Chapter 6

S eattle pulsed around Lillian. Sirens blared, a saxophone wailed and the streets crawled with people. She shrank into her thick sweater and stared at the mayhem. This adored city suddenly seemed too loud and rowdy, leaving her raw all over.

The fistfight at the airport left a pall over her and John. They circled each other like silent moons, afraid that a single touch would cause an explosion. She knew she was at fault. For the past two days she had been enthralled with another man—two men— the man who belonged to that blue bungalow in Oahu, and the man who lived in the quiet passion of twilight and a feather mattress.

The southern drawl and fallen cowboy hat did not compare to the dizzying need she experienced when thinking of the blond man of her dreams. Her desire for him struck her like a wave, raked her out flat, barely allowing her a gulp of air before slamming her once more.

She eyed John from beneath her lashes, admiring the width of his shoulders and trim waist and hips. Her dream man was rough with desperate passion. Her cowboy was playful and thorough. John could be all of these, but right now he was treating her tenderly.

Her nipples bunched into tight peaks and a whisper of sensation rippled over her, as if hot breath fanned her. She put her hand on his arm and he gazed down into her eyes. Torment lived in those black depths, and she swayed toward him, wanting to comfort him. He gripped her against him, pressing the back of her head into his chest. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of powerful male and cologne.

“Let’s have some lunch, shall we?” he asked.

She nodded. He caught her hand and they strolled through the traffic to a restaurant with a striped awning over the entrance. He seated her with his usual flair and ordered her the seafood dish he knew she’d love. When his smoldering gaze met hers over the rim of his wineglass, it heated her like a coal. A trickle of warmth slipped downward, spread through her lower belly and captured her pussy.

She tapped their glasses together, brushing the backs of his knuckles with her own. “To Seattle and the night to come.”

With a flourish, he removed the fine crystal stem from her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. His unshaven scruff was as sharp as glass, sending another pulse of heat through her. She squirmed and crossed her legs.

John sent her a grin that meant he knew what he had done to her. After six decades together, he did.

The meal continued in a heightened state of awareness parallel to foreplay. Lillian delighted in John’s squeamishness when she picked up the squid in ink and bit into it with a groan of delight. He poured her a third glass of wine, dipped her fingertip into it and lapped it slowly off.

“Shall we move on?” He held her eyes.

Eager to end the meal and make their way to their hotel suite, she rose immediately. She looped her hand through his arm and followed him out into the muddy streets. They splashed along in silence, listening to the city.

She drew up short at the sight of the cathedral spire rising into the leaden sky, the cross glowing white at its pinnacle. The rain drummed their umbrella, enclosing them in a private world. Then John crushed her fingers and towed her toward the stone staircase.

“Come.”

They pushed through the rich wooden double doors where he had entered countless times as a priest in the late nineteenth century. Lillian paused in the vestibule, unsure, as haunting voices uplifted in prayer reached her. They were saying a mass for the dead.

With a hand on the small of her back, John urged her into the candlelit nave. The scent of spice and furniture wax, candles and musty damp reached her. At her side, he drew a deep lungful and she knew the images permeating his brain. Countless blessings. Water pouring over the round skulls of infants in baptism, small hands receiving the host, the warm confines of a dark cubicle and whispered confession, groups of young adults accepting the gift of the Holy Spirit, the glowing eyes of couples joined in matrimony, the excitement of a newly ordained priest, the smell of chrism anointing the sick. The seven sacraments. John had lived, eaten and breathed them for many years.

Lillian sank her fingers into the bowl of holy water and touched them to her forehead, heart and each shoulder. They genuflected before sliding into the very back pew, and John kept her fingers entwined with his in prayer.

A dark coffin drenched in flowers stood before the altar. Lillian avoided the sight of this, feeling an inherent survivor’s guilt. This emotion kept her from growing close to mortals. With John, the pain of friends lost isolated him.

Lillian stared at the beauty of the cathedral. The altar was aglitter with treasure. A golden likeness of Christ was fixed upon a polished cross, and a bejeweled goblet refracted the light of the candles. To the left of the sacristy stood a statue of the Virgin Mary done in the manner of Raphael, with large, flat eyelids and wearing a blue cloth.

The mass finished and they continued to kneel as the space emptied. When the last mourner straggled out, John rose and approached the altar. His fingers trailed along the pews as he went. Lillian remained seated, gazing at the stained-glass arching above her.

Silence abounded after the mourners left, and the pallbearers took the coffin to its final resting place. Time grew meaningless as John knelt before the altar he had helped to erect. Shadows shifted about the space. Lillian relaxed against the pew and let her eyes slip shut.

John’s arms encircled her and she gasped. “Did I?—?”

He cut her off with his mouth, his need humming from her veins directly into hers. She yanked him onto the pew, and he cradled her head as he laid her upon the wooden seat.

“Thirty years spent denying man’s desires for the flesh leaves me wanting them.” He flicked his tongue over her sensitive lobe.

“I want you, John. Here. Now.” She deftly popped the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other locating the long thick shaft bulging against the front of his pants.

He groaned at her touch, grinding against her. And then he captured her mouth and plunged his tongue deep. Her breasts were hot and swollen beneath his touch. He circled them with the flats of his palms, driving her into a frenzy. She needed his cock slipping between her thighs, stroking her inner spot. She needed to drive out playful thoroughness and desperate passion. Just John.

He had freed her breasts. She lay shivering in anticipation. The pew was smooth against her naked spine, and her immortal tattoo tingled to life as his mouth dipped to one straining bud. She watched his hot tongue lave the perimeter of it before sucking it between his lips.

A quiet cry escaped her, echoing in the still space. She shoved his shirt over his biceps and his pants down his hips, baring him. Her fingers closed about the base of his rod. In return, he scraped her breast with his rough jaw and moved to the other hard nipple.

