His Very Own Girl (22 page)

Joe locked them inside the hotel room and leaned against the door. Lulu stood with her back to him. He couldn’t see her face, only the willowy length of her spine, the lean, graceful shape of her calves, and the intricate play of rolls and knots that made up her hairstyle. But at that moment he was glad he couldn’t see her expression. The room wasn’t at all as he’d imagined, what with its plain furnishings and drab walls. Voices and footsteps from above invaded as if the two floors weren’t separated by wood and brick.

Not only had it been the best he could afford but it was just about the only room available. Every serviceman wanted a room when on leave in London. They all wanted privacy, alone with a wife or sweetheart or relative stranger.

None of it was what he’d imagined—not the room, not the frantic rush to contact Lulu. He had no special items from the black market, no wine, no food, no presents. It had been all he could do to learn his itinerary and beg the opportunity to make a phone call. His head still spun from the speed of it all. Three days before, he’d been at a reserve camp just north of Utah Beach. Two weeks before that, he’d been at the base of Hill 122.

He shivered.

Lulu half-turned. He’d worried about her reaction to the hotel room, but her expression was perfectly placid. Happy, even.

She was even more breathtaking than he remembered. Three months and he’d forgotten how beautiful she was. Her cheekbones were wide and high, accentuating the narrow point of her chin. Her lips rested in a demure smirk that could transform at any moment into a pout or a full-blown smile. How had he forgotten those details?

It hurt to look at her, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. After what he’d seen, what he’d endured, gazing at Lulu was like staring at the sun. Instead of blinking or flinching, he just leaned against the door and tried to burn her image into his memory.

He had two days to stockpile as much of her as he could.

“Sorry about this place,” he said.

“Don’t be. It’s clean and private—my only two requirements. Although under the right circumstances, I might have done without either.”

“You don’t mean that, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I brought wine,” she said, glancing toward her suitcase in his hand. “It cost me a fortune, but what else do I have to spend my money on?”

“Paying the undertaker?”

Her soft smile made Joe swallow. “Not so much of late. Let’s just say I’ve had incentive to play it safe.” She nodded to the suitcase. “Are you going to set that down?”

Joe stared at his hand, but he couldn’t really feel it. His body wasn’t cooperating. He forced himself to move away from the door and set the case beside a battered freestanding wardrobe.

“I also brought nicer clothes,” Lulu said, petting the back of one hand with the other. “I didn’t know what we would do, if we’d go out. Dinner, dancing.” She laughed like a nervous girl. “Ah, look at me. I hardly know what I’m saying.”

Joe brushed a hand over his tunic pocket where he kept her letter and the ring he’d bought in Southampton. He walked to her, touched her cheek, smiled. “You sound like your letter.”

She graced him with her dimple. “So you received that monstrosity, did you?”

“Yes.”

He hoped his simple admission would reveal what her words had meant to him. If any poetry lived in his soul, he’d express those feelings aloud. He’d tell her how the fine, looping scroll of her handwriting had been softness to him—softness and beauty. He’d lay his pride aside and tell her how often he’d read and reread her declaration, and how often he’d fallen asleep with her letter in one hand and his other hand resting atop his aid bag. Most of all, he’d tell her what he wanted from their future: hearth and home, love and laughter, promises of forever and fidelity and family. She’d thrown a lifeline to a man in the midst of battle, and he clung to it with a terrifying desperation.

Maybe that’s why he hadn’t touched her yet. He didn’t trust himself. He was like an animal trapped in a wooden crate left out in the sun, sweltering, frantic for relief.

For release.

“Joe?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we . . . ?”

Her voice trailed off, and in what he knew to be an out-of-character gesture, she played with one cuff. A thread had come loose and she wound it around her thumb. A debutante’s blush stole over her cheeks, a sensuous contrast to the womanly desire burning in her eyes. Those eyes, vibrant and dark, flicked toward the bed in the center of the room. Then she dragged her gaze from his face down to his toes and back up again. Every spot on his body tingled under her suggestive scrutiny.

“Yes,” he said, his throat aching. “Yes, we can.”

Tempting him with the slight curve of her smile, Lulu began to remove the blouse of her uniform. Joe stilled her hands and brought her fingers to his lips. He wanted this. He wanted to be the one to reveal her skin to the light.

“You have no idea how often I’ve dreamed of this.”

