Chapter 5
I ran my tongue up Jolene’s spine, from the cleft of her buttocks to the deep muscled hollow above her sacrum. I tasted the sweetness of her sweat and juices, mixed with mine, when I’d rolled her onto her belly.
“Aaaahhhhh,” she moaned. It was like the opening of a holy song.
Jolene. The hottest woman in the world in one hundred words or less: tall, six feet barefoot though she favors heels, sleek and flat bellied, with small breasts that defy gravity, perfectly chiseled like Michelangelo on his best day would sculpt her, the palest white skin, a rich length of red hair like a scarlet wing across her back, a long muscular dancer’s back that swooped down into the glory of her waist and hips, eyes shocking blue and clear, high cheekbones and strange soulful lips—a thin upper lip curved like a bow, an obscenely full lower lip she sunk her teeth into when she thought about sex, which was often.
She’s a Scorpio and an avatar of the Goddess in all her passion and fury. A Wiccan priestess in her own right, a practitioner of the solo Wise Woman’s path, a Master Reiki energy work and an intuitive who worked most often with the Tarot. Cool and self-possessed to the point of otherworldliness until she came to me in bed.
I lay my cheek against her buttocks and ran my hand down the long smooth white length of her taut leg.
“I give you a lifetime to stop that,” she said.
“Mine,” I said.
Deep husky laughter, so sexy and surprising in such a slender woman.
“Caveman,” she said.
“Always.”
“Do you worship the Goddess, cave man?”
“Thoroughly. Otherwise she might cut me up and strew me in the field.”
“There’s a thought. Then I’d start over with some fresh flat-bellied boy.”
“My belly is flat. Fairly.”
She laughed. “It’s fine, Marius. I like men with substance. I like having some meat to hang onto.”
Lord, Lord, Lord. I am grateful.
She rolled onto her back, reached down and lay one long-fingered hand, nails clear and carefully polished, on my cheek. It was an infinitely gentle touch, in such contrast to her raw nature in bed. Contrast, contradiction…
Yes. She’s a Goddess.
And I’m lucky to service her.
“I feel that grin,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“This is complicated, dating a psychic. A man can’t have a single moment of private thought.”
She laughed that deep throaty whisky laugh and raked her nails across my scalp, then tugged at my hair, loose to my shoulders after she had undone my ponytail.
A long silence, that loving silence so essential between a man and a woman that so few couples seem to master. I love the soulfulness and ease between us in these times after our loving, in the lingering.
It’s a fine way to spend the afternoon.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
I stroked my fingers over her cleft, parted the fine red hair and tasted her. “Me, too.”
She tugged a handful of my hair. “Feed me, Cave Man. I’ll feed you later.”
“What if I insist?”
I felt her grin swell. “What if I deny you?”
“Then I’d go all Cave Man on you. Mine…”
Delighted throaty laughter. “It’s a dangerous thing to trifle with a Priestess of the Goddess.”
“I exist only to serve. She must be served properly.”
“Then serve her dinner, Cave Man.”
I have a problem with deferred gratification, but learning graceful capitulation to the will of the Goddess is an essential milestone on the shamanic path. Or so I tell myself about my dealings with women, who were many before I met Jolene.
“What shall I feed you, Goddess? What do you desire?”
A satisfied giggle. “Let’s see…it’s too nice to be inside. Let’s go out.”
“Picnic? Bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou?”
“No. Too buggy. Take me to…Lucia’s.”
* * *
We lingered over our early dinner, the seafood linguine special, and finished a fine bottle of Chardonnay before we went out for a stroll through Uptown.
“Somewhere outside?” I said as we entered the parking lot.
“Of course, love,” Jolene said. “Too early and too beautiful to be inside.”
We took the long route through town, up north on Hennepin and across the bridge into the North East Art District. I found a parking spot around the corner from The Ginger Hop and escorted Jolene in. She staked out a banquette with a view of the street, crossed one immaculate white leg ending in impossibly strapped shoes, and set her purse on the table.
“Macallan, sweet,” she said.
I went to the bar. The bartender, Ness, a beautiful and wise beyond her years woman who was also of the Church of Jolene, nodded to me.
“Hey, Marius, how you doing?” she said.
“Ness. How’s it?”
“Awesome. Let me guess…Macallan for Jo, Bushmills Green Label, neat with a shot glass of water on the side, for you?”
“Is it wrong to be so predictable?”
She smiled her gentle smile; she was the best bartender in town when it came to creating the hint of the confessional that only the best bartenders can do.
“Good to have you back,” she said. “Haven’t seen either of you in too long.”
I stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar as an act of contrition and carried our drinks to the table. Jolene smiled serenely at two young college boys who gawked at her. I nodded to them as I sat down our drinks.
I don’t get jealous. It doesn’t pay to get possessive with an Avatar of the Goddess. She doesn’t tolerate even a hint of ownership.
She picked up her Scotch, tilted the crystal in my direction, tasted it slowly and with full attention, eyes closed in utter satisfaction. I worship her ability to be silent. Don’t get me wrong, she can prattle about her favorite TV show (Justified—she nursed a serious crush on Timothy Olyphant) or carry on a deep spiritual dialogue about our respective past lives in Atlantis. Her ability to hold peaceful silence is a gift that most couples never enjoy. She was happy to hold her space, sip her drink, and watch the world go by.
I love that.
It frees me up to sit and admire her, and to enjoy the men (and women) admiring her. She was all dolled up: devastating low cut little black dress, spiky-strappy expensive designer shoes, gleaming handcrafted silver earrings.
Nothing else.
At all.
Just raw Goddess in all her power.
I sipped my coffee and watched her watch me over the rim of her glass, how her lips left a crimson half-moon on the crystal edge.
Lovely.
The traffic was light outside. I noticed one car slowing as it passed us, as though the driver were looking for a parking spot. A fleeting impression of the driver: bulky, hair cropped close to a squarish head, pale skin, eyes black slashes above the turned up collars of a leather jacket…
A sudden chill.
My eyes narrowed. I leaned forward and set my drink down.
He passed.
Jolene noticed me noticing the driver. “Someone you know?”
“Not in this life.”
She’s a Wiccan High Priestess. She understands that. “Human?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What have you been into, Marius? Are you drawing something in?”
“There’s something I feel coming…”
She closed her eyes.
So did I.
With my shamanic vision I saw First In Front standing beside us, war paint on and brandishing his knife and bow. “Brother, take care…”
That was enough for me. I visualized the energetic shields around me hardening the layers of energy that ward off Dark Forces. Jolene whispered a warding spell beside me. The two Powers, Male and Female, entwined to create a fierce fortress around us.
“What is it, Marius?” she said.
I tuned in. Nothing.
I sat back and picked up my Bushmills. “Let them come. Right now, I’m enjoying my drink. And you.”
She was still as a graven marble image. “I love your confidence. But sometimes I fear for you, my love.”
“Fear’s an old friend.”
“It can be useful. Even more so if you transcend it.” She sighed. “You’re such a male…”
“It’s part of my charm.”
She tilted her glass to me. “Yes, sweet. Truly said.”
The dark feeling had passed, so we enjoyed our drinks.
And while I enjoyed my woman and my coffee, part of me stayed with my watchful protective spirits who prowled around me in the unseen world.
We were safe.
For now.