Storm of Visions

  She rose to meet each thrust, rubbing herself against him, and when she did, she made a humming noise into his mouth. She was like a bee, flying to him for honey, darting in and out while he barely held on. The clothes between them made no difference; they might as well have been naked . . . and that thought brought his lust-induced frenzy to another level.

  She pushed him away, and yanked at the yellow belt around her waist.

  He helped her with the knot, opened the heavy white cloth—and looked.

  Her skin was flushed and dewy from the workout. Her belly was flat and strong; her shoulders were muscled. Her exercise bra irritated the hell out of him; it mashed her boobs flat and completely concealed the erotic lines he had only imagined. He wanted to see her, know her, explore every inch of her. Sliding his hand under her back, he groped for the snaps. And groped. And groped.

  She laughed abruptly and painfully. “There are no hooks. I pull it on over my head.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He had never sworn so earnestly.

  She laughed again, this time with real amusement.

  Tugging her up to face him, he started to drag at her sleeves.

  In one swift, efficient movement, she shoved him away, removed the top, and removed the bra.

  She had the best, most glorious breasts he’d ever seen—because they were hers. He cupped one lightly in the palm of his hand, savoring the sweet weight, the silky skin, the pale pink nipple. He used his thumb to circle the areola.

  She caught her breath and pressed her hand over his. Took his other hand and put it on her other breast.

  He squeezed lightly, watching her face as she reveled in the sensation. She was so responsive, glowing with the joy of discovery, and he wanted her. Now.

  He lifted her off the floor and onto the weight bench. Kneeling before her, he found her nipple with his mouth. He sucked, lightly at first, outlining the small, sweet circle with his tongue, then with more strength, letting her feel his raw desire.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders. She writhed in his arms, moaning. She was a flame that burned and enticed him.

  He spread his fingers wide on her back, enjoying the flex of her spine as he kissed her other breast.

  And then . . . she bit his ear.

  The tiny pain tipped him over the edge into madness. He found himself on his feet, looking down at her upturned face. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “No. But you said I was a good student.” Her lashes lowered over gleaming amber eyes.

  When had she changed from hesitant girl to alluring temptress?

  “If you knew how much I’ve restrained myself, how much I’ve suffered over you, you wouldn’t dare—”

  Putting her hand on his thigh, she slid it around and up.

  Her touch transformed him. He became a machine, smoothly catching her wrist, twisting her around and pushing her down to lie lengthwise, her spine resting on the bench. Hooking his fingers under her waistband, he pulled, taking the gi pants and the sports panties off in one effortless movement.

  She tried to sit up, pull her legs together, regain her modesty even as he stole it away.

  “No,” he whispered, pushed her back and followed her down. He pressed his chest against hers, and the sensation of skin against skin was torture—and glory. She was naked, and he wanted to do her.

  Yet if he took her, he’d be a cad and worse.

  Yet he wanted to do her.

  It was an argument he couldn’t win.

  So he kissed her. Kissed her hard and long, using his tongue as he wished to use his dick, with strength and speed and precision, seizing control with no intention of relinquishing it.

  And she . . . she kissed him back.

  It was like flinging rocket fuel on a forest fire. The resulting explosion broke his will.

  Swiftly and with wicked intent, he kissed her neck, her breasts, her belly. He pulled her to the edge of the bench, put her legs on his shoulders, and kissed her pussy, tasting her and, when she came, drinking of her. Then as he rose above her, he shed his pants. “If you want me to stop, you have to tell me now.” His voice sounded deeper, more demon than human, strained with the effort of making the offer.

  Her chest heaved from the power of her fading orgasms. “After that . . . you think . . . you can run away?” Reaching up, she took his hips. She pulled him down to her.

  “Finish it,” she said.

  Thank God.

  He adjusted their bodies so that he sat on the bench with her legs on his thighs, so that she was stretched out before him like a feast, so that he held the globes of her bottom in his hands. Leaning over, he lifted her, tilted her hips and placed himself at the entrance to her body.

  She was warm and wet, slick from his mouth and her climax.

  She whimpered when he pressed inside the first inch.

  “Okay?” He couldn’t believe he even had the ability to form that single word.

  “You’re driving me crazy. Please.” She sat up on her elbows and tried to work herself onto him.

  As her pussy enveloped him centimeter by centimeter, lust burst like fireworks across his every nerve and synapse.

  Closing his eyes, he concentrated on restraint. He was a fourth-degree black belt. He was an expert marksman. He had thrived on survival training. He was a man who understood discipline. Nothing and no one broke him.

  Until she sat all the way up, pressed her chest to his, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and whispered, “Please. I need you.”

  He lost his mind. He lost his control. He tried to lunge forward.

