Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [125]
Saint did his best to slow her down, but it was impossible. She wanted him, and quickly. It was the first time they’d made love since he’d gotten his vision back, and he thought he would yell with pleasure as he watched her face at the moment of her climax.
Then he was deep inside her, thrusting frantically, beyond himself. He heard her moan softly when his seed burst from his body into her, and he knew that she was filled with him and that she was happy to be so. He pulled her onto her side, stroking his large hands down her back. “You are perfect,” he said, kissing her temple. “And I love you, Jules. With all my heart.”
She raised her face to look at him, and he said softly, “Don’t cry, love.”
She felt his fingertip wipe away the single tear that coursed down her cheek. “I’m not,” she sniffed. “I was just thinking that perhaps I didn’t hear exactly what you said.”
He squeezed her, feeling himself growing hard within her again. “Woman, you heard me right, and you know it. As you can feel, my body agrees with me. Will you rush me this time, Jules? Or will you let a simple man give you everything he can, and very slowly?”
Jules felt dazzling sensations, and her muscles convulsed, making him moan. “I don’t know, Michael,” she said. She came on top of him, and he helped her straddle him. He was very deep inside her. His large hands covered her breasts, and she arched her back, her hair streaming over her shoulders and over his hands. When his fingers stroked downward to find her, she gasped. “I don’t think I can, Michael.”
“Dear heavens,” he gasped, arching up to fill her completely with himself, “I can feel your womb.”
He felt her hands close over his wrists, felt her thighs tighten about his flanks. He thought he would never see anything so beautiful as the dazed sheen in her eyes. “Yes, love,” he said, “come with me, now.”
Her response was a shuddering groan.
Saint lay awake after Jules was sleeping like a stated little animal in the crook of his arm. His eyes traced the shadowy patterns cast in the far reaches of the bedroom by the moonlight silvering through the window. Life, he thought, would be perfect if it weren’t for that bastard Wilkes. During his several years at Massachusetts General Hospital, he’d dealt with the insane, people who were mindless yet utterly harmless, people who were mindless and violent, people who believed they were someone else, usually long dead, and people, he realized, who were obsessed with an object, an idea, or another person. His reason rebelled against the notion, but faced with Wilkes’s actions, he could not deny it.
He’d assumed in the beginning that Wilkes wanted this lovely girl because she was a virgin and would bring him a great sum of money. But her marriage should have made him realize the futility of his wish. Unless all he wanted was revenge. But no, Saint’s thinking continued, that didn’t make sense either. His arms tightened about his wife. There was no choice now, not really. He would have to kill Wilkes.
He would find Limpin’ Willie in the morning. Perhaps Willie’s criminal mind could aid him in finding Wilkes. Jules muttered something incomprehensible in her sleep and Saint smiled. He hoped she was dreaming of him and enjoying every bit of it.
He had helped her cleanse herself, Jules too exhausted to protest, and he wondered now how long it would be before she became pregnant with his child. His body stirred at the powerful thought, a useless action, he told himself, grinning. He began to breathe deeply and slowly, a habit he had learned early in medical school, and one that put him to sleep within minutes.
The following morning, Jules and Saint helped Thomas and Penelope move back to the Stevenson mansion. Bunker, Saint thought, after he’d examined him briefly, would live to be ninety.
“Well, my boy,” Bunker said, “it’s good to have you back again. Not that I don’t like Pickett, mind you, but—”
“Thank you,” Saint said quickly, cutting him off. “Now, what you need are more