J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [321]
As he watched her body move, he felt himself harden.
Inside, the beast shifted as well, but there was a curious calm to the sensation. It was no big rush of energy, just a slow burn, as if the creature were content to share his body, not take it over. A communion, not a domination.
Probably because the thing knew that the only way to be with Mary was through Rhage’s form.
She kept going around the room, tidying up. “What are you looking at?”
“You.”
Sweeping her hair back, she laughed. “So your sight’s returning.”
“Among other things. Come here, Mary. I want to kiss you.”
“Oh, sure. Make up for being a bully by plying me with your body.”
“I’ll use any asset I’ve got.”
He threw the sheets and duvet off himself and swept his hand down his chest, over his stomach. Lower. Her eyes widened when he took his heavy erection in his palm. As he stroked himself, the scent of her arousal bloomed like a bouquet in the room.
“Come over here, Mary.” He twisted his hips. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right. It feels so much better when you touch me.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Just looking for some instruction.”
“Like you need that,” she muttered, taking off her sweater.
They made love in an unhurried, glorious way. But when he held her afterward, he couldn’t go to sleep. Neither could she.
That night Mary tried to breathe normally as they took the elevator up to the hospital’s sixth floor. Saint Francis was quieter in the evening, but still teeming with people.
The receptionist let them in and then left, pulling a cherry-red coat on as she locked the door behind her. Five minutes later Dr. Della Croce entered the waiting room.
The woman almost managed to hide her double take at Rhage. Even though he was dressed like a civilian, in slacks and a black knit turtleneck, that leather trench coat was still something to see falling from those broad shoulders.
Well, and Rhage was…Rhage. Unbearably beautiful.
The doctor smiled. “Ah, hi, Mary, would you come down to my office? Or will it be the two of you?”
“Both of us. This is Rhage. My—”
“Mate,” he said loud and clearly.
Dr. Della Croce’s eyebrows shot up, and Mary had to smile in spite of all the tension in her body.
The three of them went down the hall, past the doors of the exam rooms and the scales in the little alcoves and the computer stations. There was no small talk. No chatty, how’s-the-weather, gee-the-holidays-are-coming-up-fast kind of stuff. The doctor knew Mary hated social chatter.
Something Rhage had picked up on at TGI Friday’s on their first date.
God, that felt like years ago, Mary thought. And who could have foreseen they’d end up here together?
Dr. Della Croce’s office was cluttered with neat piles of papers and files and books. Diplomas from Smith and Harvard hung on the wall, but the thing that Mary had always found most reassuring was the line of thriving African violets on the windowsill.
She and Rhage sat down as the doctor went behind her desk.
Before the woman was in her chair, Mary said, “So what are you giving me, and how much can I handle?”
Dr. Della Croce looked up over the medical records and the pens and the binder clips and the phone on her desk.
“I spoke with my colleagues here as well as two other specialists. We’ve reviewed your records and the results from yesterday’s—”
“I’m sure you have. Now tell me where we are.”
The other woman took off her glasses and inhaled deeply. “I think you should get your affairs in order, Mary. There’s nothing we can do for you.”
At four thirty in the morning, Rhage left the hospital in an absolute daze. He’d never expected to go home without Mary.
She’d been admitted for a blood transfusion, and because evidently those night fevers and the exhaustion were also tied to the beginnings of pancreatitis. If things improved she’d be released the next morning, but no one was making any commitments.
The cancer was strong: Its presence had multiplied even in the short time between when she’d had her quarterly checkup a