Free Valerie's Russia by Sara Judge

beginning to pound she nodded, then struggled to an upright position and reached for her shawl.
    ‘But keep your voice down – I don’t want Tassya hearing us.’
    Pyotr knew his sister would not interrupt them, but his mother was another matter. The countess often roamed around at night if she could not sleep, or if she felt like checking on the servants’ nocturnal activities. But as both she and Pyotr slept upstairs, he had made sure there was no light beneath her door before venturing down.
    ‘I have never seen you looking so like a little girl,’ he said, sitting beside her with his back against the pillow and sliding his cold feet under the blankets. ‘So young – and so fresh and innocent, my Varinka.’
    Her small body was covered with a white flannel nightdress, very thick and totally unrevealing. Over this was slung a pink woolly shawl.
    Valerie’s shiny brown hair hung below her shoulders, silky smooth to his touch as he gave her a hug.
    ‘You smell like an apple,’ he said, nuzzling against her hair.
    He wanted to kiss her cheeks and the tip of her nose, to cover her open breathless mouth with his own. Her lips were as red and luscious as the Crimean apples with which they decorated the tree at Christmas time.
    But he must be patient. He dared not frighten his Varinka with sudden passion when he could tell, by the beating of her heart beneath the heavy flannel, that she was fearful and excited both at once.
    ‘Why did you come here?’ She was willing her body not to tremble. ‘It was a foolish act, Pyotr. Say what you have to say and then go. I couldn’t bear it if your mother found us like this.’
    ‘Mother will not come,’ said Pyotr, raising his hand and stroking back some of the curls that were tumbling across her brow. ‘She is sound asleep upstairs.’
    ‘Then what do you want to say to me?’
    ‘I want to tell you that I love you and wish to continue with the joy we shared on our sleigh-ride through St Petersburg.’
    He pressed his face against her hair again, nibbling at its satiny texture. But Valerie jerked away.
    ‘I do not know what you mean by the word love, Pyotr Silakov,’ she said. ‘For me love means one man, forever, and no lying or cheating.’
    ‘For me, also!’ His dark eyebrows were raised in astonishment. ‘That is what love is all about – one to one and complete honesty.’
    ‘Then how do you explain Sophia Lukaev?’
    ‘I have told you, Valerie, that she is unimportant. I do not love her but I
do
love you. Let me show you how much.’
    He pulled her towards him placing both his hands around her face, lowering his own until their lips met. But he did not linger, kissing her but fleetingly before lifting his head and looking down at her again. His eyes were fierce in the lamplight as his thumbs caressed her cheeks.
    ‘Come now, tell me what you have seen and heard about the Lukaev and me?’
    ‘I have heard nothing,’ she said, her limbs turning to water at his touch, ‘but I am sure she loves you.’
    ‘Maybe,’ he said, laughing down at her, ‘maybe she finds me as attractive as I find
you
, Little England.’
    Then he kissed her again and this time his mouth stayed on hers, as firm and demanding, as in St Petersburg.
    Valerie’s resolve broke. She wanted to show, and share, the love she felt for this devastating man. With a moan of acceptance she lifted her arms and folded them around Pyotr’s neck, as her shawl slipped to the floor.
    Very gently Pyotr lowered one hand and began stroking her arching back, gathering up the folds of her nightgown and pullingthe material up and up until his hands found warm flesh beneath.
    Gasping, Valerie rubbed her body against his hand wanting him to touch her, fondle her, all over. Then her lips were on his ear and she was biting at the lobe before thrusting her tongue into the opening, making him cry out in delight.
    When Pyotr reached to draw the nightgown up to her shoulders, she allowed him to tug it free then