“Undo my shirt, Sylvie,” he asked, clasping her butt to give him better purchase. Sylvie tried but she was sliding backwards and forwards on the table so much she couldn’t.
Jean-Luc brushed her hands away and tore his shirt open. “I want to feel your breasts on mine,” he said with a growl, placing her arms round his neck and crushing the softness of her breasts against the firmness of his chest.
Sylvie wanted him closer still. She wrapped her legs around his waist and drew him down deeper. With each of his strokes, he invaded further and further into the core of her being, sparking off sunbursts of sensation and dispelling her lingering irritation with him. Sylvie gave a little of moan of pleasure and he changed the angle of his penetration but he cursed when she slid away from him on the table.
“Merde!”
He looked round the room. It was lined with coat hooks and shelves. He picked Sylvie up off the table, shuffled to the hallway door and pushed her up against it. She let go of him and held onto the shelves on either side of the door, her legs still wrapped around him and his cock still deep within her.
“Bien!” he said and pounded into her, slamming her against the door.
Spark became flame; flame became blaze.
“That’s it, my girl, now!” Jean-Luc called out as he gave one last mighty thrust and his cock juddered then slowed to a standstill. Sylvie thought she had lost consciousness so intense was the feeling.
Someone banged loudly on the door. “What on earth is going on in there? I’m looking for Jean-Luc, have you seen him?”
Sylvie let go of the shelves and fell onto Jean-Luc who collapsed onto the floor at the sudden shift of her weight. Sylvie started to giggle and clasped her hand to her mouth.
“Shush, it’s Grand-mère,” said Jean-Luc, his eyes alight with mischief.
After a few moments while they held their breath, they heard her high heels go away down the hall. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Jean-Luc was sitting on his backside with his pants around his ankles and his shirt all torn, the sheath hanging off the end of his cock. Sylvie’s braid had come undone. Her beautiful dress was in a tangle round her waist, and what was left of her panties hung round her hips like a frill.
“Oh my God,” said Sylvie when she could stop laughing. “I’m glad the door was locked. We would never have lived this down.”
That set them both off again and they laughed until their ribs ached.
“You see,” said Jean-Luc. “We’re good for each other. I’ve never laughed so much in my life – nor had such good sex.”
Sylvie staggered to her feet. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk … and look at my dress.”
“Well, you may look professional, Dr Latour, but not the kind of profession you claim to exercise,” said Jean-Luc, falling backwards onto the floor and laughing again.
“You can talk, Monsieur du Lamond,” retorted Sylvie, taking the limp bit of rubber off his cock and chucking it in the bin.
“Seriously, we must straighten ourselves up but I think the best thing is to nip upstairs and change. No one will notice that I have a clean shirt on and you can say you spilled coffee down your dress.”
They dressed themselves in what was left of their clothes and crept out of the room and up the stairs. They were lucky; no one saw them. They spent the rest of the evening mingling with the guests and went their separate ways to bed.
Sylvie snuggled down in her luxurious bed with its goose down quilt. She had enjoyed the evening; it was one of the best parties she had been to. Except for Morisette, of course. The food had been delicious, the music interesting … and the sex unbelievably hot but she wasn’t fooling herself; it was just sex. Yes, she and Jean-Luc had established a good rapport. Perhaps, they were on the way to being more than friends. She loved it that he had found their situation as funny as she had and that he could follow intense sex with so much laughter.
She heard a slight rattle. Jean-Luc was turning the handle on the communicating door between their bedrooms. So, he had enjoyed their session as much as she had and wanted a repeat. Not tonight, she said quietly to herself. She hadn’t unlocked the door. She was taking things slowly and cautiously, one step at a time.
Sylvie awoke on New Year’s Day with a soft smile on her face. She had slept well, dreaming of Jean-Luc. She hoped that having sex again had not been another bad mistake. Of course, it had been enjoyable on a physical level but she wasn’t so sure how she felt about it emotionally. Jean-Luc had lost some of his prickles; he was kinder, more approachable and even funny at times. It went without saying that he was sexy; she wouldn’t have been such a willing partner if he weren’t. Whether he felt anything for her beyond the sex, she couldn’t tell. He seemed to. He had turned down Morisette and so he hadn’t just been looking for a sex fix. And he had been tender before and after.
She stretched her arms and legs, aware of the sensations of arousal coursing through her body as she remembered Jean-Luc. Now was not the time for sensual reminiscence, however; she was part of a festive house party and must get up and show her face downstairs. She leapt out of bed and made for the bathroom. A shower would freshen her up and wash away any lingering sensuality.
She dressed warmly in jeans and a thick sweater and left her hair hanging loose. As she left her room, she saw that the door to Jean-Luc’s bedroom was ajar. So, he was awake. She gave a soft tap and pushed the door open to say hello, but Jean-Luc reached the door first and prevented it from opening any further.
He put his head round, saw it was Sylvie, but instead of stepping away and letting the door fall open, he moved to block her view into his room. Sylvie felt her stomach lurch at his defensiveness and a feeling of foreboding came over her.
“Hi Sylvie,” he said, half-glancing back into the room. “I’ll be down in a minute. You go on ahead.”
