She smiled at that, and waited, willing her mind to ease, to allow her pleasure with him.
“Part your lips,” he said, and she did. She felt his mouth, firm and warm, felt his tongue glide slowly over her lower lip. “Breathe through your nose, Jules,” he said, and tested the waters. “Excellent, little one,” he said, smiling warmly down at her.
“Now, I want to feel your tongue. Yes, that’s it.” He thought he would explode with the intense sensations swamping his body. She was so giving, so trusting. . . .
He released her wrists and she brought her arms about his back. When he thrust his tongue into her mouth, then quickly withdrew, she sucked in her breath in surprise. He laughed softly, and said into her mouth, “I will come into you like that, Jules.” He grinned ruefully. “But I doubt I’ll leave you so quickly. I’ll probably want to stay inside you—” He broke off—he had to. Odd how his own words, his own images, were making him crazy.
“When?”
He closed his eyes a moment, willing himself to control. But he couldn’t help himself. He eased on top of her, balancing himself on his elbows above her. “When you are ready for me,” he managed, and kissed her again, slowly, thoroughly.
Jules felt his swollen member against her closed thighs. She wanted to feel him, and tried to open her legs.
“No,” he said. “Not yet, sweetheart.” Saint wanted to caress and kiss every inch of her, but he held back. The thought of her freezing in embarrassment made him stop cold. But if he didn’t bring her pleasure, he would hurt her, he knew it. Slowly he eased off her. “No,” he said softly when she tried to press herself against him, “no, just lie still.” His fingertips stroked lightly over her bruised jaw, downward, feeling the soft flesh of her shoulders, the silken flesh of her breasts. He took a taut nipple between two long fingers. “You feel so soft . . . and so pink.”
Jules giggled nervously. “How can I feel pink?”
“You do, don’t argue with me.” He lowered his mouth and suckled her breast. He felt her stiffen just as she’d done the first time he’d touched her breast, but he continued, praying that she would ease. She did, a bit. He let his hand move slowly over her ribs. Keep talking to her, he told himself. It would distract her. “I’ve got to fatten you up,” he said, pressing the palm of his hand over her ribs. “Did I ever tell you about that young boy that I—”
“Michael,” she said, cutting him off, “can I touch you? Can I feel your ribs?”
“Yes.”
Jules swept her hand over his hairy chest, downward, reveling in the feel of him. So different from her, so incredibly powerful. She pressed her fingers against his flat belly, but before she could forage lower, he let his own palm rest lightly on her woman’s mound. She froze, rigid as a stone.
“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” he said.
“I’m not, not really,” Jules managed. “It’s just that I didn’t think that you would touch . . .”
His fingertips lightly probed and found her. Her soft flesh was somewhat moist. Familiar territory, he thought, caressing her more deeply, that first night he’d given her release clear again in his mind. He loved the feel of her. He closed his eyes at the sensation, wishing only that his mouth could replace his fingers. But it was too soon for that intimacy.
“What’s wrong?” Jules asked in a high, thin voice. She didn’t know what to do. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and his fingers made her feel pleasantly strange, yet embarrassed.
“Nothing, little idiot. You are perfect.”
“Are you certain? You’re not just saying that?”
“No,” he said, raising his head to kiss her again. “I’m not just saying that.” He wanted desperately to draw her upward and kiss her, and taste her, and bury himself in her sweet flesh. But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. He let his fingers find a rhythm that seemed to please her, for she gasped suddenly, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
“Michael,” she cried, “please, I don’t know . . . I can’t—”
“Yes, love,” he said. “Just lie still.” He continued to caress her as he raised himself over her. Slowly he parted her legs. He sat back on his heels a moment, watching her squirm at the touch of his fingertips. He studied the long white legs, sleekly muscled, unlike those of many young women of her age, whose greatest exercise had been to walk from the living room to the bedroom. He gazed at her female softness and felt his control desert him.
“Jules,” he said, his voice agonized. “Please, hold still.”
She felt bereft when his beguiling fingers left her, but she was tense with anticipation as she watched him guide himself toward her. She felt his fingers gently parting her. She didn’t know what to do. He would come inside her. Yes, she wanted that. She felt that male part of him pressing aginst her, felt the incredible heat of him. She could hear Michael’s ragged breathing, knew that he needed her, needed her now, this moment. She tried to relax, to open herself to him. He entered her, his fingers still parting her to ease his way, and she felt herself stretching painfully. She felt his hands on her thighs, holding them apart, and he came deeper into her.
“Jules, love,” she heard him say sharply.
She opened her eyes and stared at him. His face was pale, taut, tension radiating from him.
“You’ve a maidenhead, and . . .” He groaned deeply in his throat, and thrust forward.
Jules cried out, she couldn’t help it. He was deep inside her, and it hurt so badly she sobbed. She stuffed her fist into her mouth, not wanting him to know.
“No, Jules, hold still!” She was squirming under him, trying to rid herself of the dreadful pain. She felt his fingers find her again, and stroke her, but the very nice sensations didn’t return. He groaned suddenly, arching his back, and thrust forward until she took all of him. He felt his seed spew deeply within her.
He balanced himself on his elbows when he had enough strength to do so, and looked down at her. Her face was pale, her eyes tightly closed, her eyelashes wet spikes on her cheeks. He cursed vividly. He’d given her very little pleasure, he knew. Slowy he drew out of her, feeling her shudder with pain.