His fingers caressed a path down her ribs to her waist. Her pencil skirt slithered with a whisper to the floor. “My God, Lillian, have you been bare all this time?”

Her tongue found his in answer, sucking it into her mouth as her thumb smoothed the drop of precum from the head of his cock. He gathered her to him, fingering her spine. Electricity shot between them and her head fell back. John’s mouth was at her throat, kissing and sucking and nibbling her flesh. One hand closed around her breast as he nudged her knees apart.

Her hand eased between their bodies, guiding him to her heat. A knot of need broke open inside her and moisture flowed freely between her thighs. She opened her eyes into his blurry-eyed gaze.

“John.”

With a hard thrust, he filled her. His length plunged deep, touching her core. They began to move at once, her knees bent and heels gripping his waist, her spine chafing the hard wooden seat, the silence enveloping their lovers embrace. Her nails pressed into his muscled back, driving him harder, faster as her hips rose and fell against his.

The walls of her pussy clenched him, released, poised on the verge of release so great, she felt herself sinking into him, minds meshed, bodies one, hearts beating in time to each other’s.

He sent her over the edge. He fucked her hard as she burst, walls pulsing around his assault. He spurted into her, bathing her with his love cream. He continued to pound her and she rocketed back up the incline for a second orgasm.

The burn grew until Lillian splintered. Her thin, slippery juices shot over his cock, soaking them both. Her scream was swallowed by John’s kiss as he fell forward with a final grunt. His lips found hers at once, kissing her tenderly and slowly.

She felt his chest heave and heard him swallow hard. She drew him closer, stroking the beautiful Celtic knot tattoos on his biceps, seeking to extend their pleasure through this intimate touch.

When he spoke, his voice was a breath against her temple. “Forgive me, sweet Lily. For I have sinned.”

* * *

Lillian huddled into John’s tweed sports coat. The grey light of dusk burned through the atmosphere, obliterating all colors except those which contained purple. Purple-blue shadows kissed the downcast faces of robed women guarding the graves of the dead. Tall, stately obelisks thrust their points into the sky, casting majestic purple shadows. And angels’ wings unfurled to embrace the loved ones gone, drenching the departed in opaque lavender devotion.

The smells of Lake View Cemetery were close and sodden and slightly fecund. A snatch of breeze brought the sweet smoke of burning wood.

She hunched her shoulders to warm her neck in the coat’s fragrant collar, her body stirring at the memory of John’s lovemaking. Her pussy still throbbed and her mouth felt swollen from his kisses. If it was a sin to fulfill their passions in his former cathedral, she didn’t feel it. It felt completely right—as though he had come full circle and laid another ghost to rest.

Her feet grew chill and she stomped them. John stood a few paces off before the monument of his friend and mentor, Father Fontaine. It was too dark to read his expression, but when he spoke, she recognized his sadness.

“Thank you for coming here with me, Lillian.”

She jerked. She hadn’t left his side in years. Why wouldn’t she come?

“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I was selfish.”

“It was pretty amazing.”

His head lifted. “You mean you’re not angry with me?”

She laid a cool hand along his jaw, and he shivered. “Why would I be angry with you, John?”

“I—I should have stopped myself. I should have thought. I hate myself for my lack of control and for being careless with you. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

“You weren’t the only one caught in the moment.” She shuddered with fresh desire.

He seized her upper arms like a man drowning. “Lillian. Lily.” His voice broke on her name and he worked to gain control.

Their kiss was sweet, a connection of their souls. She stepped away and pointed to a row of monuments. “I’ll be there.”

As she concealed herself in the shadows, a frisson of unease traveled down her spine. John could see right through her, she knew it. Every time a new image of her blond man flashed through her mind, he detected her struggle. She needed a place to lock it all up, twist the key and toss it away.

Her favorite monument in Lake View Cemetery was a classical figure, soft and feminine in drapes of cloth. She gazed up at its shadowed face, silhouetted against the velvet sky. A solitary star blinked over her head. Lillian’s eyes trailed over the folds of granite, awed by the skill of the artist. The longer she stood there, the more convinced she became that she could become like this stone woman—coat herself in a protective layer which would keep John from probing too deep.

She sank to the foot of the goddess and took a moment to think of him . Her dream man. Glimpses of him came so swiftly, she gasped. Long fingers curled around a wooden handle, a ringing sound of hammer on rock. And dust. She concentrated harder, wanting more, and saw his skin glinting in the twilight, bare-chested.

With tattoos.

She gulped for air. Immortal tattoos filled his chest, a lightning bolt pattern. Shivering from chill and emotion, she pressed her hands against the granite goddess to steady herself.

A shock of electricity jolted through her.

She saw his house, a studio, tools neatly lining one wall. The blond man perched on a stool, eyes downcast as he stared at a tiny object on his palm. His lashes were dark, his hair pale in the winter sun. And then the images shifted and Lillian was tumbling into the feather mattress, his mouth at her throat, her name spoken in a rough voice.

“Lillian.”

Her head snapped up.

John gripped her. “What’s happened?”

She pulled her stone draperies about herself and firmly shoved her feelings inside.

“Lily, please talk to me.” He shook her shoulders, causing her teeth to chatter. She suddenly realized she was crying.

“N…nothing’s happened.”

“You’re frozen.” He tugged her into his arms and chafed her hands. “Is it the memory from yesterday? About when you were Made?”

“Something like it.” She lifted her face to the sky, pinpricks of hundreds of stars witness to her lie.

“I think we should go.”

She knew he didn’t mean the cemetery but the city. Lillian allowed him to swing her into his arms and carry her away from that place, wondering how he could carry her so easily if she was veiled in granite.