He unbuttoned one after another after another, slowly, but he’d handled a scalpel and hypodermic needles with more certainty. The little hollow below her earlobe distracted him. He nuzzled there until she laughed and closed her eyes. Like miniature fans, her eyelashes rested along the tops of her cheeks. Above those dusky lashes, her arched eyebrows reminded him again of Rita Hayworth, all sensuality and class. But unlike an untouchable actress from the silver screen, Lulu was right there with him, a Hollywood fantasy made real.

As much as her looks, he loved her pride. She was stubborn and confident, not at all showy. Dignified. That she stood perfectly still, letting him take the lead, was an act of trust and submission that wasn’t lost on Joe. The scent of warm lavender skin greeted him like a light in a distant window, beckoning him home. He brushed a kiss atop one collarbone. She tasted of spun sugar and strong, black coffee—sweet and bold at once.

Lulu inhaled deeply, bringing his attention back to her half-unbuttoned blouse. Her pale skin and lacy white brassiere peeked out at him. He’d seen so many male bodies, whole or battered, over the last few years that the curves of a woman’s figure still fascinated him. They probably always would, especially if they were as perfectly formed as Lulu’s.

She made him forget. This was what he needed, lit up and starving and hard.

Evening was coming on fast. The overhead lamp cast light down on her like a blessing. Charcoal crescents of shadow angled down over her ribs, outlining the rounded lower curve of her breasts. He outlined each crescent with his thumbs, relishing her long, melting sigh. Then he traced where soft lace dared him to notice even the most subtle texture. For a man who’d kept himself numb, week after week, month after month, he craved nothing but sensation.

Quick, shallow breaths pushed her ample breasts against the lacy restraint of her bra. The air in their room ignited with a feral spark. He slid both hands inside her unbuttoned blouse, holding her waist. The marvel of touching, skin to skin, pulsed with the force of a live wire. Her husky laughter eased the tension but added a wicked humor.

Although neither of them moved, a current pulsed between their bodies, glimmering, raising the hairs on the backs of his arms. He stroked his thumbs along her bottom ribs. His tongue felt swathed in cotton. She showed no outward tension, but blood hurried through the blue veins along the side of her neck.

Blood.

He was no longer seeing Lulu.

Horrible visions of blood and death enveloped him like a noxious cloud.

He yanked his hands back. His head hung forward. The welcome rush of desire drained out of him, a canteen upended until nothing remained. So little remained—of him, of the dream of the man he’d wanted to be.

Joe staggered to the bed and sat heavily. The mattress creaked and sagged beneath his weight. He hid his face in his hands. Shame made his shoulders shake. He didn’t want Lulu to see him this way, but being with her gave him the permission he denied himself when he was alone or with the other men of Baker. Instinctively, he knew she would do her best to help. And after weeks of consoling other men in their darkest moments of pain and fear and hysteria, he needed that same consolation.

He lifted his face and showed her his grief. “I can’t make love to you.”

chapter twenty

Joe’s eyes had gone to a queer, distant place, his soul spirited away. Whatever had happened in Normandy was holding him captive.

Lulu knelt before him with the caution of a bomb disposal specialist, watching him intently. His mouth bent around a deep frown, a man ashamed of what he felt or what he’d done. Cupping her hands on his face, she waited until he saw her—really saw her. His green eyes were overly bright, full to bursting with pain.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he said, spitting the word. He pushed free of her hands and stood. Pacing the room like a tiger in a zoo, he scratched at his cropped hair, rubbing down to the scalp. He radiated anger. “I can’t. Not after . . . what happened to Smitty.”

Lulu winced. “Oh, God, Joe.”

No wonder he’d seemed so wild, swinging between hesitation and passion. His customary calmness was nowhere to be seen. Instead his shoulders were tense and his pacing restless, as some deep emotion consumed him.

But Lulu wasn’t about to let him go. A panicky shiver of fear lent strength to her determination. She’d already lost one man to this war.

Four years earlier she’d begged Robbie with every ounce of her love. He’d been a boy turned into a man, and a man turned into granite, dying by slow measures. Nothing she’d said had made a difference. No amount of touching or talking had made him whole again.

Taking a deep breath, she held out her hand. Joe kept pacing until he noticed. She held still, reaching for him, her heart beating a hectic rhythm.

Would he reject her as Robbie had?

“Joe, please. Talk to me.”

She didn’t relish hearing what Joe had to tell her—horrible things about that relentless wolf at the door. But neither could she imagine turning away. Joe needed her. She hadn’t been needed this badly in as long as she could remember. It felt good. Scary, dizzying, but terribly good. And unlike Robbie, who’d only ever shut her out, Joe’s obvious sorrow was practically begging for consolation.

