Joe cupped her face in her hands and feasted on her lush lips, her tongue, ran his tongue across her hard teeth, nibbled on the fleshy underside of her lower lip. He found himself breathing too heavy to go on so he released her and sucked in a breath, her breath, tasting and smelling the scent of her, that sweet, sure scent.

“I want you more than anything,” she rasped. “Don’t leave me like this.” She pulled his face close and ran her tongue over his mouth, sucking his lower lip, moaning and arching her back. He would have told her that he would never leave her this way, wanting. He wanted to see her in that special euphoric state of orgasm, all undone and writhing with pleasure. He wanted to spread her legs and taste the glistening swollen clit he knew he’d find there.

He lowered his hand, shifting, pulling the panties down her thigh, pushing the skirt up to her hips as she wriggled. She raked her hands across his back, slipping them under his shirt. He’d taken his jacket off but nothing else. As he caressed her warm soft thigh, moving his hand toward the vee, he wished they were naked, but he couldn’t stop himself long enough to take off her clothes, to take off his.

She arched up to meet his hand when he reached the hot swollen mound of her sex. He slid a finger between the plump folds to find the marble-like clit and ran his thumb, slick with her excitement, up and down.

She jumped and writhed and would have called out if he hadn’t covered her mouth with his, quieting her. She gasped for air while locked to his mouth, pulled the air from his lungs, murmured strangled words, and gyrated under him, fast and violent.

When she lifted her hips and clenched her legs together, he pressed his mouth over her lips, swallowing her moan of ecstasy, and watched her face. Her beautiful, passionate, loving fierce face filled with pleasure, her long neck stretched, her hair tousled, head moving side to side as if in disbelief of this euphoric shattering that he was witnessing. The swelling and tightening in his chest, the stiffening and bouncing of his cock, made him want to shatter her again and again.

As she came down from the orgasmic high, he didn’t want to let her sink all the way. When she reached for his belt, he moved, lifting himself from her, leaving a rush of cool air between them, meeting her eyes, dilated and passion-filled. They questioned him and he smiled.

The muscles of his arms shook, not because it was a strain to hold himself off her, but because it was a strain to hold back his cock, to give her everything she deserved before he took from her. They’d waited five long years to have each other again. The anticipation had been dormant, but had sprung to life without hesitation, with her mere presence.

He lowered his head and moved down her body, holding her thighs in his hands, relishing the plump soft feel as he scooped underneath to cup her ass. Then he lifted her and she arched so that the aromatic and juicy vision of her gleaming clit was right there in his face. He almost lost control then, but he clamped down and took her in his mouth.

She screamed out and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t stop. He clamped his hands tighter on her ass and she got herself under control, he could hear her breathing in ragged whimpers, feel her fingers digging into his shoulders as he licked the length of her from the top of her folds, over her quivering clit, down to where her pussy blended into her ass. He licked, flicked his tongue and sucked in the creamy honey dripping from her, reveling in the frantic sounds, her arching back and her struggle, pulling back before she could spasm and then diving back in.

He was lost in her, tasting, smelling, breathing her essence. She moved her hands from his shoulders with a strangled sound, calling his name and pushing his face into her pussy hard. He opened his mouth and sucked in, swallowing her clit, flicking his tongue back and forth, over and over until she clamped her legs tight, stopping him from moving, and cried out a short rapturous sound.

He couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t care. He let her clench, felt her spasms and the dripping honey of her endless orgasm and he wanted to stay in that moment forever.

When she opened her legs and reached down to pull him up to her face, he let her. He wanted to see her face, flushed and dewy, tousled hair flung around her head, strands caught in her mouth, stuck to the perspiration of her forehead. This time when she reached for his belt he let her as he moved over her, pulling his zipper down. She reached his hand inside his boxers and put a hand around his cock as it bounced free. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her warm smooth hand, her finger running over the slick tip that leaked his juices, ready to explode.

He leaned over her and lowered his head to her ear. He wanted to tell her how he felt. Wanted her to feel what he felt, to know what she did to him.

