His 1-800 Wife (16 page)

Catherine writhed back and forth, lost in the realm of time that suspended Jarrod and herself. She met Jarrod, taking his body into hers and loving the feel, accepting the hardness of his legs, the powerful thrust of his body as it met hers, joined hers, annexed, bridged, associated, cemented, intertwined with hers as if the two of them were the only perfect fit in the whole universe. Millions upon millions of combina­tions of couples on earth, and the two of them had been lucky enough to discover each other, discover the secret of coming together, the secret of being made one.

Catherine's body convulsed. She clung tighter to him, unable to control herself, digging deeper, accepting the pleasure-giving sacrifice Jarrod offered, taking what she needed, wanting what he gave. Jarrod found the chord in her, the central core that, if touched, would drive her to a burning river of need. Jarrod knew where it resided, knew that he alone had the ability to take her to the heights of desire, suspend her over the abyss of explosion that rose like a colossal wave and shattered into a spangle of lights simultaneously pressed deeply onto all her pleasure points, overloading her with the supreme rapture that only he could elicit.

On a knife-edge between pleasure and pain, Cather­ine dangled, sure at any moment that her life would end. No one could stand this kind of torture, this enchantment that robbed her of everything except the dying vow that it wouldn't stop.

Catherine heard a scream. She was surprised to realize it was her voice. Blessed release came. Jarrod collapsed on her. Her body was drenched in sweat and her arms were around him, crushing him to her and holding on to the feeling that shrouded her in its midst, a feeling that Jarrod had produced in her. One that only the two of them would ever know.

***

Jarrod woke reaching for Catherine. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to destroy the euphoria that overtook him at the memory of making love to her. His hand found her naked body and pulled her into his arms. He aligned his legs with hers, his body with hers. She was as warm as brandy and he was instantly aroused. Catherine took his hand and drew it to her breasts. Jarrod relaxed, smelling her hair, feeling the strong, steady beat of her heart.

It hadn't been what he expected. It was indescribably better than anything his mind could conceive, design or build. No experience equaled it or matched what had happened to them when they made love. Catherine was incomparable. He could associate cement to natural rock, bridges to skyscrapers, lemon cake to lemon meringue, even Catherine's lopsided croissants to a three-tiered cake from any of Audrey's caterers, but for Catherine there was nothing in his arousal that gave him an inkling of what being with her was going to be like.

At this moment Jarrod took back all the jokes he'd ever played on her, retracted all the awful things he'd ever said and thought about her. At this moment, all he wanted to do was go on holding her for the rest of his life.

He wondered when it had happened. It wasn't in the swing at Audrey's, although that was a catalyst that triggered the feelings he'd been hiding. He knew now there had always been something in him that wanted Catherine. It was the reason he teased her, joked with her. It was the reason he never tired of her presence in a room, and the reason he often found himself sitting with her when there was a storm brewing or they were alone without an audience. He wanted her attention, so he got it in the only way he knew how. He played jokes. The jokes were over now. There were hundreds of things he wanted to do with Catherine. Joking was only one of them, and this time he wanted to joke with her, not make her the butt of the amusement.

Jarrod moved his hand over her breast. Her nipple pebbled and she murmured a sleepy sound. He snug­gled closer to her. Their combined heat made the rose scent stronger.
Roses in Winter.
He had a name for what she reminded him of. Under the covers, with the aftermath of love redolent in the air, glowing embers in the fireplace, and Catherine's body hot in his arms, Jarrod wished he could bottle the fragrance, open it at any time and bring this feeling, this Cather­ine to his mind.

She stretched against him, her bottom against his belly, brushing his erection and causing his stomach to tighten. Jarrod ran his hand over her smooth, even skin, extending it down her shapely legs and back to repeat the procedure, feeling the shudder that passed through her.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

"How could anyone sleep with what you're doing to me?" Catherine turned over, her arm and leg crossing his, her body finding the juncture of his that threatened his sanity.

