D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

black Daimler with the C.D. plate. The man who’d held Lillian exactly as he now held this dusky jewel, the man who’d nearly stolen his wife from him.

As the mood of the music became more romantic, Aziza pressed even harder against him, her long crimson nails digging into his back; he felt himself growing hard against her. He looked down and saw that she was gazing up at him, a lost, pleading look in her dark eyes. A sweat broke out on the back of his neck and the room began to tilt. The band seemed unbearably loud; the smoke impossibly thick.

He needed to breathe.

Leaving Aziza on the dance floor, Thorley pushed through the crowd, oblivious to the angry snarls of those he elbowed past, his eyes focused on the exit. He burst through it, welcoming the cool breeze that caressed his face like a soft hand. His heart hammered against his ribs and he found that he needed to lean against the stucco wall of the nightclub or risk fainting.

It was the champagne.

He wasn’t used to drinking that much that fast. It still bubbled through his brain, making him feel surreal, otherworldly. But he had to admit, part of it was the girl. That she was attractive was obvious, but there was something else about her, something primal. And it had affected him in a way that scared him to the core.

“Are you okay, British?”

She was there, right next to him, her breath against his face—unavoidably sexual. She caressed his cheek, and a shock passed through his body, as if her fingers were electrified.

He wanted to hold her.

He wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to run.

Oh, God, Lillian, a man can only resist so much!

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a little winded.” He avoided looking at her, afraid of what he might do.

“It is hard to be so far from home, yes?”

She sounded different, less predatory, and it was the note of empathy in her voice that made him turn and face her. She smiled and it made her glow with a genuine warmth he would have thought beyond her.

“Yes, it is.”

“You are married?”

Thorley nodded, and he found that he parted with that information reluctantly, as if some portion of his being did not want to alienate the girl.

“My husband was killed by the Germans, because he tried to help the British.”

Thorley studied her now, seeing the gleam of tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said, hating the phoniness of those three words. A moment went by before he spoke again. “You must hate us, awfully.”

She shook her head, slowly. “No, I do not. You fight to save us, as Reshef did. He was a good man, and I think that you are a good man, too. I cannot hate you for that.”

She drew closer and planted a soft moist kiss on his lips, her hand cupping his chin. The dam broke in Thorley’s heart and he took her in his arms, kissing her with all the unspent passion within him. She groaned and melted against him, her agile tongue filling his mouth with hot expectant wetness. The kiss seemed endless, a total world unto itself. Moments, or hours later he couldn’t tell, they broke, staring into each other’s eyes, knowing that it wouldn’t end there.

“We can’t go back to where I’m staying,” he said, breathless. “I’m sharing a room.”

She put a finger to his lips. “I live nearby. Let me tell Femi that we are going, yes?”

He looked off toward the Pyramids, the outlines of those ancient tombs barely visible in the darkness, then turned back to her. “Yes, tell her.”

She retreated into the nightclub, leaving Thorley to the fury of his thoughts. When she returned clutching her purse, they began walking down the street, her arm through his. For the briefest of moments, he felt like a schoolboy on his first date.

Aziza lived in a tiny three-room apartment over a café, consisting of one bedroom, a modest bath, and the main kitchen/living area. Furnishings were scant: an ancient overstuffed sofa, a couple of straight-backed chairs, and a lot of gaudy throw pillows scattered about on what appeared to be a high-quality Persian rug. And while the apartment was by no means a palace, it was clean and cozy.

Aziza’s bedroom overlooked the street and had a small balcony, reached by a set of French doors trimmed with lace curtains. Aside from a bureau heaped with cosmetics, the room was barely big enough to fit the bed, a large full-sized affair also covered with pillows, and which sat directly on the floor without benefit of box springs.

Leading him by the hand, Aziza pulled him inside and began undressing him, her nimble fingers working patiently at the buttons of his shirt and trousers, kissing each new area of his exposed skin with her warm full lips. When he was naked, she gently pushed him back onto the bed. The moon poured through the window, its pale light throwing the pattern of the lace curtains onto his body.

Without taking her eyes off of him, Aziza moved to the bureau. She picked up a box of matches, struck one, and lit a fat candle. It sputtered at first, then settled into a steady flame that cast a romantic glow throughout the tiny space. She turned to him, eyes shining with lust. And then she began to disrobe.

Starting with her evening dress, she teased each strap off her shoulder, slowly, sensually, then let the dress slide off her body to the ground. Thorley inhaled sharply as he saw her body now fully exposed, save for her panties and brassiere. Unlike so many Western women who insisted on starving themselves into sticks, Aziza was full-figured, curvesome—womanly.