“Squeeze the tip. Tight,” he rasped in her ear and felt her shiver. Then he felt her squeeze the tip of his cock, tightening her fist. A wild rush of heat and blood rushed through him. He clenched his teeth and breathed hard, waiting for the exquisite rush to pass, waiting until he could stand another rise, wanting to rise and fall again and again and wondering how many times he could until he exploded.

Ari stroked his back and stroked his cock, holding him to a tenuous calm. Then she moved under him and with her fist around his cock maneuvered him so that his tip touched her clit and she arched up under his weight, strong and powerful in her need.

“Hold on, baby.”

“I want you inside me.” She slipped his cock inside her slick hot pussy, raising her hips, making it impossible for him to resist, to do anything but push into her, all the way until he felt the end, the firm wall of her cervix. His heart thundered in his chest, his cock burned with need as Ariana lowered her hips and held onto his buttocks.

He slid back out to the tip of her and then slammed back inside, needing the sensation, the fire, the shock of sparks as if his cock were covered in flying embers. His blood roared and he pulled out and slammed in again, then again, slapping against her. She met him stroke for stroke, lifting and lowering her hips, matching the frantic rhythm, breathing hard. He felt sweat dripping from his face as he lifted himself to watch her and to let her watch him. He clenched his jaw and felt impossible pressure ride up through his body and explode in rapture through his cock, spilling from him, pulse after pulse in waves of mindless hot pleasure.

Her legs wrapped around him and she bounced under him, clenching and unclenching, sprinkling kisses on his face, his neck, his shoulders, until he collapsed onto her. His lungs filled and expanded then deflated in heaving breaths as he bathed in her contractions around his cock, feeling the orgasm in her, hearing her murmurs of love in his ear.

He wanted to stay here and never leave. That was his thought as their breathing slowed, eventually returning to normal.

He had no idea how much time had passed. Their lovemaking had been frantic. His pants were still half on. Her blouse was still on and her skirt bunched at her hips. They lay in a tangle of sweat and wrinkled clothing on top of the bedcovers, the room lit up like daytime by the overhead light and two bedside lamps.

He rolled to his side to look at her, to stroke the hair from her face where strands stuck to her damp skin, to caress her soft cheek, to trace his finger over her well-kissed lips. She looked shocked and happy, like someone who’d just won the lottery and couldn’t believe it. He’d like to think he was a better prize than a few million bucks.

“You know I want to stay with you more than anything,” he said.

“You know you can’t.”

That’s when the panic hit her face and everything changed. She pushed herself up, slow and clumsy at first, then she glanced at the nightstand clock.

“Shit.”

He’d never heard her swear before. That wasn’t a good sign.

She pulled her skirt down and struggled to stand up at the same time.

“You need to leave. It’s late. We need our sleep.”

He sat up and zipped his pants, then stood. Trying to get his bearings, he buckled his belt.

“It’ll be okay. We’re fine,” he told her while he reminded himself. But he didn’t feel fine.

He watched her pace to the door and listen. The serenity and pleasure were gone. Their euphoric bubble of lovemaking had exploded into a bleak reality. One where they would not be together again, one where they’d each go their own way.

This wasn’t the kind of thoughts that usually ran though his mind after making love to a woman. Not since the last time he’d been with her. He steeled himself as best he could, numbed his emotions, corked the dread seeping in to keep his head because he saw the panic spreading on her face.

He didn’t know who had more angst about the aftermath of their lovemaking, him or her.

“I knew this would happen.” She looked at the ceiling and exhaled deeply, still standing at the door. When she met his eyes again, she said, “I’ll confess when we—I get back to Rome.”

Her words were quiet, but he heard her. He forced himself to walk to the door where she waited for him.

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

She laughed a less than joyful laugh.

“I won’t have to tell him. He’ll know.”

The hell of it was, Joe knew she was right. He was damned to hell forever.

He was nothing but a mere mortal trespassing on this angel of His Holiness’ creation, years, decades in the making. He was spoiling it all with his selfish need.

