French Quarter

by Stella Cameron

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find a table.”

  “Oh, Jack. Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, pushing open the kitchen door with a shoulder. “Tell me, oh, yes, Jack.”

  “I’m not myself.”

  “I surely hope you are very much yourself. I like yourself exactly as it is.”

  “I’m a pregnant woman.”

  “Uh-huh. I think we should keep you that way permanently. It’s sooo sexy. You’re so sexy.”

  “Isn’t it bad for the baby?”

  “No, it’s not bad for the baby. Forget the tales, and concentrate on what I say to you. Sex does not harm an unborn baby. And this baby needs to get the picture that he’s going to have a mama and daddy who love each other, and love him.”

  “Her.”

  “Him or her. It will probably be one or the other. Do you like the tablecloth, chère?”

  She peered around. “Very nice if you like a lot of flowers.”

  “I’m going to pretend I’m taking you in a green field among lots of little white daisies. First I have to spread you out for an examination.”

  Celina squealed. He was amazing. There was nothing about him in this mood that remotely resembled the austere man she’d known. “I don’t want to be spread out, thank you.”

  He deposited her on top of the table. “Need a pillow?”

  She waggled her head, no. “I guess I’m just a wanton and I never knew it. Isn’t that the word, wanton?”

  “Lovely word.” He bent over her and proceeded to kiss her to silence. He kissed her silly and she loved losing her mind.

  Holding her head, he gave those kisses his all, and his all was really something. No man had ever chewed her lips with a gentle persistence that pulled on her insides until her breasts ached and the place between her legs started to throb without any help at all. He nibbled and sucked, and lifted his head enough to look into her eyes, then kissed the place between her eyes before standing up.

  She made to get off the table, but he stopped her, and how he stopped her. Taking her nipples into his fingers again and pulling repeatedly, made sure she wasn’t going anywhere. He pulled and when she flopped back on the hard surface he bowed over her to suck in first one, then the other nipple. And he pulled her bottom to the edge of the table. She felt him between her thighs, felt him touching her with parts of himself that undid her completely.

  Torn apart by his every touch, she drew up her knees. They fell helplessly apart. “I want you inside me,” she managed to tell him. It’s too much, Jack.”

  “Really?” he murmured, his mouth full. “Don’t quite believe you yet.”

  Soft brushing over her sensitive genitals brought her back off the table. “Jack! Oh, you can’t do that. Oh, Jack, no.”

  “No?” What he did with the tip of his penis was designed to make sure she begged for a whole lot more.

  Her head dropped back and she thrust out her breasts. “You are drivin’ me to distraction, Jack Charbonnet. Ι can’t believe I’m lettin’ you do this to me. You are an evil tease.”

  His laughter was deep and rumbly. “I thought you’d love it. Say the word and I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t stop.” Not that she thought he would anyway. His mouth fastened on one of her breasts again. The gentle stimulation, over and over again, drove her wild, made her thrash. She brought her knees together, but missed what he was doing at once and parted them again.

  Jack said, “I hope this old table is as solid as it’s supposed to be.” He moved her fully onto the table again and vaulted to straddle her hips. Parts of him rested on her belly, and she took hold of them without particular finesse.

  He winced, and closed his eyes, and promptly went to work with his little brushing strokes on other parts of her body.

  Celina grabbed his wrist and held on. “Okay, okay. You have phenomenal control. Guess what? Tonight I’ve discovered I don’t.”

  His control was pretty fantastic, Jack decided. That was the last really clear thought he did have. She pushed his bursting penis to the entrance into her body, swung her very limber legs up until she could lock her ankles behind his back, and pushed him all the way home. Almost before he could start to move, she worked her hips back and forth, and a sob came from her throat. The sob jarred with each impact of their bodies, with each thrust.

  She managed to grasp his balls, and he yelled.

  Her response was to squeeze.

  His response was to go for it like a mini-jackhammer out of control. So much for control.

  “Jack,” she panted, and squeezed again.

  “Chère,” was the only word he could form, and it was a hoarse whisper. “Do that. Do it.”

