CultOfTheBlackVirgin (30 page)

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she looked around in amazement, shocked at the church’s state of disrepair. All the beautiful frescoes were so badly damaged by moisture that almost half of the paint had flaked away. The church’s woodwork was swollen and mildewed, paint peeling in ribbons. It seemed wrong that such a beautiful church should be so badly in need of restoration. Someone should be looking after such a treasure, she thought.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Marcie, who had come in behind her, stop and bow her head, make the sign of the cross, then take a seat in a nearby pew.

And then it hit her. With great discomfort Jo realized that the state of this church accurately reflected the state of her own soul—there was no one keeping things clean and in good repair. She was falling apart. Descending into chaos and immorality.

This has to stop!

She cringed with shame. And here she’d been thinking just the night before of having experienced some sort of spiritual union through a sordid bonk with a man she’d met only a few days ago.

Is anyone in the world a bigger idiot than me? Am I completely out of my mind? Spiritual union my ass! It’s just sex. And I’m a weak, stupid woman who has done a terrible thing.

Until a few days ago, she hadn’t given much thought to the concept of
soul
—and here she was, when it was already too late, worrying about what she was doing to her own. She knew she was lost.

It must be all the churches I’ve visited since I got to France. It seems I’ve grown a soul on this vacation. Or is it just a conscience?

While everyone was taking pictures of the disappearing frescoes, Jo sat down in a pew to look up at the rotting ceilings and try to think clearly. She wanted to cry. She was beginning to despise herself for joining the Black Virgin’s cult.

One look at Luc and I just rolled onto my back and gave up my entire
self!

As she was trying to sort out the warring factions in her head, she sensed Luc quietly moving into a pew directly behind her. He leaned forward and whispered discreetly near her ear. All thoughts of souls—intact or crumbling—flew out of her mind as she heard the words that were meant for her alone.

“Meet me here at one. Outside, under the bell tower. Look for the company van. I’ll drive by and pick you up. One o’clock.”

She shivered in the chill air as, without thinking, she nodded. Her body willed it.

If she had been a religious woman, or even a moral woman, she would have hated herself for that nod. Instead, she flushed with excitement. Then she looked across the room at Edward and Glenda, holding hands as they examined the altar, and the emotions of a moment before flooded back over her—guilt, and horror, at what she was about to do. At her own weakness. Her sick soul.

Luc left the pew as soon as he saw her nod, but Jo stayed seated until everyone trickled past Marcie, still kneeling in prayer. Then she got up and followed the procession. Outside, they all stopped to peer up into the church’s hollow bell tower. It was open at the bottom and they could look up through the middle to the bells hanging at the top. Most people found it fascinating, and took pictures. Jo felt nothing. Thought nothing. She felt as hollow as the tower.

Then she followed the others numbly through the streets of the thirteen-hundred-year-old town.

When their tour was over, Luc excused himself for the rest of the day, promising he would join everyone for Happy Hour. He recommended several local cafes for lunch, and strode away, flashing the group what Jo knew was his public smile.

Edward and Glenda chose a charming
boulangerie
for lunch, and Jo enjoyed a quick meal with the couple who, she realized, had represented her conscience over the past week. But Luc once again proved to be too strong for all of them. As she talked pleasantly to the Evans’s, she was thinking that this afternoon would likely be the last time she and Luc would be together. There was no more room in the schedule for privacy. And in two days she would be boarding the train north with everyone else to catch her flight out of Paris.

The thought confirmed the rightness of what she was about to do. It would be the last time.

And no one will know.

As soon as she sat down she explained to Edward and Glenda that she couldn’t stay long because she had a lot of shopping to do. She chatted about what she planned to buy, lying about James having a birthday soon. As she ate her chicken salad she kept nattering on, hoping the Evans would think she was excited because she was looking forward to shopping. But it wasn’t thoughts of what lay in the local shops that caused the blood to rush to her cheeks and her eyes to sparkle.

A few minutes before one o’clock she jumped up and said goodbye, promising she’d be back at the
gîte
in a few hours, laden with goodies. The look on Edward and Glenda’s faces was so trusting that she felt another pang of remorse. But she pushed it aside as she quickly used the toilet and brushed her teeth.

Under the brim of her straw hat, behind her dark glasses, Jo tried to look disinterested as she stood below the hollow bell tower, watching for Luc. She couldn’t help rubbing the big stone of her ring in agitation. She didn’t want any of the group to see her standing there, looking like a common prostitute.

Oh Christ! Quit the dramatics—you do not look like, nor have you been acting like, a street hooker. You have, instead, been behaving like the worst sort of whore on the planet. Dishonest. And dumb, too.

She sighed, frustrated that the violence of her internal struggle didn’t seem to be weakening. She tried to think about something else—something concrete—like shopping. She wondered if she’d have time to buy anything at all.

There he is!

Her heart leapt into her throat when she spotted the van. Without checking for cars she ran across the street, causing a motorist to brake suddenly and lean on his horn. She paid him no attention as she watched Luc bend over and open the passenger door. But she did notice that Luc looked harried as he pulled out into traffic and headed away from the town center. They hadn’t even said hello to each other, and as they drove, there seemed to be nothing else to say. Her heart was hammering in fear and excitement, uncertainty and a fierce love for this man to whom she was about to give three precious, stolen hours of her life.

Is it love? Am I really thinking this is love? I already have love. Real love. Lots of it. But lust too is a jewel.

Her scrambled thoughts alarmed her.

When did I stop thinking lust and thinking love? Oh be careful, be so careful…

She glanced quickly at Luc as he maneuvered the car, his eyes never leaving the road. Her heart beat even faster. She felt a stab of anxiety. Was she falling in love with her French lover?