Or maybe he was flattering himself.

Nothing had changed after all. There was still no future in their relationship. In fact, he realized they had no relationship beyond a temporary professional one. And an even more temporary one as lovers. He had no idea if he would ever see Ariana again, or whether she wanted to see him.

He knew now the same thing he’d discovered the last time they’d met five years before. He was all or nothing when it came to Ariana. Anything else messed him up.

He was now officially messed up. Again. So much for closure.

Because he wanted her, not temporarily and most definitely not professionally.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

He knew what he wanted. He wanted to see her as flustered as he felt. She surprised him with a quick answer.

“Everything.” She put up a hand. “But I know I can’t have it. I knew what I was giving up when I took this position—this lifestyle.”

“You’re not a nun.”

She gave a rueful laugh.

“Nuns have more freedom than I do. I’m a slave to my oath of protection, Joe. I can’t marry the way my father did as part of the Swiss Guard. I’m not officially one of them. I’m a female crusader, ahead of my time by the church’s standards. I am measured meticulously for how well I do, how I stack up against the men. Did you know that I participate in contests of endurance, speed, and strength with the Swiss Guard and the Gendarmerie?” She snorted in disgust. He envisioned her as Joan of Arc as his heart tumbled.

“In particular and most importantly,” she continued, “I am measured by how dedicated I am. I endure endless questioning about family and motherhood. And love.” She stared him down. “As long as I guard the Pope, I will never marry. Whether or not I indulge in recreational sex on a rare occasion doesn’t change anything.”

Her words slapped him and he felt the sting as his blood heated, agitating him. He was heading away from the cool professional zone like a wild horse on fire. Rein it in.

“Recreational sex? You’re Catholic. Isn’t that against the rules? ”

“Don’t lecture me about the rules of the Catholic church. I live in Italy. I was born and raised there. I understand the difference between the rules and the way things work.”

She didn’t deny that she was guilty. It took his overwrought mind an extra beat to realize she’d actually admitted to having recreational sex. Had she meant recreational sex with other men or with him?

He didn’t bother arguing with her about the rules. He’d spent enough time in Italy to know she was right. But she lived in the Vatican. With the Pope. Working at his side every day. He must have lost his mind in the middle of her telling him she’d never marry as long as she guarded the Pope.

He closed his eyes and held in whatever roar of pain wanted to escape, to burst forth. When he opened his eyes, he drilled her with them.

“He knows.” His gut churned. Joe didn’t want to know for himself about her sins, let alone contemplate Pope Luke Paul’s knowledge. And his complicity.

“We don’t talk about it. It’s not on my list of confessions to him.” She spun around. Agitation was contagious. “They sent me away to live and be educated in the United States. They knew I’d become worldly. They’d never meant to shelter me. They never once suggested that I become a nun.”

“By ‘they’, I take it you mean your father and Pope Luke Paul.” The raspiness of his voice reflected the rawness of his emotions right now. He could hardly stand this discussion. He had no idea how he endured it, even though he was contributing to its perpetuation.

She nodded her head, eyes fiery and defiant and resentful. He reminded himself he wasn’t the object of her defiance. At least he didn’t think so. Not yet.

“I thought I was too old and jaded to be disillusioned.” The admission cost Joe. He was half admitting it to himself. He’d wanted to believe in something or someone sacred.

She treated him to the full force of her defiance and resentment now. It hadn’t taken him long. He ought to congratulate himself for completely fucking everything up in record breaking time. He headed for the door.

“Wait.” In that one word, she communicated so much. Panic, longing, need. That’s what he should have dwelled on. But there was also anger, resentment, and command. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore all that was in her voice, shouldn’t ignore it.

He shouldn’t ignore any part of her or he’d be doing so at his own peril.

She was far more than the avenging angel siren of his dreams. She went deeper than the Joan of Arc shorthand vision he held in his mind.

She was complicated.

He turned, “I don’t even know you.”

