relished it, but would he take advantage of them? He couldn’t take the chance.

He pulled out,
damn his own agony,
sliding from her in one quick movement. She gasped, shook her head in denial. She was so close to that moment of release, her body shivered, her lower lip quivering, as she yelled,
“You bastard!”

Yes, he was a bastard and he hated himself for it. He could smell her juices mixing with her perfume, the scent so intoxicating he felt compelled to enter her again and finish her off. What was all this nonsense about Cleopatra’s perfume? A strange request she’d made, asking him to retrieve that and her diary. Was she nothing but a selfish hedonist after all? He held back, knowing he’d taken away what had been their pleasure and turned it into their pain, but he had no choice if they were to survive.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

“I made you hot…for
him.
"

With a sly glance at her beautiful face, sweating, glowing, her eyes alight with excitement, begging him for more, he peeled
open her lower lips, her juices nestled in her pink folds, and exposed her without shame to the man walking toward him, cracking his whip. The impact of black leather hitting the brown sandy dirt blew a small dust wind around them like smoke. He held his breath, refusing to inhale, then:

“The woman is very beautiful and worthy of fucking an officer of the Reich,” the SS officer said in accented English, winding the whip around his hand. “
If
I were so inclined.”

The flier turned toward the elitist officer, his senses alert. What the hell did he mean by that?

“She would be honored to receive the cock of a member of the SS,” Chuck said, keeping his emotions in check.

“I prefer to watch
you
fuck her,” said the Nazi, “while I amuse myself with a different game.”

A large smooth hand slipped over his thigh, rubbing it with caution. The strong smell of Aryan maleness tinged with the spice of perversity invaded his nostrils. The game had changed and he didn’t like the smell of it.

Why he didn’t make his move during the naked silence that followed, he didn’t know. Surprise, shock, fear? Not for his own life, but hers. Something about the fervent way she looked into his eyes and begged him to understand something else was at play here made him realize this was no ordinary tryst. But what?

He looked around and caught the SS officer staring at him as he removed his black tunic jacket with its single shoulder strap and thin aluminum collar piping. It took all his strength not to rip off the cotton hand-embroidered SS armband or kick him in
the balls when he dropped his black breeches. Not a smart move when he had a service weapon trained on him. He recognized the sleek Walther P-38 pistol. An excellent design. Fit the hand as smoothly as a black glove. He knew he was in deep trouble when he saw the Nazi release the safety and cock the hammer in one motion as he pulled it from his side holster under his black jacket. Unlike most Prussians he’d seen since he arrived in the land of boot clickers, this one didn’t need time to unwind. His firm, muscular body reeked of desire, sweat glistening off the twin lightning bolts tattooed on his forearm like a glaring spotlight.

He made his interest in him clear, striding around in nothing but his high boots and his hat bearing the Death’s Head badge, the
Totenkopf
, swinging a whip and crackling it at his side as he struck the ground with the well-used black leather.

Chuck tried not to show it but he couldn’t control his fast breathing, one hand behind his back to hide what he knew was his hand shaking. What bothered him was how
he’d
reacted to the warmth of the man’s hands on his skin. Damn, he was hot, ready to climax, and his touch,
any
touch, he told himself, would have made him explode. He wouldn’t accept any other explanation. He had no doubt if the Nazi tried to brush his skin again with that hand, he’d deck him. He’d heard rumors about the proclivity of certain members of the SS for sex with other men. They shunned the effeminate side of the equation, preferring raucous, beer-drinking sexual antics where a man’s cock found penetration of a different kind to his liking. Dark, secret places that made his skin fester as if purulent sores covered it.

He scratched at his thigh, more from the crawling dread
seeping over him than from the clouds of mosquitoes hiding in the thickets of dense shrubbery surrounding the lake.

“I have a game,” said the Nazi, “one I’m certain you’ll both enjoy.”

“And what if I don’t like your game?” Chuck dared to venture.

“I’m sure we can accommodate the captain,” cried out the Englishwoman, her soft hair wisps clouding the nervous expression he’d seen in her eyes. “I’ll fuck you both!”

“No,” said the SS guard. “I will fuck
you
both.” He grabbed the American’s buttocks with his large, smooth hand, making his stiffen. Chuck dug his fingers into his palm so hard he swore he pierced the skin.

“I swear, if you touch me again—”

The SS officer laughed. “
You
will fuck her,
mein herr,
and I will, as you Americans say, bring up the rear.” He laughed.

“And if I refuse?”

“There will be no exit visa.” He ran his hand along Chuck’s inner thigh then he snapped the whip against his flank when he tried to grab the gun away from the Nazi. The American grunted, pulling in his gut and swallowing the pain, rather than cry out.