Sylvie didn’t move; she was trying to make sense of the clues she was picking up and couldn’t. She bent down to peer through the gap below Jean-Luc’s arm. It gave her a perfect view of the armoire and its mirrored door. She gasped and snatched herself backwards in shock, and turned and ran down the stairs, seeking to escape from what she had seen: Morisette lying spread out naked on Jean-Luc’s bed.
With her heart still beating fast, she entered the kitchen. Everyone called out, “Happy New Year.” Sylvie gave the barest nod and fell into the nearest chair, her breath coming in short gasps. How could he? After they had been so close the night before. What a way to start the New Year. No one noticed her distress; they were all too busy chatting and eating. Martine passed her the basket of croissants but Sylvie waved it away. How could she eat, she couldn’t even swallow?
The door was flung back and Jean-Luc came striding in. Ignoring everyone at the table, he made straight for Sylvie and put his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him off and refused to turn round to face him.
She could sense him standing behind her, waiting, but she didn’t relent and look at him. He knelt down beside her and took her hands in his but she continued to stare at the pattern on the tablecloth.
“Sylvie, please. Come outside and let me explain. It’s not what you think.”
Sylvie snapped her head around. “Not what I think? I saw her with my own eyes.”
“Hey man,” called out Sacha, “Are you proposing, Jean-Luc?”
Sylvie sighed. “Now look what you’re doing; you’re causing a scene and destroying our cover. Go away and leave me alone.”
“If that’s want you want, I’ll go and have my breakfast in the village.”
With that, he left the kitchen letting the door slam behind him. A few minutes later Sylvie heard his car drive off. She felt sick. Maybe she should have listened but it was too late. Now they were back on a cold war footing again and life was going to be uncomfortable once more. Why did he have to act the way he did and why did she have to react the way she did?
She didn’t see Jean-Luc again until it was time for them to leave for the drive ba
ck to Nice the following morning. She guessed he had gone to visit friends or spent the day at the local bar. The journey back passed in silence, both of them sitting as far away from each other as possible.
20 : Visit to Wolf Pack Number Six
When Jean-Luc dropped her off at her hotel, he made an attempt to break the ice. “You should have let me explain, Sylvie. You really have misunderstood the situation.”
Sylvie ignored him and refused to let him carry her bag to the door for her, saying, “Thank you for taking me to meet your family, Jean-Luc. I’ll see you tomorrow in the office.”
She opened the door to the hotel and walked stiffly across the hall to the room she shared with Lisa.
She didn’t want to discuss what had happened with her. It was too private and too painful - far beyond the bounds of girl-talk. Lisa never gave Sylvie a chance to say anything. She rattled on about Robert this and Robert that.
Sylvie tuned her out and lay back on her bed with her arms over her eyes thinking back over what she had seen. There wasn’t any explanation Jean-Luc could have given that would have made sense and exonerated him. How could he possible explain away a naked woman on his bed? And he in a state of undress, too?
She felt hurt that he would do such a thing so shortly after such mutually pleasing sex, and foolish for thinking that they could be starting out on the path to a deeper relationship. How stupid could she be? So it was back to cold war again and a strictly professional attitude. She had screwed up again and she couldn’t even tell Lisa about it.
When they started back at work the next day, Jean-Luc underlined the importance of visiting the remaining wolf packs within the Park as soon as possible. Their Christmas break was over and they had to get back to work. The volunteers had been busy over the holiday fortnight, many of them having had time off work to help with the project. The sudden influx of data would keep Robert and Lisa fully occupied in the office for some time to come.
Jean-Luc said he would spend the day catching up and then he and Sylvie would visit the Number Six wolf pack the following day. He arranged to collect her for a nine o’clock start. He didn’t want to be driving in difficult conditions in the dark and they would probably have to spend the night in the Park. This time they would be going to the pine forests on the other side of the mountain ridge and would be entering by a different route. At least that would be interesting, thought Sylvie. She would see a different part of the country and that would make up for what she thought would be a silent trip.
They didn’t drive in and out of Italy this time but due North from Nice. The road was not as good as the one they had taken to visit the Number Three Pack. It wound in and out around the outcrops of rock for mile after mile and the journey time stretched to two and half hours. The heavy billows of snow on the hills and the thick drifts at the side of the road made the way slow and dangerous even in their four-wheel drive vehicle.
They had a quick lunch when they reached their destination and loaded up for the hike to the location of the Number Six den. Jean-Luc thought it likely that they would have to camp up at the site, as they wouldn’t have enough daylight hours left to return to the car. They both added their lightweight winter tents to their backpacks in case of such an eventuality.
The extra weight made progress difficult especially as they were negotiating the usual narrow sheep trail. They had to watch their footing as the thick snow hid the obstacles in their path. They didn’t pass much of note apart from the carcass of a mouflon hosting a pair of buzzards. Sylvie stopped to take a photo with her camera, shivered and walked on. Jean-Luc didn’t even slow down. Sylvie had to put on the pressure to catch up with him. He didn’t look back for her nor did he make any other concessions.
