Once
she arrives in London, Lenny takes her for a ride on his Harley
throughout England, from the White Cliffs of Dover to a village near
an underground ammunition depot in Staffordshire.
When he is wounded in a horrific explosion,
Natasha brings him back to safety, only to discover the other woman’s
letter to him. He wonders, will she trust him again, even though as a
soldier, he must keep his mission a secret? Will their love survive
the test of war?
In
the past Natasha wrote, with girlish infatuation, “He will be
running his fingers down, all the way down to the small of my back,
touching his lips to my ear, breathing his name, breathing mine. Here
I am, dancing with air.” In years to come, she will begin to lose
her memory, which will make Lenny see her as delicate. “I gather
her gently into my arms, holding her like a breath.” But right now,
during the months leading up to D-Day, she is at her peak. With solid
resolve, she is ready to take charge of the course of their story.
Dancing
with Air is a standalone WWII historical fiction novel, as
well as the fourth volume of a family saga series titled Still
Life with Memories, one of family sagas best sellers of
all time. If you like family saga romance, wounded warrior romance
books, romantic suspense novels, military romantic suspense, or
strong female lead romance, you will find that this love story is a
unique melding of them all.
Excerpt:
At
the back of the castle, Natasha removed her long-sleeve shirt, saying
she was burning hot, even though the air had already started to cool
down. Upon reaching the bike, she hopped onto the saddle, pretending
to be the rider, but fumbling about, because of knowing next to
nothing about the controls.
“So
tell me,” she said, “how long will it take me to learn to ride
the bike?”
“Two
minutes to understand,” I said. “A lifetime to master.”
I
showed her how to do it, how to kick the bike two or three times with
the fuel and ignition switch off, so as to get the engine primed with
oil, and then how to turn on the fuel valve, the choke, and the
ignition switch.
“If
the engine spits out the exhaust pipes while you’re kicking,” I
said, “then you must be getting closer!”
She
tried it. At first the beast sputtered, but then, by degrees, its
sound grew steadily stronger.
I
took the seat behind Natasha, and together we rode the bike some
distance away.
The
grass around us was swaying in the breeze. It had a lovely sheen and
a variety of hues, some of them purplish, which were revealed every
now and again, with one gust and another, as if a painter had dipped
her brush and on a whim, stroked it here and there.
I
hugged Natasha and took in the smell of her hair. It was blowing in
the wind, one strand over another. Through the red fuzz of them I
spotted the last ray of sun, gleaming upon the French coast. Then it
was gone.
The
road sloped into a gentle dip in the earth, which took us out of
sight of anyone who might happen upon these pastures. But no, there
was no one here. Amidst the gloaming, we were alone.
I
brought the Harley to a stop, and as soon as she felt me leaning in
closer, Natasha said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
I asked.
“Because,”
she said.
“Because
what?”
“My
swimsuit is wet. I want to take it off.”
In
place of obeying her, I said, “Let me watch you.”
She
slipped off the bike, and with a slow, deliberate motion, she
loosened the straps off her shoulders. Then, instead of removing the
swimsuit, Natasha lay her fingers on me, tugging playfully at the
buttons of my shirt. I stood up, flung it off and then, in a
heartbeat, felt her arms around my waist. They closed into an
embrace, which stirred something deep inside me.
Rising
to the tips of her toes, she tipped her head back and kissed me, a
lingering touch of her lips on mine.
I
savored the sweet taste of her, which was salty at the same time. The
thin, damp material of her swimsuit was barely a barrier between us.
Her nipples were hardening against me as I wrapped my fingers, ever
so tenderly, around the back of her neck, holding her, keeping her
close.
Meanwhile
I caught her earlobe between my teeth and teased it, repeatedly, with
my tongue.
“Oh,”
she murmured, “don’t stop.”
“Don’t
you ever leave me,” I said, in a voice that was becoming husky.
Aroused,
I pressed her tightly to my breast. Natasha sighed, for both pleasure
and pain, and suddenly pushed me off, releasing herself from my
hold—only to rise back into my kiss, as if she couldn’t get
enough of it.
I
fell to my knees, bringing her down with me. By now, her hair had
come completely undone. It was twisting around her head, in and out
of the blades of grass, dabbing them crimson.
I
brushed my fingers across her toes, stripping off the grains of sand
that clung to the moist skin. Then I went on traveling smoothly along
her ankles, over her knees, around her hips, into her inner thighs,
all the while listening to her sucking in a startled breath.
All
of a sudden, Natasha whispered, “I love you, Lenny. Love the smell
of your skin, of your sweat, even. Love the way you groan when I
come, when I go, when I touch you.”
I
saw that this time, she was going to be anything but timid. Soon it
became impossible to pull myself away.
First
I was on top, then she, then I, she and I rolled into one, heat
surging. I took her and was conquered in return.
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