The Art of Stealing Forever (5 page)

I
want to jump for joy, but instead I reach up into his dark hair and
pull his mouth to mine. Our kiss is hot and charged, the days of
being apart now igniting between us with new passion. His tongue
glides into my mouth, stroking against mine with demanding thrusts as
his hands rove over my body. Then his mouth moves to my neck, his
lips slipping down to my collar bone, kiss by kiss, an occasional
flick of the tongue making me swoon.

My
hands find the buttons on his shirt and I undo them, sliding my
fingers under the fabric and across his skin, smooth and taut over
hard muscles. He reaches up under my shirt and unclasps my bra,
moving his hands around to the front to cup my breasts, teasing and
stroking with agonizing pressure. I moan, and he slips my bra off,
moving his hot, searching mouth to my hardening nipple. He rolls the
tight peak against his tongue and slides his other hand down over the
curve of my ass, squeezing with urgency that makes me ache.

I
reach for the button on his pants and he laughs softly. “So
I guess we’re
okay?”

“Shut
up and take your clothes off,”
I
say, my voice breathy with want. “We
can talk more later.”

St.
Clair laughs again, but slips out of his shirt first, and then his
pants, and I watch with appreciation as his muscles are revealed like
a sculpture being unveiled. I lean down to kiss the definition in his
abs, slide a finger under the waistband of his boxers, stripping them
down until I can see the tip of his cock. Mmm.

I
take him in my mouth, sliding my tongue over his head until St. Clair
is groaning. I take him deeper, suctioning tight with my lips, but
before too long, he’s
pulling me back, claiming my mouth again as he pins me down beneath
him on the couch. His strong arms prop up his gorgeous body just
inches above mine. Energy prickles between us, my skin aching to
touch his, my whole body thrumming with the desire to close the
distance.

I
arch my back and he bows his head to kiss my breast, then he trails
his mouth, his tongue down my belly, then licks the top of my panty
line and nudges my panties down. I squirm, desperate for his touch.
He groans, low and sexy, then slowly begins a torturous slide down my
body, kissing every inch until his mouth is positioned right where I
need it the most.

He
licks up against me, his tongue trailing hot and slow toward my clit,
where he pauses for a moment before taking it between his firm lips.
His moan sends a shock of sweet vibrations straight through me.

I
gasp, thrusting up against his mouth. He pulls away and licks again,
then settles between my thighs, lapping his tongue over my clit and
moving his hand to tease at my slick entrance. I pant, needing more,
and God, he answers as he plunges two fingers deep inside me.

“Oh,”
I
pant, arching my back again.
Charles,
please
.
I want to scream, to beg him to fill me up, but he teases me by
licking my clit so softly I feel like I’m
going to explode with desire. Oh, Jesus Christ. I can feel my wetness
spilling out in anticipation, and St. Clair’s
lips are still brushing over me, the heat of his body hovering
against my skin, his fingers probing, a little harder, a little
faster, finding their rhythm, stroking deeper and sweeter…

I
break apart in a sudden rush of pleasure, but before the first waves
of my climax have even rolled through me, St. Clair moves back up and
cradles my face between his hands.

“Thank
you,” he
whispers softly, the hot length of his cock pressing against my
aching pussy, just close enough to tease, to set me on edge.

“For
what,” I
ask, still dizzy, my belly coiled tight with need and anticipation.

“For
loving me.”

He
presses his lips to mine, and then thrusts deep, fuck, so deep, I do
cry out this time, calling his name into the empty room as I feel him
fill me all the way up.

God,
he feels so good.

He
moves slowly at first, steady and deep, until the fire is back in my
bloodstream and I think I’ll
die from the pleasure. I thrust against him, our hips joined, finding
that incredible tempo of give and take, our bodies moving as one.

“More,”
I
gasp. “Harder.”

St.
Clair groans against me, and then he’s
fucking me faster, a relentless rhythm, but I’m
matching every stroke. He pounds me deep into the couch cushions
until there’s
nothing but the damp slide of our bodies and fuck, the pressure
building, so deep inside.

“Yes,”
I
moan into his mouth. My hands reach up to grab his ass, pulling him
even deeper as he strokes into me. This is everything I wanted. “God,
yes.”

St.
Clair flips me suddenly, until I’m
face down against the couch, and then pulls my hips up to meet him.
He slams inside me again, even deeper this time, every thrust of his
incredible cock hitting me at a new angle, so good I can’t
form words anymore. I’m
moaning loudly, begging for more, thrusting wildly back against him,
totally possessed by this passion. He rides me hard and mercilessly,
an animal pace I’ve
never felt before, never even imagined. I can’t
hold back, not like this, he’s
demanding everything from me, and God, I need to give it all.