  She milked him, and he drove into her until his open eyes saw nothing but shifting shapes, her swollen, moist lips, her sweat-wet hair, her sweat-slicked skin, her jiggling breasts.

  Celina had to release her hold on him. She clung to the sides of the table and raised her hips to receive each stroke. She was sore, but it was the kind of sore she’d like to suffer regularly.

  “Jack! I’m coming. Jack, you’ve got to—”

  “I am, chère, I am.” His voice broke. He spilled his warm flood of the stuff of life into her, flooded her, and still he moved and kept on moving until she cried out and threw her hands above her head, gave herself up to Jack and what she was with him.

  Gradually, in the moments that followed, their breathing slowed a fraction, and sweat cooled on their bodies. Gently, Jack pushed her until he could lie with her. Wrapping her in his arms, he rotated until she rested on top of him, her face in the crook of his neck, her chest on his, her sticky stomach on his, her legs on his.

  “We should go to bed,” she told him, although she nestled as close as she could.

  He mumbled nothing coherent.

  “You’ll wish you hadn’t spent time on this table soon,” she warned him.

  Jack chuckled and found her breasts once more.

  Celina struggled to push him away. “Don’t, you beast. I’m sensitive all over.”

  “Good. Because I’m never going to wish I wasn’t on this table with you. I’m just resting between courses.”

  Twenty-one

  “Promise me, Cyrus,” his mother said, clutching his arm as he helped her out of the cab. “Promise me you won’t mention a thing about Celina and that man.”

  He paid off the cabdriver. “I will not bring the issue up.”

  “What will you say when they ask where she is?”

  “The truth. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Say she’s at that place. At Errol Petrie’s place. Say she’s upset and not feelin’ well. She wants to be alone. Promise me you will.”

  Cyrus smiled at her, longing to be far away, and detesting whatever weakness made him want to flee the constant upheaval that surrounded his parents.

  “Cyrus. Say it.”

  “Look at me,” he told her. She glared up at him and he said, “I am at the Lamar house because you begged me to come, to bring you. I have promised you I won’t say a word when people start asking why you were too ill to come earlier, but you’re fine to be here now. I—”

  “I was too ill. My children have made me ill. You refuse to understand the sacrifices your daddy and I have made for you. But I know my duty, and my duty is to be at my husband’s side while he tries to make the best of what few resources we have left to us.”

  “Yes.” The brief flurry of fight left Cyrus. “Let’s go in. You probably shouldn’t stay too long when you’ve been so upset.” He said a silent prayer that he’d be forgiven for his hypocrisy.

  His mother held his arm tightly and clipped up the Lamars’ tree-lined driveway in her high-heeled Ferragamo pumps. Bitsy Payne had always worn Ferragamo pumps because her feet were “so small and narrow, nothin’ else would possibly fit.”

  “It’s late,” he said when they reached the open front doors and he saw and heard people who had already partied too long. �
�I’m not sure this is a good idea.” He knew it wasn’t a good idea, but he was a man of peace and intended to get some. Since he’d arrived at his parents’ home to discover his mother alone, Cyrus had listened to her wailing against the evils of ungrateful children. Her tearful suggestion that he should take her to the Lamars’ had sickened him, but he’d given in—in the name of peace.

  “Smile,” his mother said. “Go on, smile. Why do you have to wear the collar when you aren’t working?”

  At that, the smile she’d wanted came readily. “God’s work is never done, especially in this kind of place.”

  She stopped on the black and white tiles in the Lamars’ elaborately decorated, crowded foyer. “This kind of place?” she echoed in a hissing whisper. “What can you mean?”

  “Ι don’t mean anything. How does a lawyer keep up his practice while he runs for political office? These campaigns are so long. And how does he afford all this? The house was Sally’s mother’s.”

  Mama sighed hugely, smiled at a woman who passed with a glass in her hand, then sighed again. “Money came with the house, Cyrus. And Wilson is a very successful lawyer. That’s all we need to know. I’m sure there are ways of doing these things. After all, most politicians are lawyers, and they do very well from both things, don’t they?”