He watched his words sink in. He hadn’t realized the meanness of them until he saw the glisten of tears and the rise of her chin.

“You mean you don’t want to know me. Because I don’t fit your imaginary ideal.”

Nailed.

She froze him while his emotions swirled at hurricane force preventing any coherent thought. The only thing he was capable of was keeping his cool. Because it had been his habit. That saved him from exploding from the unfamiliar discomfort of emotions gone wild.

She saved him from making a decision. She made it for him. Ariana moved to him, into his arms and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss, not a siren kiss. It was a kiss of quenched love, deep and intense, vibrating with authentic emotional entanglement, branding him.

“I’m sorry. I love you, Joe. I can’t help it. I won’t pretend I don’t. I won’t pretend I—we can do anything about it.”

“Except occasional recreational sex?” Momentary weakness allowed him to ask.

She looked at him again with those glittering eyes, piercing him like a sabre through the heart. I’m going straight to hell.

He left. Pulled the door closed behind him and didn’t care that the Swiss Guard who stood in front of the Pope’s bedroom door flinched, though he refused to turn his head in Joe’s direction. No matter, Joe walked by and nodded at the man. A thank you.

Then he went inside his room and went to bed, depleted. There was nothing left in him, not even regret. The man she protected was a worthy cause.

And his mission to protect Ariana Day would never end.

The next morning should have been dark and stormy, but the sun shone and the birds twittered. And the Pope’s unrelenting schedule moved forward. He was to say Mass in the Archdiocese Cathedral of the Holy Cross back in Boston. Joe forced himself out of bed, wearier now than he’d been the night before.

This was the riskiest part of the itinerary, where Joe and Ariana needed to stay right at the Pope’s side. This was where the close crowd posed the greatest threat, where the kind of threat posed, as described by Ariana and confirmed by the FBI SAC the night before, made the most sense to be carried out.

Joe wore the lightweight Kevlar under his jacket. When he met Ariana in the hallway outside the Pope’s door, he resisted reaching out to make sure she wore her vest. She would certainly misunderstand his intensions.

He didn’t need to feel or even ask. He was enough of a pro to look for the signs of the extra layer, the heaviness. He saw what he needed to see and they greeted the Pope and moved on.

But the tension during the limo ride wasn’t due to the imminent threat. Ari and Joe were trained to deal with that and Pope Luke Paul always handled the risks of his existence with equanimity.

Joe was certain the tense atmosphere was real and not in his head, certain that they all felt it. The air was hot in spite of the air-conditioning and vibrated with nervous energy.

He was also certain that the Pope knew about his visit with Ariana the night before and the nature of it. Joe was certain that he knew they’d made love.

The limo ride would only be twenty minutes into Boston this time because it was early on a Sunday morning. After five minutes sitting in the back with the Pope next to him, and Ariana, all silent, all deep in their own thoughts, Joe needed to clear the air.

As he was about to speak, the Pope put a hand on his arm and spoke instead. His voice was quiet and had that liquid warmth that he infused into all his words, smiles and actions, and it had sadness. Joe’s gut plummeted as if the weight of the world forced him deep into his seat. He met Ariana’s eyes. Pope Luke Paul looked between them and nodded his head.

“A story comes to my mind. I must take advantage of this time to tell it now because it is a story for both of you. Please indulge an old man.”

He hadn’t needed their permission and certainly not their indulgence. Joe marveled at the man’s humility and steeled himself for an onslaught of guilty humility of his own. He was certain the Pope would sermonize to them about the evils of carnal relationships. Acid churned through his veins.

The Pope gazed out the window, as if watching the story unfold in a vision before him, as if from his own past. Then he began.

“Lily was a generous and beautiful young woman who lived on a farm in a small town south of Naples. She was from a large family, poor and hardworking. She lived in a time when parents arranged for the marriages of their children to ensure that their families would survive, that they would have enough food to eat and a place to live and work.