At last he walked to the bed and collapsed to his knees. He nestled his face against her stomach. She held his head and kissed his silky, spiky hair, kissed him because she didn’t know what else to do.

“Smitty’s dead,” he said.

The story spilled out of him then, spoken into the hollow of her abdomen. Halting, slurred, anguished, his words painted a bleak picture of the assault on Hill 122. Smitty hadn’t survived. Joe had. And because of that, he grieved.

Conscious of tears wetting her cheeks, she kept kissing his hair, stroking his back, listening to each unadorned description. His body shook but Lulu was the one crying, with every third tear one of relief. Robbie had never confided in her. No matter how absolutely Joe’s story broke her heart, this was infinitely better. At least now she had hope.

But how to help him?

She could forget about appealing to logic. Joe wouldn’t hear her offers of absolution, nor would he admit the good he’d done on that day and on countless other days. The loss of his friend was the only truth he heeded.

Her mind flashed back to fair-haired Capt. Morrison and those grieving pilots at Earls Colne. They’d also suffered the loss of their friends, hurting and blaming themselves for men who no longer breathed. Perhaps she could distract Joe by a similar fashion, long enough for him to find his way back to her.

Lulu slid her hands along his stiff shoulders. He relaxed ever so slightly. And so did she. There was no need to steel herself. After all, this was Joe. She loved him. So she veiled her fears and gave her body permission to do just that. Love him.

Down the rock-hard muscles of his upper back, Lulu petted and massaged. What might have been a soothing gesture turned sexual when she raked her fingernails upward, from midspine to the nape of his neck.

“Lulu,” he said, a quiet warning, a heartbreaking plea.

“Shh.”

Before Joe could protest, she pushed him back and away. His taut expression told her all she needed to know: please, don’t stop.

She wanted to reassure him but not with words. Instead she stood and curled her fingers around the lapels of his dress tunic. She switched their positions until he was the one with his back to the bed. How many times had she dreamed of this, holding him, undressing him? Too many to count. Each dream built and built until the need to claim him again—to be claimed by him—became an all-consuming passion.

One button. Then another. She mimicked the slow way he’d undone her blouse, which still hung open. She should’ve been self-conscious, standing there so exposed, but that was the glorious mystery of being with Joe. She
wanted
to be exposed.

Chancing a glance up, she saw that his attention was completely riveted. His hopeful eyes silently urged her on. The god-awful pain had ebbed, at least momentarily. He seemed curious, waiting to see what she’d do next.

With the tunic unbuttoned, she eased it slowly down his arms. He hissed when her nipples brushed his chest. The lace of her brassiere created a maddening friction as she did it again, purposefully this time.

She eased his suspenders down, not stopping until her hands dipped into his trousers. On the way out she grabbed the tails of his shirt and tugged them free. The crisp olive drab wool felt brand-new, giving her the whimsical impression that the army had helped him dress up just for her. Her heart was beating harder now, filling her ears with a strengthening drumbeat. She reveled in the potent sensuality of stripping him.

What a gift—for such a proud man to give himself over to her keeping.

Past the last barrier of gold-tone buttons she found his T-shirt, which stretched across his chest and molded to every muscle. She kissed the hollow where his neck met his chest. He smelled of clean, intoxicating man.

This is what she’d ached for. Possessiveness like she’d never known inspired her. She was loving him to ease his pain, but her body was making demands that were anything but selfless.

Nuzzling the strong curve of his pectorals, she kissed him through the thin cotton. Then her hands were busy pulling that last layer away from his body, revealing the masculine beauty of his torso: his flat belly, the hollow beneath the regular pattern of his ribs, the tight curls of hair over smooth skin.

He grabbed the hem of the T-shirt from her and tugged it over his head. Breathing hard now, he stood naked from the chest up. Green eyes had darkened near to black. Slung low on his trim hips, his wool serge trousers outlined the unmistakable ridge of his erection.

She hadn’t yet absorbed her fill of that delicious sight when Joe quickly shucked his trousers and underwear. Lulu gasped, then laughed in happiness. He did, too, appearing for all the world like a chap who’d never been more satisfied to be stark naked. Naked and very, very aroused.

Still wearing a smile, she ran a finger up his hard, hot length. His laughter faded. He looked like a warrior of old, strong and invincible, even more potent because of his nudity and the arrogance of his powerful body. She relished the unspoken vow his eyes made, that
his
turn to take the lead would come.