  “Bitsy!” Sally Lamar forced her way through the throng. “You’re here! Oh, how lovely. Oh, Bitsy, I am so glad to see you.” All the time she spoke to his mother, she looked at Cyrus.

  Drunk, he thought. So drunk she hardly knew what she said, and he hoped she didn’t know how disheveled she appeared.

  “And Cyrus,” she whooped, winking at him. “The dark horse.”

  Wilson appeared at his wife’s side and put an arm around her waist. “We heard you weren’t well, Bitsy,” he said. He nodded at Cyrus and said, “Where’s Celina?”

  Cyrus resented the man’s curt, demanding attitude.

  “Celina’s upset,” Bitsy said. “She’s at that awful place in Royal Street and won’t come out for anything. I just had a little headache, but dear Cyrus looked after me and it went away.”

  Sally pointed at him and wriggled inside a black dress that gaped to give a display of her breasts that made Cyrus uncomfortable. “Did you put a bad spirit out of Bitsy, Father?” she asked, and assumed an almost innocent expression. “My, perhaps you aren’t in that little parish Bitsy talks about after all. Perhaps you’re really hiding out somewhere right here. In the Quarter? Practicin’ voodoo?” She hiccupped and leaned heavily on Wilson.

  Wilson snapped his fingers at a good-looking, dark-haired man who came smoothly forward and put a hand beneath Sally’s elbow.

  “Let me go!” She jerked away and launched herself at Cyrus. “Thank you for coming. I knew you would help me.” He had to catch her, and steady her.

  She gazed up into his face with eyes that weren’t quite focused. “Thank you, Cyrus,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I need you.”

  “We all need spiritual help sometimes,” his mother said, loudly enough to make sure the curious who were still sober enough to care would hear. “When Cyrus heard you were troubled—”

  “Sally is so concerned about the inequities we live with,” Wilson said rapidly, also in a raised voice. “I’m afraid society’s ills weigh very heavily on her. That’s why I suggested she might like to talk to you.” He propelled his wife toward a closed door, indicating that he wanted Cyrus to follow.

  “Do it,” Bitsy said. “Go and help them, Cyrus.”

  The dark-haired man was already a few steps behind Wilson. “Who is that?” Cyrus asked.

  “Who?” Bitsy frowned. “Oh, him. The bodyguard, of course. It’s very dangerous being a public figure. Wilson needs protection.”

  Wilson was, and always had been a man who looked after his own wants and needs, and he was a man of vast appetites. Cyrus remembered him from school, and not with fondness.

  “Are you coming?” Wilson called from the door that now stood open to a sitting room.

  Cyrus saw his stepfather shambling toward them, his heavy face florid and sullen. He bumped into another male guest, scowled, and pushed the man hard enough to all but knock him down. Neville Payne was usually a pleasant enough drunk, but there were times when the wrong brand of scotch, or just a. combination of the right scotch and a bad humor, made him vicious. In his childhood years Cyrus had worn more than a few bruises that had to be hidden.

  “Cyrus?” Wilson’s tone had turned irritable.

  “Coming,” Cyrus said, and hurried after Wilson and Sally into a room furnished with comfortable but shabby antiques. Wilson’s bodyguard was also there. He stood behind a green brocade couch with his arms crossed. Too young to have such old eyes, Cyrus decided.

  Wilson closed the door. “Sit down, Sally,” he said brusquely, and hustled her to a chair. “And keep your mouth shut if you can. Glad you came, Cyrus. How’s Celina? What did your mama mean when she said Celina’s upset?”

  “Celina,” Sally said, sniffling and wiping the back of a hand vaguely over her nose. “He thinks she can do him so much good. He thinks she’s perfect.”

  “Shut up,” Wilson told her. “Ben, get Mrs. Lamar another drink.”

  “Don’t you come near me,” she told the other man. “I only want Cyrus.” She began to cry brokenly.

  “Oh, my God,” Wilson moaned, rolling up his eyes. The man looked tired, but otherwise he was his old, smoothly tanned, blond and handsome self. And he oozed self-assurance. “Get her a drink, I said.”