“Lily’s parents were no different. They cared for her welfare and did the best they could. Nevertheless, Lily was promised to a man she didn’t know and she was afraid. She went in tears to her church to talk to her priest a week before her marriage ceremony was to take place. The priest was not there, but a young man who was attending the local seminary was and when he saw her, he could do nothing but go to her and help her. He was drawn to her beauty and her spirit as she knelt at the candles before the Virgin Mary.

“He asked if he could help and when she turned to him, love struck him like a thundercloud. It was loud and joyful and scary for this young man because he had been promised to the church. Lily did not know this, so she welcomed his help, his kindness, and his favor. She told him her troubles and walked with him and brought him food the next day and he picked flowers for her. She returned each day, more convinced each time that this young man was the answer to her prayers, that surely she could convince her father to inquire after his hand, cancel her promised marriage, and make a new and better one. After all, her young man was well dressed and educated, she could tell.

“On the sixth day, the day before her scheduled nuptials, she returned again to the church to see him and he wasn’t there. She found the priest and asked after the young man. He told her, ‘You must mean Antonio. He has returned to the seminary. You must be Lily. He gave me this note to give to you.’ Now Lily was shocked and frantic and disappointed. She couldn’t believe Antonio would not tell her such a thing, the way they’d held hands. She tore open the note and read.

“Antonio’s note indeed confirmed his commitment to become an ordained priest. He also told Lily that he loved her, but that she should go on to marry the man her parents chose for her. Antonio had asked around and found out that this man, her betrothed, was a good man, kind and hardworking and that he would make a good husband for her.

“Lily was bereft. She didn’t trust Antonio’s judgment since he’d led her on, making her believe he was free to court her. She didn’t have Antonio, but she would not condemn her life to marrying a man she didn’t love after her experience with Antonio. Now that she knew what loving was, she wanted to marry for love.” The Pope paused.

Joe held a stoic face, held his emotions in check thought his heart beat fast and his breathing was too shallow. He kept still and calm and waited. He did not look at Ariana. He would need to remedy that. He would need to watch out for her once they arrived at the church. He would do his duty. The Pope cleared his throat and continued.

“Or, Lily decided, she would never marry at all. She went into the convent, leaving her life behind.” He spread his hands indicating his story was over.

Joe wanted to find solace in the story, wanted to understand the message, but his mind was too muddled. He was sleep deprived and, if he were honest with himself, he was heartbroken, once again. He felt like his chest had been ripped open and laid bare before them and even Pope Luke Paul could do nothing to heal him.

He would have to heal himself. This time, he’d do a better job. He’d wall off his emotions so tight a pound full of puppies wouldn’t turn his head.

As for Ariana, she said nothing, nodded with her sad, somber smile as if in solidarity with the lonely heartbroken nun Lily.

Pope Luke Paul put a hand on each of their arms and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Luckily it wasn’t much longer.

When they arrived at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, Boston’s Police Commissioner and the FBI SAC were there to assure them that the entire place had been searched, even the altar, and there was nothing there. The Pope didn’t like it, but there were metal detectors placed at the doors and no one was allowed to bring in a bag larger than four by eight inches, as if they were attending a U2 concert.

“What about the perimeter, for snipers?” Ariana asked.

“We were told the threat was for an up-close-and-personal attack, but we have the perimeter covered and watchers for snipers. We’ve checked the most likely rooftops.”

The Pope insisted on giving communion to as many people as they could fit in the cathedral. Its normal capacity was two thousand, but today she would be stretched to hold almost twenty-five hundred to make up for the almost five hundred dignitaries who crowded out the rest of the people the Pope served.

Joe listened to the Pope say this and knew it was heartfelt. Neither he nor Ariana argued with him when the chief of the Swiss Guard looked at them for help. Even the cardinal was concerned, not only with the crowd size but with the close quarters it created and the logistical problems of communion. Normally those receiving communion would proceed down the center aisle in two lines and then go to the right or left back up the aisle. But the side aisles would be clogged with extra seats and people standing.

“We will have one line of people to receive communion down the center aisle and they will return down the center aisle,” Pope Luke Paul proclaimed. He sat in a chair in the cathedral’s anteroom. The cardinal sat opposite.

