Silent Revenge, Hidden Heart

Once the Burtons had retired to the guest room, Giselle headed upstairs. Her face, pretty and delicate, was all tied up in a rankled sort of fashion. Observing the Burtons had made up her mind. This had gone on long enough. She wasn’t going to keep on living in the same house with a man who was her husband in name only and not do something about it.

The situation was peculiar and came about like this: two years ago, in 1944, Giselle Parron had been part of the French Resistance. Her father had died some years earlier, but her mother and two uncles were also part of the underground work. One summer, two American flyers crashed in a nearby field. The Parrons rescued and hid them for about a month. It was during that time that one of them was very nearly caught when a Nazi patrol unexpectedly raided the family’s farm. Giselle steered the Germans away, saving Alan Karlisle’s life. Yet she paid for it with a forced sexual encounter at the hands of the officer heading the patrol.

Because of this, Alan felt he owed Giselle a lot. She’d saved his life and lost her virginity in the process. He admired the French girl anyhow. The two had an understanding, even though they spoke few words. Giselle was shy, much more so after the shameful act committed against her. She thought Alan Karlisle was handsome and strong and good, and she appreciated his decency. He was twenty-nine and a typical strapping American guy. He, on his part, found his eyes wandering her way time and again, though he rebuked himself. The rape incident had scarred her and probably turned her against sex and marriage. And he would be leaving soon, trying to get back to Allied lines. That was his duty.

A couple of things happened that helped sway him to speak up. Madame Parron died quite suddenly from bronchitis. Then one of Giselle’s uncles was caught by the Gestapo, and the other was forced to retreat to a mountain hideaway. This left the young woman somewhat vulnerable and very much alone. So Alan approached her with a proposal. When the war ended, he’d come back. And if she wanted, he would marry her and take her home to the United States.

Giselle was startled and a little taken aback. She didn’t want him indebted to her, and she knew he was doing it mainly out of compassion. She said she must think about it. In the meantime, she respected him very much and would always remember how kind he was. She knew he had to go away. She also knew there was a great chance he wouldn’t make it through the rest of this war.

Imagine her surprise when, not even a year later, she picked out Alan’s face among the hundreds of victorious incoming American troops. Paris and its surrounding regions were chaotic, but in a glad way, with the surrender of Germany and liberation by the Allies. Giselle found herself hugging Alan, even kissing his cheek over and over. The joy and relief and celebration affecting everyone around her lit her with wild, happy enthusiasm. Alan kept her close to him as he marched and waved and shook hands with Parisians and accepted the embraces and kisses of weeping French women.

At last, Alan got leave to return with Giselle to her home. Amazingly, it had withstood the war. Here Alan renewed his proposal, and Giselle, weary and lonely and craving human affection and friendship, accepted.

They were married by an Army chaplain, and for a couple of weeks, they stayed on the farm. Because he’d been wounded while in the Air Corps, Alan was now a part of the commanding colonel’s strategic staff. Planning the rebuilding of Paris and the apprehension of collaborators took up most of his time. In fact, on many nights, he didn’t make it back to Giselle.

He was certain that this was the way she wanted it. The memory of the Nazi officer assaulting her made him sick and angry every time he thought of it, and it strengthened his determination not to hurt her. It was tough. He was a man, and he was definitely attracted to her. But she’d gone through her own hell and would need time to heal.

Giselle on her part began second-guessing their marriage almost as soon as she spoke her vows. The thrill of having a man tell her he loved her, combined with all the other excitement of the past weeks, had probably gone to her head. Alan just felt he had to pay a debt, she reasoned. He would even marry her and give her a good life in America. But she wanted the fundamentals: her man, his love, and his body.

On this night, they’d been in Alan’s Arizona home for about five months. It was autumn, but pretty warm. The Burtons were old friends of Alan’s, and they often visited. Giselle loved them, especially Marcia. They were an energetic couple who bantered with each other and made others feel at ease. What drew Giselle’s attention the most, though, was how obvious they were about being in love with each other. Pete generally had his hand around Marcia’s waist, and they were always stealing kisses and exchanging adoring looks. Giselle couldn’t quite identify her feelings about it. She applauded them but felt so left out. This was the way married couples should be, she thought. Why couldn’t she and Alan be like that?

That’s where Giselle was now. She’d caught a glimpse of Marcia and Pete, bodies clenched together, hands groping, lips kissing, as they stumbled to their room. What they would proceed to do once the door closed behind them was no mystery to Giselle. And desire, longing for the same thing with her own husband, bubbled up in her loins like a deep boiling volcano.

The war was over, including that episode with the Nazi officer. She had survived it. So many people had been forced to survive things they didn’t think they could, mainly because that’s what war was: survival against all odds. Alan had survived things too; he would understand. And Giselle found herself more in love with him than ever, recalling how his kindness had led him to marry her. He didn’t keep away from her sexually because he was a cold man. No, he wanted to take care of her. He just didn’t know that she was ready for him.