By mid-afternoon, they reached the environs of the den. Jean-Luc had shown Sylvie the data before they left the office: an eight-wolf pack with only two cubs this time, the alpha couple and four supporters: three from previous litters and one a straggler who had joined the pack during the last year.
“We should stack our gear over here under these trees,” said Jean-Luc pointing to a bosque of about a dozen tall Douglas pines surrounded by smaller indigenous pines and scrub. “The bushes will make a good windbreak and I can set up a canvas break between the two largest trees.”
“What should we take to the den with us, Jean-Luc?” asked Sylvie. “Our usual medical kit –”
“And emergency rations and water,” broke in Jean-Luc as he separated out his pack into two bundles. “Are you fit, Sylvie? Not too tired?”
Sylvie looked over at him. That was the first half-human remark he had made to her since their return from Pomerol. “I’m fine. I’m as anxious as you are to see how the wolves are.”
“Let’s go then. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can come back, hopefully before it gets dark. The den is about an hour from here, round the corner of that bluff you can see in the distance and then down a slope to where there is a small waterfall. It will be frozen at this time of year but it makes a perfect screen for the wolf den which is hidden behind it.”
He made a final check of the wind and nodded that it was fine, shouldered his pack after helping Sylvie on with hers and led the way out of the clearing. The snow was not as deep as it had been on their previous trips on the other side of the mountain range and they made good time. As before, Jean-Luc wanted to approach the den diagonally from above so as not to startle the wolves. When they reached the top of the hill leading down to the stream, he halted and lay down to scope the scene in front of them.
He swung the binoculars slowly from left to right, adjusting the focus as he went until he came to the stream. He followed it up to the den. There his motion froze and his jaw stiffened, his hands tightening their grasp and squeezing the color from his skin. A visceral pang shot through Sylvie at the sight of his reaction. Her throat narrowed as she tried to ask him what he could see but she couldn’t swallow let alone form any words. Jean-Luc lowered the glasses and handed them to her, his eyes staring off into the distance and avoiding hers.
As Sylvie brought the glasses up with shaky hands, he curled up into a ball on the ground and hugged his knees to his chest. “Not again. What is it with these people? What do they hope to gain?”
The snow in front of the den was disturbed, roughed up by what could only have been the death throes of the wolves. All eight of them lay still, probably already frozen. A buzzard sat on the head of one of the cubs. It swayed from side to side fluttering its wings, its swollen belly making it hard for it to keep its balance.
The grossness of the scene brought a hot gush of bile surging up into Sylvie’s mouth and she spat it out sideways into the snow, but that wasn’t enough to stop the violence of her emotion. She retched repeatedly, fearing that she was going to heave up her very guts.
When she at last regained control, she saw that Jean-Luc was still in the fetal position, rocking himself from side to side and moaning, “C’est pas vrai! It can’t be true!”
She hurried over to him and squatted down to put her arms around his shoulders. Cradling his head on her chest, she rocked him for a while as she crooned an old lullaby in Creole to soothe his pain. They could afford the time for Jean-Luc to grieve and come to terms with the reality of the fate of the wolves. The wolves weren’t going anywhere and the buzzard wasn’t going to wreak any more damage; he was stuffed to bursting.
When the tension in Jean-Luc’s posture began to ease and she knew he was coming out of his state of shock, she said, “Come, we have work to do if we are to stop this happening again.”
When he still didn’t move, she stroked his hands and pulled them down from his face. He looked up at her kneeling above him.
He shook his head, “Can’t carry on with this job. It’s too painful; I’m bloody useless.”
“They need you, Jean-Luc. The wolves need you to fight their corner for them. Now, get up and help me do the forensics.”
He got to his feet and brushed the snow off his
trousers. “Maybe, one’s still alive - like last time.”
Sylvie thought it unlikely but if the hope got Jean-Luc functioning again she wasn’t going to quash it. They picked up their packs and side-hopped down the slope, making their way directly to the den as there was no longer any need to disguise their approach. It was as she had feared - total annihilation. Eight stiff cadavers lay scattered about the area, some already eyeless, the mother and her cubs just inside the den and the five other adults on the bank of the stream.
Sylvie put her hand out to slow Jean-Luc down on the edge of the crime scene. “Look, this is not like the other time. See how the snow is all churned up.”
She pointed to the spiraling convolutions of paw prints and the wide skid marks which criss-crossed the area.
Jean-Luc made a quick examination of the nearest body. “Can’t find any bullet holes or other wounds and the vomit doesn’t look the same as last time. What do you think?”
Using only her powers of observation, Sylvie searched the scene with care to establish a preliminary conclusion. Finally she said, “I’ve seen something like this before - in Yellowstone - but not on this scale … I think it could be xylitol poisoning.”
“As in artificial sweetener? I’ve heard of that being advocated by the anti-wolf lobby in the States but I’ve never come across a case here in France.”
Sylvie crouched down to get a closer look at the snow and the patches of vomit. “It doesn’t take much to kill a domestic dog - three sticks of sugar-free gum will do the trick. We get quite a few cases of dogs that have eaten their owners’ gum or chocolate. Even if the dose is small, the dog usually dies of liver failure.”
Waking the Wolf (Coup de Foudre) Page 15