Be so, so careful…

After fighting heavy traffic for about five minutes he pulled off to a side road, then soon made another turn onto a deserted gravel lane. There seemed to be nothing around in any direction except empty fields and copses of small trees. He parked on a flat spot, and shut off the motor. Neither spoke. Jo was uncomfortable at their silence, but she didn’t know how to break it. He sat still and stared straight ahead, unreadable.

Finally, he let out a long breath. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he turned to her and said, grimly, “Well, Joanna. Here we are. Is this going to be our last time?”

She was dumbfounded. She looked at his hands, tension showing in every finger, and noticed with a shock that his wedding ring was gone. In its place was a band of pale, soft skin. She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.

“Do you plan to just go home after we make love this one last time—confess to your boyfriend, ask him to forgive you? Carry on like nothing happened? Or maybe say nothing? Marry him and keep your secret forever?”

She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Then she realized that if she couldn’t see Luc again, she didn’t care what happened after today. The new tone in his voice caused her body to tense. She was afraid of the words
this last time
. They struck her as ominous, like the dream she’d had last night.

He was waiting for her to speak, so she had to say something. She looked at his eyes, narrowed and dark.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know. I’m so completely in the here and now. I haven’t thought of the future at all. I can’t think of anything but today.”

He frowned. “Yes. Well. I
have
been thinking beyond today.” He opened the door of the van. “Come on.”

He got out, pulled a blanket from behind the seat, and slammed the door shut. She picked up her purse and followed him through a small planting of trees to an enclosed grassy area. He dropped the blanket and turned to her, an antagonistic expression on his face. His mouth was hard. In one movement he pulled his shirt up and over his head, and threw it on the grass.

“Take off your clothes.”

His words, and their tone, alarmed her. For the past two days she’d barely contained her excitement at the prospect of being with him again, but now she hung back, unsure of what was happening. She wondered if she should be frightened. Something had changed.

“Please, Joanna,” he said in a softer voice. “Your clothes.” His still seemed angry, but her fear began to disappear. He was so beautiful, his smooth muscular body immediately arousing her. Despite her uncertainty, she knew she would still do anything he asked. She hadn’t followed him this far to get cold feet now.

His face didn’t soften as he watched her remove her top, uncovering the exquisite French-made bra James had bought her in Paris. Then her skirt came down, revealing the matching panties. She threw her clothing to the side, met his gaze defiantly, and unclasped the bra, adding it to the pile. Slowly, eyes never leaving his, she lowered her panties and stepped out of them. He remained perfectly still, making no move to touch her.

She stood there watching him in the dappled sunlight, shivering a little in the unexpected breeze, certain she could feel his gaze tracking her body.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and husky. “Joanna, I’m too excited right now.” He undid his zipper, then his button and belt. “I need you to help me, or I’ll be good for nothing.”

He sounded different, strained, and she thought she saw a faraway look in his eyes.

He reached for one of her hands and placed it on his erect cock. She knew what he wanted, and she pulled him free from his shorts and kneeled down in front of him.

Her anxiety was quickly replaced by the excitement of being able to touch him, taste him the way she hadn’t been able to before, when he was in control. She’d been dreaming of this all week, and her mouth filled with saliva. She wanted his cock in her mouth.

His cock, like the rest of him, was long and thick and hard and beautiful. The skin was smooth and taut and shiny. She pulled his shorts down over his hips until they were around his ankles. Stepping out of them, he spread his feet and planted them firmly in the grassy ground. He gave a low moan as she licked the swollen tip, with its bead of wetness, savoring its salty, slightly musky taste. She licked delicately, slowly, and then moved her tongue down the full length of him. With one hand she caressed his scrotum as she kept licking and kissing him lightly until he said, “Suck it!” So she opened her mouth and took him fully, as far and as deep as she could. She heard him gasp.

With both hands he grabbed her hair and began to move her head in the way he wanted, thrusting. Then, suddenly, he stopped, shuddering, muttering a few words of French as his come rocketed down her throat, almost choking her. She swallowed as fast as she could. It was all over so quickly that she’d barely begun to enjoy her own pleasure.

He sank to his knees and embraced her. They remained that way for several minutes until his breathing steadied.

“
Mon Dieu
! I needed you right away. I’m sorry for being rough. Did I hurt you? Did I pull your hair?”

“No. Don’t apologize. I loved it,” she replied truthfully.

He reached behind her for the blanket, and she helped him spread it on the ground before they fell together in a tangle.

Acutely aware that this was the last time she would be alone with him, ever, Jo grew tender. She stroked the smooth skin of his body, thrilling at how soft it was beneath her fingertips. He wore nothing but the bandana, loosely tied around his neck. She kissed the damp skin under the knot. She caressed his neck, his chest, his belly. The smoothest spots were those two delicately textured areas that lay on each side of his stomach, between the hipbone and the line of pubic hair. She lowered her head to kiss him there, once on each side, where the skin was palest. She kissed his navel, and the hairline that ran up from his belly to the sternum. She licked his nipples, kissed his neck, relishing the light salty taste of his skin.

Settling down beside him, lightly drawing her fingertips over his face, touching his lips, his nose, his ears, tracing the arc of his fine eyebrows, the line where smooth skin left off into rough stubble, she marveled at his features as he lay still and quiet. Letting her love him. His eyes remained shut, and she kissed his eyelids, his lashes.

With his eyes closed, he looked quite different. Much of the energy he radiated was gone. It was his eyes that held it, Jo realized. And now she saw how tired he looked. He, too, had dark circles under his eyes. She wondered that she hadn’t noticed them before. The thin skin of his eyelids was pale and slightly creased, making him look a little vulnerable. Her heart expanded as she kissed his eyes again.