Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [116]
“All right,” she whispered, her body already quivering from his words.
When at last he teased her with his mouth, to caress her as he’d said he would, she couldn’t bear it. The pleasure that convulsed her body was nearly painful in its intensity, a pleasure that held all their shared pain, and she cried out again and again. And when he thrust into her, a long, deep thrust, she clutched him, arching upward, yielding to him, opening to him, wanting him to become a part of her.
“My God, woman,” he said many moments later when he could finally speak, “I never envisioned doing that to that scruffy little girl in Lahaina, at least not consciously,” he added, and laughed.
“No,” she said, clutching her arms about his back, “don’t leave me, Michael.”
“I won’t,” he said softly, his fingertips stroking her face. Her teeth nipped his fingertips and he kissed her again. He felt the sweet, smiling curve of her lips as his tongue traced over her. Her eyes would be smiling too, he thought. At least, he wanted to tell her, at least I have seen you in the moments of your pleasure. He felt her legs tighten about his flanks, felt her smooth hands stroking down his back to his buttocks, and his body responded. He moaned softly at the sensations as he filled her again.
“You are the most exquisite lover in the world,” Jules said just before she fell asleep.
“Yes,” he said, his voice deep with satisfaction. “I guess I am.”
“No,” Saint said very carefully, “it is still the same, Sam.”
Jules wanted to moan like a wounded animal, but she didn’t. She said nothing.
“Still the white?”
“Yes.”
Sam laughed. “Excellent, Saint. You’re healing.” He clapped Saint on the back. “All you need now is rest, lots of it. No worrying, now, and no fighting with your wife.”
“I don’t understand,” Jules said.
Saint reached out his hand and she quickly took it. “What Sam means, Jules, is that since what vision I have hasn’t faded, it’s hopeful, very hopeful.” He drew her against his side and hugged her. “I do promise not to fight with her, Sam.”
Dr. Pickett smiled and in that smile was a prayer. He patted Saint’s shoulder. “Well, you don’t need me anymore. We’ll try again in another week, Saint. Another thing, no more than two, three patients a day.” He turned to Jules, his voice more serious now. “Rest, Jules. He must have rest. I count on you to handle him.”
“I shall, Dr. Pickett,” she said, “indeed I shall.”
After Jules had shown Samuel Pickett out, she returned to the surgery. “Here is your cane, Michael. Let’s have some lunch and tell Lydia the good news.”
She watched him like a hawk, of course, but bit down on her tongue when he bumped into a chair. To her great relief, he laughed. He listened to her right the chair, and said, “Tell me how romantic I look with this cane, Jules.”
He did, she thought. It was ebony, with a carved lion’s head. She’d said nothing about the cane before, uncertain as to his reaction. “Well, Michael,” she said, slipping her arm through his, “if you looked any more romantic, I would insist that you rest now, without your lunch.”
Jules insisted that both Lydia and Thackery join them in the dining room. At first Thackery looked at her as if she were speaking gibberish.
“For heaven’s sake, Thackery,” Lydia finally said, “would you please cease acting like a slave!”
“But—” Thackery said.
“No, no more,” Jules said. “Come to the dining room. Saint will tell you about Mr. Leidesdorff, the first black man in San Francisco.”
That got him, Jules saw, winking at Lydia.
Saint, when applied to for the story, sat back in his chair and smiled in Thackery’s general direction. “His name was William, and unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him. He died a young man, only thirty-eight, in 1848, and what with the inflation brought by the gold rush, his estate was worth over a million dollars. Just six months ago, as a matter of fact, our own John Folsom”—this said in a sarcastic voice—“hauled himself to Jamaica and