CultOfTheBlackVirgin (17 page)

She felt her fear gave way to something else as the pain of each thrust transformed itself, began to spread throughout her body in pulses, ripples, waves of deep visceral pleasure.

All her senses were overloaded at once. What she saw, heard, felt, smelled, and tasted rolled together to intensify each sense, so that what she felt all together was explosive. Despite what he’d just given her, she now wanted more, more than she thought possible. Wanted to split herself even wider and suck him into her.

Then, unbelievably, she found herself being pushed into yet another round of orgasms—she screamed and bucked and heaved upwards as best she could to meet his downward thrusts. And again and again and again, he kept hammering at a rhythm that she sensed was still just for himself, despite her violent responses. And even though he was being too rough with her, she loved it
. Loved
it! She would give him anything.
Anything.

She was his completely.

With a great shudder he called out something in French—she didn’t know what—groaned to a stop and rolled off her onto his back, gulping air.

Ave Maria
sounded once again, but neither of them heard it this time.

Minutes passed and eventually Jo’s breathing slowed as she finally began to get enough air into her lungs. Little by little she became aware that she hurt. All over. The skin on her back and the top of her buttocks was smarting where the plastered wall had scraped her raw. Her back hurt from violent upward thrusting. Arms and shoulders hurt from straining. Legs hurt from more straining. Hips felt dislocated, then pushed back into place. Tongue hurt—was it bitten? She touched her mouth with the tips of her fingers—her lips were swollen. Neck was tender from being squeezed. Her fingers moved to her chin.
Ow
—the rasp of whisker burn, too. And every single part of her insides, and everywhere between her legs, throbbed with a pleasure that was turning into an exquisite aching.

Tears were filling her eyes again—would she ever stop with the emotion? She felt delirious from what she’d just been through. Shocked. Disassembled. She knew she was changed.

She felt privileged.

But as she came to her senses, the fear began to return as she realized the seriousness of what she’d just done. She’d just cheated on the man she loved with a virtual stranger.

But worse than that—it had been far too good. She didn’t know sex could be this good, that a man could know so much about how her body worked. That a man could enjoy her body, and make her enjoy her own body, this much. This was new knowledge, and she knew it would be dangerous.

Oh God, be careful what you wish for
.

Again, they lay side-by-side, wet and spent. She had no idea what he was thinking, and she was shy about looking at him. It wasn’t her nakedness that was making her feel shy, rather, she felt more than naked. He’d taken her to new places, and that made her feel vulnerable. He now had a knowledge of and power over her that no one else had. And she had given it to him willingly.

Part of her wanted him to know how deeply moved she was. But she wasn’t able to speak, and so had to take pleasure in simply holding one of his hands. She closed her eyes and tried to hold on to it, and the moment, as long as she could.

Eventually Luc had to get himself dressed, return the empty glasses and the bottle of
pastis
to the bar, and get back to the caves to pick up the spelunkers.

As he got up and slowly dressed in silence, Jo watched him from the bed. Neither spoke. There seemed to be no words to fit the occasion. She saw him run a hand quickly through his wet hair to tidy it, as he glanced in the mirror.

Then he walked towards her, still stretched out on the bed, and sank to his knees on the floor beside her. He picked up one of her hands in both of his and raised it to his lips. The expression on his face was tender, serious.

“Get some rest.” He leaned over and kissed her lips lightly. The smell of his body was exquisite to her now. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then, carefully looking down the hall both ways before he left, he shut the door quietly behind him.

Once he was gone, Jo permitted herself the luxury of a good cry.

All emotions paraded through her exhausted brain, including fear, guilt, and a sharp shame. But the prevailing feelings had to be awe and intense excitement, deep pleasure, gratitude, amazement, and even more excitement. She felt too much, including ambivalence with a capital
A
. Which just happened to be the first letter of
Adultery
.

If he’s lied to me about being divorced, I’m an adulteress now.

But I believed him when he said he was single. Didn’t I?

And even if I’m not an adulteress, how can I face James again? After what I’ve just learned about the way I respond to the right man? And how on earth can I get through the week without everyone being able to read the guilty joy on my face?

What have I done, and what’s going to happen next?

Although she wanted to keep Luc’s scent on her as long as she could, she knew she couldn’t go down to dinner smelling of sex. A bath was required, and she limped into the bathroom to draw a very hot, very fragrant tub of water. There were still a few hours until she was expected to join the others for drinks, and she could get herself together before then. Lowering herself into the scalding water, she winced at the stinging open skin of her back and between her legs. But she cleaned herself as best she could, being careful of the sore areas.

After washing her hair, she put on her robe, plaited her wet hair, and smeared moisturizer over her face and lips.

Anticipating the next few hours, she swallowed two aspirins, hoping they would reduce the inflammation and pain she knew she’d feel all over her body.

Lastly, she drew the flimsy drapes, wetted a face cloth, and crawled into bed with the cloth draped over her eyes. Perhaps it would help reduce the swelling of her red eyelids. She pushed her face into the pillow that still smelled of her first French lover, grateful for this slight trace of him.

Ave Maria
sounded, an ill omen this time. Jo knew now that Our Lady of Rocamadour definitely did not represent the Christian Virgin Mary with all her virtues. Now she understood that the ancient dark Madonna’s wise face held a secret. A dangerous secret. She embodied the powerful female forces that had been so suppressed in Jo’s world that Jo herself didn’t know, until now, their full power. Until she met Luc, she didn’t know the strength of her own lust, and what it would make her do. She wondered what else it could make her do.