But Lulu was still in charge. Although part of her wanted to end their game and give him a quick burst of pleasure, she wasn’t finished playing. This was a task to which she would devote herself unabashedly. Anticipation and the relief of having dragged him out of the shadows twined with her desire. The fine, smooth skin of her sex was wet and swollen, eager for him.

She pushed on Joe’s chest, the gentlest command. He eased back on the bed. The sad old mattress squeaked and dipped, reminding her of their dingy little hotel room, where plaster sagged in the corners and paint peeled back from patches of damp. He was on leave. Their time together was ebbing away, second by second.

No.

She wouldn’t let that truth inside, not when he was stretched naked before her.

“One of us is wearing too many articles of clothing,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar. “Wouldn’t you think?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

She glanced at the thick erection nudging up toward his navel. “You find a way to keep yourself occupied while I slip out of this tedious uniform.”

Did I hear you right?
his expression seemed to say. But then he loosed a devastatingly slow smile. He took himself in hand and began to slowly stroke.

Lulu licked her lips. She’d never imagined a more erotic scene. Her fingers rebelled when she went to remove her blouse. They wouldn’t quite function with the usual grace.

Briefly closing her eyes to regain her composure, she slipped out of her high heels and sighed in relief. More balanced now, she continued to undress, indulging in a shameless streak she hadn’t known she possessed. She eased the skirt off her hips, standing before Joe in a matched set of white lace lingerie. The brassiere she unhooked fell to the floor. Cool air shivered across her nipples.

But when she went to unhook her garter belt, Joe rasped, “Leave it on.”

He’d propped one arm behind his head, which stretched the muscles up the left side of his torso. Nodding absently to accept his request, Lulu became fascinated by the thatch of hair under his arm—a feature so intrinsically male. Was his pose innocent or designed to show off his strength? She liked to think it was just Joe, without artifice or posturing.

Lulu unhooked the belt tabs and rolled her knickers down and off, until she wore nothing but her refastened garter and flesh-colored stockings.

“Come here.” His low, caramel-rich voice petted her like a caress. “I need you.”

Her feet obeyed, even if the rest of her body had turned quivering traitor and her mind was threatening to collapse. Joe’s calloused hands clasped her around the waist. He kissed her stomach like the tickling brush of a feather. She hitched in a breath. His tongue darted out and licked one nipple, then the other, building a restless fire at the juncture of her thighs. She shifted, but nothing eased the tension.

With her fingers laced at the base of his skull, she dragged his face closer until he took one nipple fully into his mouth. She moaned and arched back. They filled that tiny hotel room with the sounds of their mingled moans and his mouth at her breast.

His firm lips found hers once more. Any hesitation was old news. These were no nipping, teasing kisses, but a full-on assault. Lulu kissed him back, hard and demanding, ready to escape her thoughts and indulge in their joined bodies. He grasped her backside, grinding against where she ached and throbbed, and pushed his other hand upward into her hair. He angled his head to claim her mouth more completely. The slick rasp of his tongue over hers, pushing and retreating, pulled a low groan from deep in her belly. When she didn’t think she could bear any more of the sweet, hot torture, she said his name—a demand and an invitation.

Joe dragged her onto the bed and she stretched beneath his long body, luxuriating in the stillness, waiting as he sheathed himself. Then he was inside her, driving deep with one sure thrust. He grunted with masculine satisfaction. Lulu cried out, digging her fingers into the bunched muscles of his shoulders.

Such a homecoming. Worrying for him and loving him had all been worthwhile.

They found a slow rhythm, a rhythm that quickly gained speed, well beyond teasing now. Their mattress squealed with every pumping stroke. Briefly Lulu wondered what the neighbors would think. But this was a flophouse for soldiers and their girls. How else would a mattress sound?

The thought twisted away, overwhelmed by the pleasure of their fierce coupling. She wrapped her arms around Joe’s back with laughter on her lips. He kissed her, smiling too, as his shaft drove deeper. Lulu tossed her head back and welcomed his beautiful assault. She gripped his buttocks, pulling him closer, and loved his shallow gasps, his hot breath against her temple.

Her orgasm took her by surprise. She was moving with her lover and then she was weightless, freed from the earth and soaring. White lights flashed behind her eyes as she shook and shuddered.

Joe quickened his pace, building to his own crescendo. Lulu floated. Her body had gone slack and boneless as each of his sweet strokes drew out her aftershocks of pleasure. Then he tensed, said her name on a gasping inhale, and moaned deep and long.