Deliberately, her heartbeat speeding up a bit and making her hands sweat, she aimed for Alan’s room. A detour to her own apartment resulted in a change of attire and her honey-brown hair swept up in a loose twist. The sweep of cool, sheer chiffon around her smooth legs only heightened her senses and excited her more. This negligee must do something to Alan. Oh, how she wanted to make him want her!

At his door, she listened for a few seconds and heard nothing. It was only nine-thirty, early for him to be in bed. Carefully she turned the handle and peeped in. He wasn’t there. Probably he was in the bathroom. Giselle grinned and slipped in, shutting the door noiselessly.

First, she glanced around the room to get her bearings and learn something about her husband’s tastes. He’d given her the master bedroom when he brought her here, and he’d taken up residence in a spare room just down the hall. The carpet was soft, the closed curtains heavy, and the lighting warm. Otherwise, the room was plain; there were clothes tossed over the back of a chair and the bed was slightly rumpled as if it hadn’t really been made that morning. To herself, Giselle smiled. Then she heard the bathroom doorknob turn and quickly, her heart jumping into her throat, she prepared for her performance.

Alan stepped out in pajama bottoms and an untied robe, his day clothes over one arm. At the sight of the figure by his bedroom door, he started. “What the –” he began. He didn’t get any further.

Giselle had her back to him and was moving side to side, hips swaying, arms writhing, hands wandering. Suddenly she reached up and tugged the straps of her negligee, drawing the thin fabric down. A few seconds later, lightly tanned skin replaced the white silk.

Alan stared, vaguely noting that his lower abdomen was clenched. His fingers tightened into fists as Giselle’s smooth back was bared.

Then… she undressed further, revealing warm, fleshy buttocks, firm thighs, and finally the long sensuousness of her lower legs. All the while her hands strayed, caressing her own body. Slowly, seductively, she swiveled. She met his gaze. The look in his eyes ignited her with hunger.

She said nothing, only stretched her arms up so she could release her hair from the combs. A mass of shining waves fell over her shoulders.

The very motion made the blood gush into Alan’s head. He was standing, almost paralyzed, a few yards away from her. Giselle’s slim little body was drawing him in, and he felt compelled to move closer. She began to dance, her movements slow and deliberate, a silent invitation.

After what felt like a million years, she stood inches away from him. He could feel the heat sizzling from within her. She detected the growing tension in his chest, and a surge of delight rushed through her. He wanted her!

Another step and she was just touching him, the dusty pink tips of her breasts brushing his bare chest. The sensation made him quiver. She lifted her eyes to him, blue-gray eyes that radiated tender, womanly love.

“Alan, I love you. Don’t make me be your wife in name only. Make me yours… please!” Her words were nearly whispered, yet they registered in Alan’s brain with the volume and intensity of thunder.

“Giselle…” he whispered back. Then his hands came to life. He chucked aside his clothes and grabbed her, clenching her body against his and catching her mouth in a deep kiss.

“My God… kiss me, kiss me, Alan!” Giselle breathed in her delicate French accent.

Alan consumed her lips, tongue plunging wildly to meet hers. He found himself grinding against her, trying to rub his body over her nude skin. He pushed her to the wall and pressed his crotch into her, his thighs practically straddling her. She moaned. She could feel how hard and hot he was.

“Oh, Alan, I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he grunted, his breath hitching as he felt his meat glide over her wet petals.

A little harder he shoved, and he was in her. Giselle pulled in a long, shaking breath at the wonderful and odd feeling. Every stroke hit a tender spot somewhere in the recesses of her womanhood, and she loved it. It was a pleasurable pain, tied intrinsically to being with this man. Added to all the incredible, wanton feelings were the erotic sounds breaking from both her lips and his. He was breathing hard, sometimes gasping, sometimes spitting out mild expletives as he worked himself in and out of her, while she yelped and moaned and encouraged him.

She quivered, trying to catch her breath. The feel of Alan grasping her under her knees and waiting for his convulsing penis to soften and slip out of her was heavenly. Her own body was shiny with sweat, and she knew her juices were mixing with his semen and dripping on the floor. It was all so raw, so primal, and yet so sweet and intimate and indescribable.

Alan finally got his heart rate under control and caught her lips in a hot kiss. “That was amazing, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely.

“You were amazing,” she rejoined, smiling between kisses.

“We’ve, uh, sort of made a mess, I’m afraid,” he observed, nodding at the carpet.

She giggled, then languorously rubbed her body up against his like a cat. “I don’t consider the remnants of what we just did to be messy. If you had instead put it on my breasts, or in my mouth…”

“You little seductress!” Alan broke in with a twinkling eye, a trifle shocked at her suggestion but loving it the whole time. “If we try this again, I’ll make sure the floor doesn’t suffer.”

“If?” Giselle asked with an arched eyebrow.

“No, not if. When.”

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