Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [112]
When he could stand it no longer, he grabbed her beneath her arms and hauled her over him. He felt incredible need, incredible pressure, and he wanted to thrust inside her and . . .
She guided him into her at that moment and he thought he would die from the nearly painful sensations swamping him. “Jules,” he said, “you . . . Sweetheart, I’ve got to . . .” She took him deep inside her, and he couldn’t begin to think straight now, much less talk. But as she moved over him, her hands splayed on his chest, he pressed his own palm against her belly, feeling the motion of her body as she moved over him.
“Can you feel yourself inside me?” she asked, closing her hand over his and pressing it inward against her.
He wanted to laugh at that, but couldn’t. “Very nearly,” he said, and pulled his hand loose from hers. His fingers roved downward, purposeful now, to find her.
“Dammit, I want to see you!”
Jules was nearly frantic, her body taut, her legs locked against his flanks, but she heard the anger, the sense of betrayal in his voice. She took his hand and raised it to her face. When her body exploded into pleasure, his fingers traced her open lips, felt the warmth of her cries.
She was kissing him deeply when he gained his own release. He gasped into her warm mouth, “God, I want you, Jules.”
Jules was relieved he couldn’t see the tears shimmering in her eyes. He wanted her, he’d said so. Soon, she thought, trying desperately not to sniff, he would feel more for her than just want.
She smiled down at his face. He was lying quietly now, still deep inside her, his breathing even and slow.
Very gently she eased off him and rose. She thought he was asleep, and started when he said in a deep, satisfied voice, “I feel like I really am a saint at this moment. Nearly dead and gone to heaven. Lord, woman, you’ve worn me to the bone.”
She dashed her hand across her eyes and smiled. “I will let you rest awhile now, husband. Then we will see about this bone business.”
There was no thought of seeing about bones or anything else. An hour later Thomas came dashing into the house, his face white and drawn.
Jules jumped out of her chair, her face paling at the sight of her brother. “Thomas! What is wrong?”
“It’s Bunker Stevenson,” Thomas said. “The bloody damned man has had a stroke!”
25
“I’ll be right along,” Saint said without thinking. He pushed back his chair, kicked his foot into one leg and sent the chair sprawling. To keep his balance, he grabbed at the table, knocking his plate to the floor. He stood perfectly still, his hands braced against the table.
“Shit,” he said very softly.
Thomas jumped forward. “I didn’t mean . . . That is . . . Oh hell, Saint! I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. Dr. Pickett’s with him, but it doesn’t look good. Mrs. Stevenson, as you can imagine, is in hysterics.”
“And Penelope?” Jules asked, her eyes on her husband’s rigid body. She saw that his knuckles were white from clutching the edge of the table so fiercely.
“She’s all right. Hell, she can’t collapse, not with her mother carrying on like a Bedlamite.”
Jules didn’t really hear her brother’s words, for she was too worried about Michael. What could she say? It seemed to her at that awful moment that anything to come out of her mouth would but hurt him more. Merciful heavens, he was hurting enough now.
“Thomas,” she said very calmly, breaking the tense silence, “why don’t you sit down a moment? I’ll get you something to eat. You too, Michael. Would you care for some wine, perhaps?”
Saint wanted to lash out. Hell, if there were a full moon, which he couldn’t see in any case, he’d howl like a crazed animal. He got a grip on himself, turning toward his wife. “Yes, thank you, Jules. A glass of wine would be just fine.”
“Excellent. Why don’t you sit here, Michael?”
He allowed her to take his arm and lead him to another chair at the table. His mouth was drawn in a thin line. When he heard her pick up his plate, he couldn’t help himself, and shouted, “Damn you, leave it! I made the mess, and I’ll bloody well