  But he couldn’t. Not entwined as they were.

  Their eyes locked, challenging each other.

  He rocked his hips.

  She rocked hers.

  He penetrated her body by fractions of inches, moving so gradually, his erection throbbed and grew, his balls tightened, and he ground his teeth in agony . . . and pleasure.

  He had never imagined, never suffered such a luscious, tight, heated hell. She was virgin territory, and he couldn’t bear it. . . . He could not stand another moment. . . .

  In slow motion, he fell backward, bringing her up on top of him, breaching her swiftly, completely.

  She threw back her head, panting with the shock of having him deep inside her. Her fingernails dug into his chest, and her feet hit the floor on either side of the bench.

  “Move,” he ordered. Because if she didn’t, he would.

  She did.

  Her thighs flexed. Cautiously she lifted herself a few inches, then lowered herself onto him.

  He arched his back as his whole body went into a spasm of ecstasy.

  As if that motion was all she needed, she smiled with fierce, brutal joy, and started a rhythm that wiped every thought from his brain. As if she’d been born to drive him mad, she rose and fell, rose and fell, making each moment a dazzling glory.

  He wanted to come.

  He moved and groaned. He lived for the next rise and fall of her body over his.

  He needed to come.

  But her eyes were luminous with restless enthusiasm. She had never experienced the power and splendor of sex, she held mastery over him, and she ruthlessly used his body. She experimented, leaning backward and forward, flexing her muscles inside, trying every trick any woman from the dawn of time had ever imagined. He wondered—when he could think—what the hell she’d been reading, who the hell she’d been talking to, if she’d been watching some crazy sex therapist on Oprah. Then she’d lift her hands to lift her hair off her neck, her breasts would thrust forward, and he’d forget anything but this moment, this woman, this adventure.

  Finally he couldn’t take it anymore. Taking her hips, he forced her into a regular pace, moving her up and down so that he penetrated her slowly, completely, time after time. He made her feel each inch of his penis as it moved inside her . . . and passion caught her in its trap.

  Her breath caught, and caught again. She placed her hands on his chest, looked
into his eyes, and moved with ever-increasing violence and speed.

  Frantic and desperate, they raced toward satisfaction. It was elusive, always out of reach, but they hurried, and it caught them from behind, surprising them, overwhelming them.

  He came hard and fast, grinding her hips down on his hips, coming, filling her . . . making her his.

  She struggled, whimpering in torment until he was done with his orgasm. Then he lifted her again, letting her work herself up and down his erection, rubbing herself against his pelvis until she cried out and convulsed, coming again and again in great waves of ecstasy.

  They shuddered, as gradually the tempest retreated, until finally, it was over.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  Because she was still his.

  She would always be his. Every day of that week, Caleb branded her with his body, with his words, with his care, teaching her to laugh with him, love with him . . . depend on him.

  And then . . . he had walked away.

  Now he leaned over her as she slept. He brushed her hair off her face, and smiled at the boneless, child-like relaxation that possessed her.

  He would always want her.

  He thought no one knew of his obsession, but when he’d gone home to gather his clothes and collect something for Jacqueline to wear, his mother had listened to his voice, and something in his tone made her say, “Caleb, I hear what you do not wish to tell me. You love this girl. You have always loved her. And now you fear for her, too. Have a care, my son, for I know you. You are like me. You will love only once in your life, and if you lose her, your life will be desolation.”

  Caleb adjusted the white lace at Jacqueline’s neckline.

  To celebrate her happiness at her son’s choice, Nic cola D’Angelo had sent her wedding nightgown for Jacqueline to wear.

  Chapter 18

  “We’ve come to see Gary White.”

  The night nurse stared at Irving and at Martha, her mouth slightly open as she tried to decide what to do about two senior citizens visiting a man in a coma. “Visiting hours are over.”

  Irving and Martha exchanged relieved glances.

  The nurse’s words were a sign of normalcy for which they were sincerely grateful. Intruders hadn’t forced themselves into the hospital, as Martha feared, and Gary was still alive.

  “I know.” Irving folded his hands before him and lowered his head, trying to look as old and feeble as possible. “But dear Martha’s plane was late coming in to La-Guardia, and she’s going back to Omaha first thing in the morning. If she can’t see Gary now, she can’t see him at all, and who knows if he’ll be alive next time she’s here.”

  Martha played along, covering her eyes with her hand and sniffling loudly.

  “So, Martha, you’re family?” the nurse asked.

  Martha gave an indistinguishable murmur of agreement.

  The night nurse looked them over again, then stammered, “I . . . well . . . I suppose it’s all right. It’s not as if you’ll disturb him. You do realize he won’t know whether you’re here or not.”

