‘I suppose even naturals must have exercise,’ she said.
His dreams became vividly erotic, jerking him awake to stare into the darkness, his body covered with sweat and pounding with painful need. He rose several mornings before dawn, unable to lie quietly next to Jules, listening to her even breathing, the soft sighs that made him wonder what her dreams were made of. Certainly not of sex, he told himself. Perhaps of fear and dread of men, but not of sex, not of him.
They were but four days out of San Francisco when he could bear it no longer. He stayed in the small parlor where the gentlemen smoked and gambled until very late, unable to face lying down in that damned narrow bed beside his young wife. He drank too much, lost one hundred dollars at vingt-et-un, and made his way to the cabin well past midnight.
Jules was on her side, facing away from him, the sheet pulled to her chin. He sighed with some relief, eased out of his clothes, and slipped in beside her. She didn’t stir.
He slept fitfully, until finally he was lost in that vague, blurred state that seemed so real, so very vivid. Jane Branigan was beside him, touching him, laughing and teasing him, and he was in such great need of her he thought he would die. Then they were lying together and he was stroking her body, calling, ‘Jane, my God, Jane.’ He felt her soft breasts, felt her nipples tauten from the teasing of his fingers. God, he wanted her, and now.
‘Jane,’ he whispered, nuzzling against her throat. She wasn’t naked, as she should have been. She was wearing something, and the starchy material scratched his mouth. He felt nothing but urgency, and rose over her, pulling the offending nightgown up above her breasts. The touch of her warm flesh made him crazy. His hands and mouth covered her breasts, her smooth, soft belly. He lay atop her, moaning aloud. His manhood, throbbing, urgent, pressed against her closed thighs.
‘Jane,’ he whispered, moving restlessly over her. ‘I can’t wait, Jane.’
He pulled her legs apart and felt his manhood surge forward. But she wasn’t ready for him, wouldn’t let him enter her. He was frantic now, not understanding.
‘Jane,’ he said again, ‘what’s wrong?’
Jules came abruptly awake. She heard Michael’s voice repeating a name. Not her name. Jane. She was suddenly aware that a man _’ a huge man, was covering her, pressing her down into the mattress, and she cried out, her mind, blurred with sleep, thinking it John Bleecher or Jameson Wilkes. Then something deep within her cried out, refusing to accept the terror of a dream. No, she was with Michael. It was he covering her, pressing against her.
She tried to rise, bewildered, not understanding. She heard him moaning deeply, telling her between gasping breaths to relax, to give in to him. But something was terribly wrong. Telling Jane to relax! Suddenly she felt his hand probing against her, felt that male part of him pushing forward against her.
Saint felt wild with need-, frustrated and angry that he couldn’t enter her body. He felt Jane trying to push him away; then he heard a sharp cry of pain.
‘Michael! No … please!’
He came awake with jolting awareness. ‘Jane,’ he said stupidly, then drew in his breath sharply. In the dim light of dawn, he saw Jules sprawled helplessly beneath him, and he was trying to force himself inside her.
‘Oh God, no!’ He pulled himself up and rested on his haunches, his head in his hands. He’d very nearly forced his wife without realizing what he was doing.
Jules lay very still. He was on his knees between her widespread legs. ‘Michael?’ she whispered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, hating himself more at that moment than at any other in his entire life. ‘I’m sorry, Jules. I didn’t hurt you, did I? Are you all right?’
She frowned at him, uncertain, becoming more bewildered by the moment. ‘I don’t understand.’
He retreated quickly, rising from the bed and shrugging into his dressing gown. Of course she didn’t understand. Lord, it was difficult enough for him to comprehend.