  Trying not to look at her chest, Cyrus studied Sally’s hunched figure. The dress appeared to have stretched—or he assumed it must have. “Leave Sally to me,” he said, suddenly certain that he ought to help her. “With all due respect, Wilson, she doesn’t need anything else to drink. I understand you’re interested in pursuing a return to the Church, Sally? My parents told me that was the case.”

  She fell back in the chair and nodded. “That’s what Ι want. And I couldn’t talk to a stranger.” She glowered at Wilson. “I’ve got so much Ι need to get out of my heart, Father.”

  “This is fucking unbelievable,” Wilson said, his finely chiseled nostrils flared. “I need a strong woman at my side, a strong partner, and my fucking wife falls apart.”

  “Wilson,” Cyrus said automatically. “I don’t think—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. I’ll say a thousand Hail Mary’s when I’ve got a minute to spare. I’d appreciate it if you could calm her down and talk some sense into her. I’ve got to get back to my guests. There are important people here tonight, people I need.”

  “People with a lot of money?” Cyrus said, deliberately making his voice and face expressionless.

  “Holy …” Wilson closed his mouth. Then he smiled. “We’re both pimps in our own way, huh, Cyrus. I pimp for the good of the country. You pimp for the Church. Not so different, really.”

  The bodyguard laughed.

  Cyrus didn’t, but neither did he argue.

  Wilson opened the door to leave and said, “Make sure she doesn’t give the priest too much trouble, Ben.”

  Sally moaned, and Cyrus said, “I don’t need any help here, thank you. These things are between the penitent and God. I’m his physical body. We don’t have audiences on such occasions.”

  “Ben stays,” Wilson said.

  “Ben goes,” Cyrus told him. “Sally is troubled and needs someone to listen to what’s on her mind. I’m good at those things.”

  “From what she told me after the famous prom, that’s about all you are good at,” Wilson commented. He jerked his head, indicating that Ben should leave the room, then went out and slammed the door.

  “Do you remember the prom?” Sally said. She tried to kick off her sandals but couldn’t coordinate the effort. “I took off all my clothes and you wouldn’t look. I thought you were a nancy boy, but you were just a man of God. Who’d have thought that?” Her eyes almost closed, but she forced them open again. “I should h
ave known you were the best thing I’d ever be that close to, then maybe I’d have done the right things to make you want me.”

  “Are you comfortable, Sally? Would you like to lie down on the couch? You might fall asleep, and Ι think that would be good.”

  “And you’d go away.” She cried afresh.

  “I wouldn’t go away. I’d sit right in this room until you woke up.” She had been a sweet kid when she was real young. It wasn’t until she got in with Wilson and his clique in high school that she changed.

  She got unsteadily to her feet and managed to step out of the sandals. “I shouldn’t have done that to you,” she said, wandering to the couch and sitting with a thud. She slid sideways to lie with her head on a large cushion. When she wrapped her arm beneath the cushion, her right breast was naked. The abbreviated skirt of her dress had risen to the tops of her thighs, where ruined black stockings ended in lace tops.

  Cyrus felt stirrings he tried to feel as infrequently as possible. He’d fought against his own sexual urges for a long time and could pass a number of weeks, and sometimes months, without discomfort now. But tonight he was confronted with a lovely woman’s body and his erection was both an embarrassment and a potential disaster.

  “Will you be my thingie?” Sally mumbled. “You know, who I tell everythin’ to?”

  “Your spiritual director,” he told her, fixing his gaze on the middle distance. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go to a church nearby and attend classes first?”

  “No. I won’t go. I won’t do anything if you don’t help me. I don’t trust anyone else.”

  When had he got so lucky? “Why me, Sally? You and I haven’t been anything to each other—not ever, really. You never did understand me because you thought I was different.”

  “You are different. You’re lovely. Holy. Untouched. You’re what I need. I can talk to you. I’m askin’ you to save me, Cyrus. If you don’t, I’m afraid I’m going to hell. I’m a sinner, Cyrus, a terrible sinner. I’ve cheated—committed adultery. Lots of times. And I’ve wanted things that belong to other people. And sometimes I’ve got them, too. And I’ve hurt people.’’