What else am I capable of? What’s the limit? And who sets that limit?

Now that she had an inkling of the power inside her, she was beginning to understand why, historically, all of societies’ forces were out to suppress female sexuality. And especially the women who flaunted it. Otherwise, world order would topple, and there would be chaos.

And who would look after all the babies?

Jo soon decided she couldn’t face dinner and drinks with the others. Not with her French lover sitting at the same table. When she’d calmed down enough to feel hunger, she raided her luggage for snacks, devouring all her emergency granola and chocolate bars. Food had never tasted so good, she thought.

Chapter Six

Nursing his beer, Luc sat downstairs fielding questions about Joanna from almost everyone seated at the bar. He did the best he could, but he didn’t really know what to say. Still high, he hadn’t thought about what would happen after he stole out of her room. All he knew was that he had to make time for a quick shower before driving back to the caves to pick up Sarah, Duncan, and Edward.

Now it was time for dinner, and Joanna still hadn’t appeared.

Pourquoi? Why?

He had no idea.

What should I do? Should I go get her?

He himself was feeling a bit tired from his exertions. And once he thought about it, he realized Jo must be exhausted.

“I’m going up to her room to see if she’s alright,” he announced as he stood up. “Maybe she’s fallen asleep.”

He was a little nervous as he tapped at her door for the second time that day. When she didn’t answer, he tapped again. “Joanna?”

The door opened. She looked sleepy, and deliciously desirable, wearing a flowered robe and probably nothing else. He felt another wave of desire for the damned woman as she smiled sweetly and stepped back to let him in.

Non! Pas maintenant! Not now!

And then he realized he wanted not so much to take her again as to go lay down beside her on the rumpled bed. True, it was still oppressively hot in the room. True, he was hungry and wanted his dinner. But looking at her damp, messy hair, her puffy lips and her beautiful moist eyes, he wanted to hold her again. Gently. Maybe stroke her head. Kiss her lips lightly, tenderly.

Mais qu’est-ce que tu fous là? What the hell is going on?

Not only was he confused, he was surprised at himself because, out of character, he felt an urge to talk about what had just happened between them.

* * * *

Jo was dozing when Luc’s soft rap at her door woke her. She saw concern on his face as he silently pushed past her, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Are you okay? Everyone’s worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I’m just not feeling very social, at the moment,” she said with a small grin as she clutched her robe around her, sitting down carefully on the edge of the bed. “Tell them I have a migraine. Brought on by extreme exertion in the extreme heat.” Her smile widened.

Luc smiled at her little joke. “Can I bring you something to eat? We’re just about to start. You must be hungry.” He moved closer and raised a hand to touch her face.

She just shook her head, saying, “I’m grateful for the offer but I want only solitude.” She had a lot of composure to collect before tomorrow’s walk.

He sat down beside her and took one of her hands in his, raising it to his beautiful lips. In the dim light she could just barely make out the soft expression in his eyes as he looked down at her. Then she noticed the bite mark on his swollen lip. His war wound, as it were.

She touched it lightly. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much.” His face grew serious. “Joanna, I want to say something, but I need to find the words. Uh, how can I put it?” He closed his eyes, lifting her hand to press it against his forehead. A moment later he lowered it and began again. “I need French words for this. Ah, well, let me try in English.

“Before this afternoon I suspected we would be very good together.”

Here he raised an eyebrow for emphasis, giving her a pointed look and a heart-melting smile.

“But this afternoon was more than I imagined it would be. I am—how can I say it—very surprised by you. By us together. That’s all I wanted to say,” he quickly finished before she could respond.

Jo had her mouth open, ready to speak, when, instead, she closed it and gave him a conspiratorial grin. Then she began to laugh. He’d given voice to her own feelings. How could she be anything but shocked what had just happened—the way their bodies responded to each other?

And they understood each other, that was the most important thing. She laughed in pure joy, and he joined her. The two of them laughed like mischievous children who shared a special secret, and when they were done, he leaned over to give her mouth a gentle last kiss.

“If there’s nothing more I can do for you, I will wish you a goodnight, my sweet Joanna. Sleep well.”

She was still giggling as he shut the door. She went back to bed, opened her diary, read her last entry, smiling, and added another. Then she turned out the light and tried to sleep.

But sleep evaded her. She lapsed in and out of fragmented dreams, full of guilty excitement and fear made worse by her inability to call James. She knew she should talk to him, or at least send him an email. He would be worried.

But she couldn’t.

Her abandoned ring still languished beside the bar of soap in the bathroom.

In the morning she woke up exhausted and sore. Every part of her hurt, as if she’d been rolled over by a boulder. Anxiety gripped her as she wondered how she could disguise her slow, painful movements. She was bound to attract attention if she hobbled like a crone.

But an aching body was the least of her worries—her heart was hurting too. Self-loathing and horror at what she had done to James would accompany her throughout the rest of the day, she knew. The entire week, even.

And what about the rest of my life?

But right now, she had to come up with some lies. She quickly invented a story to tell the others—she must have pulled a muscle in her back during a particularly strenuous yoga session yesterday afternoon. And now she was paying for it. The migraine was the first clue, she’d tell them.

She heaved herself out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. Afraid of what she’d see, she peeked in the mirror. But it showed a face that was only slightly red and puffy around the mouth. Her lips didn’t look as swollen as they felt, thank God.

Or thank you Mother Mary. White or black, virgin or harlot, I don’t care which
.