Page 73 of Beehive

Thank God we lived.

When Thomas was captured by the Nazis on our mission in the Netherlands, and I believed him lost for good, my world—and my heart—shattered in ways I hadn’t known were possible. The sky seemed darker, more dull. Waking thought became torture. The very air I breathed turned bitter.

Life no longer seemed worth living.

On the mission to rescue him, when I saw him in that rural prison for the first time, it felt like the world flooded with color again. When I held him, I swore nothing—and no one—would ever tear us apart again.

Our lips parted, and our eyes met.

My breath caught.

The way his stare lingered, I knew I was the only man in the world who mattered to him, the only one he would ever love. Moreso, I knew I would never search his gaze without growing weak in the knees.

“I love you so much,” I said, my words almost choking off at the end.

His hand found my cheek.

His thumb stroked gently.

I leaned into his touch.

“Come here,” he said, removing his hand and holding it out like a gentleman helping his lady from a carriage. Never one to refuse a gentleman, my fingers met his, and I stood. He walked backward into the bed, then sat and pulled me before him.

He reached up and undid the top button of my shirt, then the second and third.

I placed my hand over his and asked, “Are you sure? The old man and Visla are—”

“Downstairs. We can be quiet. Ineedyou, Will. Right now. Who knows when we’ll be alone again without minders listening?”

Without waiting for my reply, he unbuttoned the last few buttons and pulled my shirt apart.

“God, I love your body,” he said, his fingers trailing down the light dusting of hair that led into my trousers. When he reached the top of my pants, he flicked that button open, then attacked the ones below it.

My heart thrilled.

Suddenly, summer wasn’t the only thing heating up in Berlin.

“Somebody’s happy to see me,” my smart-ass lover said as he pressed a palm to my briefs.

“You’re the only man around,” I said, making a show of glancing about the room before shrugging. “Guess you’ll have to do.”

A playful gleam entered his widening eyes. The next thing I knew, his hands were on my sides flipping me around and tossing me onto the bed with athud.

I was sure someone must have heard.

Neither of us cared.

Thomas roamed freely, kneading and stroking my chest and abs as his lips and tongue wrestled with my own. I surrendered to the moment—to him.

Gripping the back of his head like a drowning man seizing a raft, our kisses grew even more passionate, urgent.

He grabbed my arms and sat me upright, then yanked my shirt over my shoulders and threw it across the room. I reached for his, but he was too quick. His bare chest greeted my fingers as his shirt flew in the opposite direction.

“Jesus, you’re—”

He wasn’t up for conversation.

His body smothered mine, pressing me back onto the bed. His kisses devoured the last of my resistance, as if I ever had any against him. Somewhere in the frenzy, his erection had hardened and was throbbing beneath his trousers. I felt him pulsing against me, pressing into me, begging to be released to take whatever he wanted.

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