“I demand you take us back to Berlin,” Chuck said. “Your game has gone far enough.”

“I’ll take you back—” the Nazi shoved the gun into his ribs “—straight to Gestapo headquarters to explain your presence in Berlin.”

“I have no intention of explaining anything to you or your Nazi friends. America isn’t at war with Germany—”

“Aren’t you forgetting our agreement?” the Englishwoman
interrupted, her tone cold and formal, her coquettish mannerisms gone. She glared at Chuck, silently telling him to let her take over. Her look told him she wasn’t playing games now that she knew the SS officer wasn’t interested in her.

“It’s too late for that,
Fräulein.
” He pointed the gun at her. Chuck clenched his fists, ignoring the cascade of frenzy invading his brain. Whatever his personal feelings were in this game, he couldn’t allow the Nazi to strike her down in a stabbing flash of gunfire, bullets slicing along her belly, her breasts, jerking her straight up, spinning in a macabre dance of death.

“No!”
she cried out, the late-afternoon sun sparking off her ring and striking the Nazi in the eye, causing him to look away. Chuck gathered up a handful of gravel mixed among the sandy dirt and gripped it in his palm, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“I regret having to destroy such a lovely female body,” the SS officer said, straining to perfect his aim in the harsh glare, “a perfect example of curve and line, but in the name of the Reich—”

“Run!”
Chuck cried out, then spun around and threw the handful of gravel into the Nazi’s face. The man jerked backward, his hat falling off and onto the sand. Chuck stomped on it, smashing the skull-and-crossbones SS insignia under his bare foot and ignoring the sharp pain digging into his flesh. Then, before the German could react, he kicked him in the groin so hard he screamed out, but not before his pistol fired and the bullet hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of sand.

The Englishwoman didn’t wait. He watched in horror as she raced toward the lake, her white-blond hair shimmering around her shoulders like the crests of a wave. Then for an instant she
pirouetted and stood on the large boulder, her arms folded across her breasts, her ruby-and-pearl ring catching the eye of the sun and making it flutter. Her last look was at him, her eyes begging him not to forget her. Then, another shot. The Nazi. Before he could get to her, she screamed then dived into the lake. Seconds, only seconds, yet he’d never forget that look.

Had the second bullet found its mark?

Before he could go after her, the Nazi was on him like a lizard crawling up a mud bank. He struggled with the German, kicking him again and, using the sparring techniques he’d learned on his numerous trips ashore to Hong Kong ferrying the mail, forced him to drop the gun. Knowing his attacks had to be fast and accurate, he threw a right cross to the Nazi’s chin. The Aryan ducked, surprising him, then came back at him with a double punch to his gut. They exchanged blows, skin splitting open, sweat mixing in a macabre blurring of male flesh and hard muscle into one blur until the Nazi retrieved the gun. Chuck kicked it out of the man’s hand and he went down on the sand. He jumped on top of him, but the Nazi threw dirt into his face. Eyes burning like hell, he reached out blindly, withstanding the man’s punches, until his hands wrapped around the German’s neck and he pushed down on his windpipe hard, not letting up, until he went still beneath him.

He sat back on his haunches and caught his breath. Eyes wide open, shock of blond hair hanging down low over his face, the Nazi had the look of a demonic creature cast in stone. He checked his pulse. He was dead.

Wiping the sweat out of his eyes, Chuck looked toward the
lake. No movement, no splashing.
Nothing.
What happened to the Englishwoman? A sharp pain tore at his gut, eating him up with dread. He jumped to his feet and dived into the crystal-clear water, afraid of what he’d find.

An hour later—or was it two?—the dead Nazi lay in the mud on the lake bottom with two large rocks tied around his ankles. Chuck came up again to get some air, his lungs bursting. No sign of the Englishwoman. No blood, no body.
Nothing.
Again and again he searched the area, but it was as if she’d dived into the lake and disappeared. He almost believed she
was
a mermaid and had swum out to sea.

God, he was losing his mind. Nothing made sense. The platinum blonde. The SS officer. What had he stumbled into? An intricate Nazi plot to pick him up? No, that was impossible. No one could have known he’d duck into the Hotel Adlon to get some rest after he’d been shot down during a bombing mission over Berlin. He was an American flier in the RAF and he’d been on the run for two, three days, trying to escape into the human blur that swarmed through the hotels in a never-ending bustle, moving at night when the city was thrust into darkness to evade the British bombers. Living on cold pasta tossed out from Italian restaurants, since food was rationed. His crew had been captured, but he escaped into the woods, burying his uniform jacket then stealing clothes drying on a line from an unsuspecting
Hausfrau.