  Martha looked up, her eyes remarkably dry. “So there’s been no change in his condition?”

  “No. He’s unconscious, as he has been since he arrived here four years ago. Let me show you to his room.” She stood and started down the corridor. Irving and Martha trailed her. “It’s a shame, really. When he arrived, he was a man obviously in the prime of his life. I’ll never forget how handsome he was, and strong-looking, as if he worked out every day. Now his muscles have wasted away; he’s gaunt and . . . Forgive me, but if it’s been a while since you’ve seen him, I thought you should be prepared.” She opened the door of room 106 and walked in.

  “Thank you.” Martha followed her. She viewed the emaciated, twisted body beneath the sheets on the hospital bed, and tears rose in her dark brown eyes and trickled down her cheek.

  Gary’s face was still. His formerly black hair had thinned. An IV fed him liquids and nutrients, and his chest barely rose and fell under the meager force of his breath.

  “This is a tragedy,” she whispered.

  But unlike Irving, Martha believed it.

  Irving had always kept his opinion of Gary White to himself. Gary had come to the Chosen as a charismatic young man. He had been elected leader of his group right away and they’d willingly followed him into every danger every day. Even as he grew older, all the most challenging missions had been entrusted to him and his team. Until the day so many had died . . .

  Except for Gary. Gary hadn’t died. He’d been reduced to this helpless piece of human flesh.

  Irving didn’t know what happened that day. He only knew Gary had been the kind of guy who always got Irving’s back up. He had been too brilliant, too compelling, too coordinated, too powerful. The men of the Chosen Ones had rallied behind his leadership. The young women of the Chosen visited his bed with consistent enthusiasm. Even more important, he’d charmed all the influential women over forty.

  That was why Martha stood beside the head of the bed now, dabbing her eyes on a tissue.

  Irving had been very much aware he might be jealous. But mostly, he thought his years as the director of the Gypsy Travel Agency had made him cynical.

  Yet as he wearily sank into a chair, he knew he owed Gary protection. Ugly opinions couldn’t change the fact that Gary had been a Chosen hero.

  Today, far too many of those heroes had died.

  As he remembered them, conjured their faces from the vault of his mind, brought forth their vanished names, pain clawed its way up from his gut to his heart. With shaking hands, he loosened his tie and opened his starched collar.

  He had given his life to the Gypsy Travel Agency and the Chosen Ones whom it supported, and now they were gone.

  He’d seen the news reports, but even now, he couldn’t comprehend the loss of so much talent, of so many gifts.

  Dully, he watched the nurse change the IV bag. “Has anyone visited recently?” he asked.

  “No. You’re the first in months.” Her voice was thick with reproach.

  Torn between relief that the Others hadn’t found Gary and killed him, and guilt that Gary had been so neglected, Irving said, “If you don’t mind, Martha and I will sit here for a few minutes and talk to the boy. I imagine he misses hearing a friendly human voice.”

  “Whenever we come in, we talk to him.” The nurse’s judgmental tone upped Irving’s guilt. “We play the television, too, in the hopes that will jog his brain to activity. We don’t give up on our patients, sir, until the day they pass over.”

  “How much longer do you think he has?” Irving asked.

  The nurse looked into Gary’s face, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Not long. I’ve seen it before. His spirit is fading. Unless something happens to bring him back to consciousness, he’ll die. And perhaps . . . that would be best.”

  The Chosen Ones didn’t have the resources to care for Gary White, and while Irving had not understood Gary at all, he knew one thing for sure—Gary would hate this helplessness.

  Guilt swamped Irving, but . . . he couldn’t help but agree. Gary would be better off dead.

  Chapter 19

  Jacqueline woke and stretched, and smiled. She had slept marvelously well. Not once had Caleb strolled into her dreams to taunt her with pleasure unfinished and promises not kept, and that was just fine with—

  Her eyes popped open.

  She hadn’t dreamed about him, because she’d been in bed with him.

  And he was sitting in a chair, showered and dressed in a blue golf shirt and jeans, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, watching her sleep.

  She sat up hard and fast. The covers were kicked back, this silly damned nightgown was hiked up around her thighs, and she’d probably been snoring, or drooling or, God help her, moaning his name. “What are you doing?”

  “Thinking you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He said it with a straight face.

  So she had be
en drooling. “Luckily for you, you have great resistance.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Two years ago, you taught me to fight, you screwed me, and you left me without a backward glance.” She finger combed her hair and discovered the left side was stuck sideways. She must have slept on one side for hours. “Two days ago, you found me in California, you screwed me, and yet managed to ignore my begging and pleading, and dragged me into the biggest, most horrific mess ever seen by the Chosen Ones.”