F$*k a stack of Bibles, Katchoo might say, and to hell with . . . uh, with the question of going to hell.

But that was all beside the point, wasn't it?

Besides, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down Francine's sternum, pausing every now and then to flick her tongue against bare skin then exhale a warm breath against the spot -- wasn't that an answer, or at least reassurance?

She certainly wasn't showing any intention of stopping.