New York, Summer, 1921 . Your new neighbor across the lake is the mysterious bachelor , Dutch. His reputation for excess and extravagant parties precede him in the prohibition era. But after an invitation to one of his soirees, you discover your...
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"I promise I'll be back, Violet. I'll make it right and we'll get married when I return," Tom whispered.
You lifted your head and gazed at him.
"Married, Tom?" you asked with uncertainty. Father would never allow that. Or would he? So much changed in a matter of hours. The world had gone topsy turvy. Did class and status matter so much when both master and servant fought in the same trench?
"Yes, my love. I'll do whatever it takes," he said with a smile.
You rested your head back on his chest with a sigh.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, sitting up. You sat back and gave a dismissive shrug. Your head and heart were just so sick with worry. Nothing made sense to you.
"Just come home to me, Tom," you said, brushing a curl from his brow.
"I don't care how. Just promise me."
He grabbed your hand and pulled you to him.
"I promise, darling. It will all blow over like your father said and we'll be back in no time," he said with a reassuring smile. You nearly believed him. His eyes were so convincing. You stared into them, unsure of the next time you'd be able to do so.
"I love you more than words can say, Violet," he said before covering your lips with his own.
Your sadness lifted temporarily, replaced with a carnal craving for his touch. The urgency to be with him was magnified by this sense of a future together. That perhaps you could be man and wife and you would be able to taste him like this always. You just had to overcome a world war first.
You pushed Tom down and wrestled with his clothing. That insatiable itch was all consuming. He stripped you of your garments and soon, it was just you and your love, skin to skin, as it should be.
You straddled him, wanting to try something different this time. Tom seemed amenable to it. He smiled against your lips as you hovered over his hips. His hands wandered over your curves. They were deliberate in their touch, savoring this tactile moment to be recalled later when he would be oceans away from you. You sat up and mimicked him, running your fingers down the dips and ridges of his chest and torso. You traced each muscle with intent. His skin was always so soft and smooth, except for his hands. They were consistently rough. You loved nothing more than the rugged squeezes they gave you.
You bent down for a lingering and lustful kiss. His hips raised in response and you felt him brush against you. It sent a tremor through your core. Your kiss deepened with a sigh. Those rough hands of his groped blindly for your wetness. He groaned excitedly at how primed you were for him then started to stroke you at a feverish pace. Truth be told, you rarely needed much prompting from him. His musk alone could send your undergarments to the launderer.
