He was American. Through teeth clenched in pain, he instructed Father to douse the fire so that the smoke wouldn't signal the Germans. He spoke only a smattering of French; we spoke no English. But he made himself understood before losing consciousness. Father hurried to do as he'd been told and left me to take care of the injured pilot.
I removed his goggles and leather flight cap. As I sponged the grime off his face, my heart began to flutter. He was extremely handsome, with thick curly brown hair that fell over his brow. My fingers became clumsy when I tried to remove his clothing, but I had no choice but to do so. A dark red stain was spreading out on the sheet beneath him.
I was to learn later that he'd been hit by a German machine gun during a dogfight. The rest of his squadron had been shot down. The bullet had ripped a hole in his side just above his waist. I cleaned the wound and bound it. His unconscious moans brought tears to my eyes.
He would recover, but it would be a long time before he could return to active duty or even be moved to a military hospital. Since Father worked from dawn till dark, the responsibility of tending the American pilot had fallen to me.
As I entered the room now, he was lying against the headboard, propped up by pillows. I lowered my gaze from his bare chest because each time I looked at it, a shameful, damp heat collected in my womanhood. The sight of him made my breasts tingle. His clothes had been so bloodstained that I'd had to destroy them. All but the long white silk scarf which I had carefully unwound from his neck and which now lay beneath the pillow of my own bed.
I knew that he lay naked beneath the sheet. I also knew what he looked like naked, for I had sponged his body repeatedly when he was wracked with fever and delirium.
Made timid by his scrutiny, I asked him if he felt like eating and he answered yes. The floorboards of the ancient house creaked as I walked across them to the narrow bed. Lowering the tray to the nightstand, I sat down on the edge of the bed, mindful not to let my hip bump against his thigh, which was clearly outlined beneath the thin sheet.
My hand trembled as I spooned the soup into his mouth. Smiling, he complimented me on how good it tasted. I blotted his lips with the napkin after each bite. He ate all the soup.
Before leaving him, I lit the candle on the nightstand to alleviate the gloom caused by the rain which could be heard dripping heavily from the eaves. Standing beside his bed, my hands nervously clasped together in front of me, I asked if there was anything else I could do for him.
He said nothing, but raised his hand and placed it in the curve of my waist. I felt his touch through my clothing, as hot as a poker. Applying but slight pressure, he urged me back down beside him. His sparkling eyes entranced me. I was helpless to resist them. He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek with the backs of his fingers. He playfully tugged at the tendrils of hair that had escaped my bun. He told me the Americans called it the Gibson-girl style and he laughed at my accented efforts to repeat the words.
Then his hand moved to my throat and the high collar of my shirtwaist. He ran his finger over the lace, around the cameo brooch which had belonged to my late mother, and down the row of buttons. One by one, he unfastened them.
My heartbeat drummed against his palm when he reached into my shirtwaist and covered my breast with his hand, taking all the fullness within the gentle grasp of his strong fingers. Heat and confusion overwhelmed me. I swayed dizzily when he touched the tip of my breast and blushed with shame and pleasure when it jutted hard against the stroking pad of his thumb.
He curled his free hand around my neck and pulled my head down onto the pillows next to his. He kissed me. I was shocked when his lips parted and he pressed his tongue into my mouth. I had never realized that mouths could be so intimate. Mating was a natural occurrence on the farm, but I had assumed that human beings approached reproduction with the same attitude of detachment as the animals. Never had I guessed that one's heart could beat so fast, or that one's blood could flow so hotly, so thickly. I hadn't known that such pleasure could be derived from coupling.
His hands got inside my clothing and touched soft, secret parts of my body that I barely skimmed with my washing cloth. I had learned in church that touching "there" was sinful. But I didn't think about sin or my father or the chores waiting to be done. I thought of nothing but the American and the beautiful sensations his stroking hands were giving me.
I heard myself moan when he palmed the soft nest of hair between my thighs. His fingers, deft and sure, discovered a deep pool of liquid desire inside me.
In a rough, grating voice, he asked me to touch him, making himself understood by guiding my hand. It seemed an odd request since I'd been touching him for days. But as my hand slid beneath the sheet and moved over his smooth skin and the patches of crisp body hair, I knew that this kind of touching was different. He was different. Warm, but with another type of fever. His breathing was rapid, but not with delirium.
He bunched my skirts around my waist and pulled me over him. I wanted to remind him of his wound, but he pushed aside my camisole and put his mouth to my breast. He pressed his tongue against my nipple. I couldn't speak. I could do nothing but open myself to the thru —
When the telephone rang, Elizabeth jumped in startled reaction. By an act of will she reduced the furious pace of her heart. She took several deep breaths. Her hand was shaking when she reached for the receiver. "Hello."
"Hi, it's me. What's wrong?"
It was Lilah. "Nothing."
"You sound funny."
"I'm busy."
"Busy writing more fantasies, I hope. Lizzie, they're terrific!"
When three days had passed and Lilah still hadn't called, Elizabeth had assumed that her writing had seemed too amateurish to be published or that Lilah simply hadn't liked her fantasies. Either way, she had been both relieved and chagrined that her writing career had been so short-lived.
"You don't have to say that just to spare my feelings," she told her sister now.
"I'm not. My Lord, Lizzie, I had no idea you were so imaginatively erotic. I read the two fantasies a dozen times apiece and was thoroughly entertained each time."
"But you're my sister and you love me. It's natural that you — "
"Right. I wanted them to be good, so I questioned my own judgment, even though I knew I was right. To make sure, I had four other people here at the hospital read them."
"You didn't!"
"Relax. I didn't say who wrote them. They'd never believe it was mousy little you anyway."
"Thanks," Elizabeth said dryly.
"Anyway, suffice it to say that both the women and the men who read them — "
"You gave them to men?"
"Women don't have the fantasy market cornered, you know," Lilah argued. "I thought it would be valuable to see if the fantasies worked for men, too, and they certainly did. They're on their way to New York already. The manuscripts, not the men," she added, laughing.
"You've already mailed them?"
"Yes, so you wouldn't have a chance to talk me out of it. I typed them myself. Made hundreds of errors, my hands were so slick with sweat. When do I get to read more?"
"More? Who said there would be more?"
"I did. Talent like yours isn't exhausted with just two fantasies."