He pulled her into full contact. Sensation raced through him. His erection was quick and fast.

"Do you know what time it is?"

She shook her head. "Ask me if I care." Her voice was sleepy. He loved the low growl of it, as if she were dragging it over silk and straight through his emotions.

Jarrod ran his hand over her hair, pushing it off her face, staring down into dark, dreamy eyes.

"How could I have ever thought of you as a sister?" He lifted her chin and lightly kissed her. Her hand ran down his back, tracing his spine with a single finger.

She held her breath. "I don't have a brotherly feeling in my body."

He kissed her again. Her mouth was sweet and wet and Jarrod wanted to feast on it, plunge his tongue inside and let go, but he forced himself to hold back. He kissed lightly over her cheeks, her pert nose, her intelligent forehead and sensuous mouth, listening to the dark sounds, the hushed vibrations that came from her throat and went intravenously into his body.

The night was clear. Moonlight streaked through the windows, slanting across the carpet on opposite sides of the immense bed. Jarrod could see the con­trast of their skin against the sheets. He pushed them away, exposing her. He kissed her shoulder, moving across her luscious body, drop­ping tender kisses on her collarbone and the quiv­ering depression between it and her neck. His fingers brushed over her breasts. She moaned thickly, arch­ing against him, communicating her pleasure in timeless jungle sounds. Jarrod found it difficult, almost impossible, to hold himself in check. His body was tight, his erection extended and hard, his mind crav­ing her.

Catherine was like fire in his arms—too hot to hold, but he couldn't let go. She commanded him, like some strange drug that overtook his mind and sensi­tized his nerves. Jarrod pushed her back onto the mattress and covered her with his body. His mouth covered hers. This time he wasn't as gentle. Sensation raced through him. Her hands wrapped around his head. He could feel each of her fingers individually, each separate pad making contact with his skin, heat­ing it, sinking into him, taking a hold on his mind as well as his body.

She writhed, under him, each movement of her slim frame driving him further and further toward the edge. Jarrod kneed her legs apart. He gathered her hips in his two hands and lifted her. As he slipped inside her, he found heaven. Excitement, as electric as lightning, shot through his veins, streaking them with light, boiling his blood. He filled her with him­self, hearing her moans of pleasure mingle with his own. His heart hammered as he slid farther into her. He rocked. She rocked with him. The pace quick­ened. He couldn't stop. He could feel the wave of pleasure overtaking him, raising the quotient they'd set impossibly high. His hands moved to hers, straight­ening her fingers, pushing her arms above her head as the two of them raced inside the rapture wheel, increasing the revolutions, burning the gauge that measured their passion as surely as the two of them were burning.

Jarrod was crazy. He had to be. It wasn't possible to be sane and feel this good. It wasn't possible to have a woman this wonderful in his arms and around his body, holding him, moving with him, making love to him.

Jarrod heard his own groans as his body throbbed into hers, thrusting hard time and time again, answer­ing her need, her wanton invitation for more and still more. Jarrod had never made love like this. He'd never lost such complete control. He'd never thought this possible, yet Catherine was showing it to him, doing it to him, driving him over the edge.

He heard the cry, heard the shout, felt the surge in his loins burst with strength. Lights exploded in his head, flooded his chest, extended down his arms, through his fingers, into his legs, and with a huge shout to the heavens he emptied into Catherine.

***

Calendars! Why were there so many? Catherine couldn't turn in any direction without being con­fronted by the day and date. She whirled around in the study. Jarrod slept soundly upstairs. After show­ering and dressing she'd come downstairs in search of food, but the sun shining through the windows of the study caught her attention and she'd gone in there, turning her face up to look at the gorgeous day.

The windows were open and a soft fragrant breeze blew in, shifting the curtains and teasing the papers on the small bulletin board where she'd tacked several notes. There she saw the calendar. Jarrod, their wed­ding date, last night's love making crowded in on her like the heavy hand of logic squeezing her brain.