The Boston Police Commissioner didn’t dare say a word through his grim compressed lips. The FBI SAC wanted to speak, but he slid a glance to Ariana and she moved her head in the slightest gesture indicating a negative. The chief of the Swiss Guard stood tall and complacent having already done his duty and having faith in the Pope.

Joe met the Pope’s eyes and waited. After several beats of silence where Joe could not gather the nerve or the will to override His Holiness, the man smiled. He nodded and raised his hand in a gesture of blessing, keeping his eyes on Joe. The wash of serene calm coalesced into a resolve to succeed in his mission as an assuredness as hard as the marble floors settled in.

“Cardinal O’Mara, please assemble the priests who will be charged with orchestrating the communion and those who will be participating on the altar.” Ariana spoke respectfully, but the command in her voice was unmistakable. They would have obeyed her even if the Pope hadn’t been there backing up her authority.

Everyone took their places in the anteroom. The organ high in the balcony began playing, sending reverberations through Joe’s body. It felt too much like foreboding. The procession of those performing the mass moved out into the altar area with Pope Luke Paul following last, flanked by Joe and Ariana. Once the Pope took his place at the altar, Joe and Ariana dropped back and Mass began.

It wasn’t hard to maintain a vigilant watch. This was what Joe had been trained to do. He’d been on too many surveillance missions to count and this wasn’t much different—if you didn’t count that it was in a cathedral with organ music playing in the background in stead of some rocky outback with gunfire in the background. Until they reached the point in the Mass when the Pope was to give communion, his pulse had been slow and steady.

Now as Pope Luke Paul moved forward, he and Ariana rejoined him, staying tight to his sides as he took his place on the floor in front of the people, his people. Joe watched the single file procession as person after person of every description came forward, reverent, smiling, crying and in awe. Joe watched their hands. He examined each of them several places back in line.

He spotted a swarthy man, of Mediterranean origin, could have been Greek or Italian or Armenian or Turkish or from any one of the Middle Eastern countries, two places back, with a hand in his pocket. He followed closely behind a young woman.

Joe kept his eye on the man’s hand, counting the beats until he moved forward where upon Joe planned to remove the hand from the man’s pocket before he got in front of the Pope. Joe hadn’t been watching the woman in front of the man as closely.

But when she stepped aside she stepped the wrong way. She was supposed to step to the right, to Joe’s side. Instead, she moved to the left. Joe’s mind lit up deep down in the primal recesses that ruled survival instincts. He knew something was wrong and shifted toward the woman.

In that instant, the woman fell in a dead faint, directly in front of Ariana. In the split-second Joe had to observe this he knew it was all wrong, knew they wanted Ariana to assist the woman, knew there would be someone else moving in for the attack. Joe’s eyes snapped to the swarthy man who’d been behind her, the one with his hand in his pocket. The man was moving toward the collapsed woman, but Joe couldn’t see the hand in his pocket.

As if in freeze-frame motion the man lunged forward, but not toward the fallen woman. Joe watched the man slip a porcelain knife from inside his jacket pocket and instead of moving toward the woman on the floor, he lunged. But not toward the Pope, toward Ariana.

Joe pulled the Pope backward where the two Swiss Guards behind them took charge of the him. Then Joe barreled into the man with the knife before he hit his target, Ariana. The man yelled some obscenity in a language Joe didn’t understand as he rolled and scrambled to his feet as his knife clattered to the floor. Joe went for him, reaching out to take him down. The man brought a second knife around from behind. Ariana rushed in to kicked the the man’s arm, but he was fast and Joe was right there.

The slice into Joe’s gut didn’t hurt, not enough to stop him from pushing the heel of his hand into the man’s nose, bouncing his head back and exploding a mess of blood. The perpetrator crumpled to the marble floor.Joe bent forward, feeling the sticky blood oozing from below his Kevlar. He felt dizzy, assaulted by hands from everywhere, lifting him, moving him.

Caressing him.