The calendars were everywhere. All of them staring at her as if they had eyes. They scared her like a fetish or phobia involving dates. Numbers loomed at her, mocking her with their curls and symbols. Smiley faces, full moons, half moons, red letter days, they all looked at her with malevolence, as if they knew a secret she could only guess at.

Today's date jumped out at her as if the thirty-one squares all had the same number in them. Catherine blinked, clearing her head and banishing the confu­sion. She was scared though. Her hands were sud­denly cold and her heart pounded.

Closing her eyes she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She was all right, she told herself. Everything was all right. Her last menstrual period had come a week before the wedding. There was no red mark on the calendar. She'd long since passed the point of needing to make small red hearts on her calendar to keep track of the wretched blood-flow days. Her cycle was as regular as the phases of the moon.

A week away from home, she calculated, and last night—"Oh, God!" Catherine jumped, saying the words out loud. The truth hit her. It couldn't be right. Quickly she grabbed the desk calendar, dragging it forward. She started counting. As if playing Monop­oly, her fingertip ended on the
GO TO JAIL
square.

She was pregnant!

At least there was a strong possibility she could be. She counted again. No matter what, she hit fourteen or fifteen days from the start of her menstrual cycle. "Ovulation is at its peak on these days." Catherine could almost hear her health teacher repeating it over and over. "Girls need to be prepared, and knowl­edge is the best way," she used to say. Catherine had the knowledge, but what good was it? She hadn't used it. She and Jarrod had made love—twice. No matter how she counted, both their lovemaking and her ovulation came together on night fifteen.

He wore no condom and she took no birth control. Birth control hadn't been necessary, she thought There was no man in her life since she'd split with Jeff, and they'd always used condoms. And she wasn't going to have sex with Jarrod—But she had. And now she could be pregnant

Maybe she should go to the drugstore and get a home pregnancy kit. Was it possible to tell this fast? She pushed the calendar away as if it had metamorphosed into a snake ready to strike.

She didn't want to know. If it was true—it wasn't true, she denied. She couldn't be pregnant. She couldn't be tied to Jarrod for the rest of her life. He wanted children. He'd told her. She'd never thought of actually being someone's mother. The idea fright­ened her. It was impossible.

Why had she let him touch her? Why didn't her mind warn her of the consequences? In Montana she'd managed to maintain her sanity, but last night, in her own home, where had her sanity been?

That was it, she thought. She hadn't been sane. It was no excuse, she knew that. Sane or not, she could still be pregnant now.

Catherine had to know. Her body had all the signs of ovulation. Her breasts were tender. She'd thought that was due to Jarrod and the tantalizing way he'd rubbed her nipples, then lathed them with his tongue. She started to tingle, finding him in an erotic memory zone she hadn't guessed was there. Immediately she sat up straight in her chair and stopped her thoughts. She could rationalize the tenderness in her breasts, but what about the accompanying feeling that she weighed a ton, and the overwhelming need, an almost hysterical craving, for a chocolate sundae? She didn't need any further clues. She was ovulating, the only time during the twenty-eight day cycle when preg­nancy could occur. And they'd made love on that night.

Catherine
was
rationalizing if she didn't think more than just lovemaking had happened last night. She knew these feelings, knew them as monthly reminders of what was to come. Would they arrive on time this month or was a more permanent reminder in store nine months from last night?

***

Jarrod knew he was alone. His arms closed over air as he sought Catherine. Opening his eyes, he searched the bed. She was gone. The room was too quiet for her to be in it. The bathroom door stood open and he could smell the faint scent of roses permeating the air. He couldn't determine how long she'd been gone.

Turning on his back, Jarrod stared at the ceiling. Last night replayed in his mind like a movie in slow motion. He smiled, thinking of how dark Catherine's eyes were when she was aroused. Her skin glowed in the golden light of the lamp they hadn't bothered to turn off until sleep claimed them. He remembered her aggressiveness. He felt his own arousal at the memory of how she felt against him.