I
break apart in another orgasm, this time a thousand times more
powerful than the last.

“Grace,”
he
gasps.

Before
I can answer I feel St. Clair shudder against me, ecstasy slamming
through us both as we sink into each other’s
arms, totally spent.

Is
it possible to be too happy? A week of eating in the most delicious
restaurants of London with St. Clair, getting tables at places that
have two-month waiting lists and being treated like royalty; taking
long romantic strolls along the river Thames, and spending the night
enveloped in each other’s
bodies, I feel like I have contentment radiating from every pore.
After finally deciding to trust him, things feel perfect with St.
Clair.

I
have not yet left the bed where I have spent the last six mornings
opening my eyes and wondering if I’m
in a dream. This morning, the sun lights up St. Clair’s
bedroom and I watch my love, my lover, my hot as hell boyfriend as he
pulls a shirt on over his perfect chest. He already had his pants on
when I woke up, so I missed watching his cute naked butt walk around
the room, but I’ve
forgiven him since he brought me a steaming hot cup of coffee and the
newspaper. His thoughtfulness isn’t
new, but I feel like I’m
getting to know the real him now, no pretenses.

My
only worry is, what if he’s
having regrets about giving up his life of crime? Or what if a new
case comes along and, just like that, he can’t
stop himself from diving back in?

He
catches me staring and smiles. “Penny
for your thoughts?”

“Are
you sure?”
I
blurt out.

“That
you’re
the prettiest art consultant in London?”
he
says, coming over to me and kissing me on the lips. “Yes.”

I
could let it go, but I need the reassurance. “No,
I mean about…your
decision.”

He
laughs. “I
know, Grace, and yes, I’m
sure. Surer than sure, certain. Having you in my life is the most
important thing.”
He
lifts the covers and nods approvingly at my scantily clad body.
“Having
you in my bed is number two.”
He
kisses my forehead and then looks me in the eyes. “Okay?”

I
nod, feeling better. “Okay.”

“Don’t
forget you have to get ready, too,”
he
says. “Big
day ahead of us.”

Two
hours later, I walk arm-in-arm with St. Clair across a bright green
lawn. It’s
the Ascot Champion’s
Day event, the horse race of the year and apparently the high society
event of the season –
which
is why I’m
decked out in a cocktail dress and heels, which keep sinking into the
perfectly manicured lawns. Above the bleacher seating in the stands
are private viewing boxes, which is where we are headed, and rows of
chairs line the impeccably maintained grass below. The impeccably
maintained racetrack is lined with white metal railings, and I can
feel the excitement in the air.

I
thought I would feel overdressed, but this crowd is society all the
way. Royalty, even. St. Clair told me that royal family members often
attend this event and I’m
anxiously keeping my eyes peeled for her Highness or one of the
princes. Men in suits pass us and women in silk gowns and gloves that
go up past their elbows. I can’t
help feeling like Cinderella at the ball.

“Why
is this horse race so extravagant?”
I ask
St. Clair. “And
why are so many women wearing such giant hats?”

St.
Clair laughs.
“British
tradition is a weird and wonderful thing,”
he
explains. “I
guess it’s
just the way they’ve
always done things.”

We
enter the private box, already filling with plenty of St. Clair’s
finance colleagues who mill about with their wives and children. Even
the kids are wearing dresses and tights, the boys in little
seersucker suits with suspenders like Christopher Robin.

“This
is my girlfriend and very brilliant art consultant, Grace Bennett,”
St.
Clair introduces me, and I feel a glow at the words.

All
his associates are polite and gracious. “How
are you enjoying London?”
one asks, and another asks me what I thought of the new antiquities
exhibit at the British Museum.

“I
loved it,”
I gush and we talk art for five minutes before St. Clair comes back
to “steal
me away”
like
I’m
at the prom. With each conversation, each small gesture of approval
from St. Clair and his colleagues, I feel more and more like I
belong. The only way I’d
fit in better is if I were wearing a hat with a wide brim and a huge
lacy flower on the side.

“See
that horse, number 458?”
St.
Clair points to the track where the horses have started to
congregate. “That’s
the winner’s
prospect. His name is Buttercup,”
he
says and I laugh. “He’s
the fastest thoroughbred in the country.”

“It
just looks like a regular brown horse to me.”

“Well
you don’t
have the eye,”
St.
Clair teases.

I
give him a flirty smile.
“My
eye is for other things.”

“Like
quality art, I hear,”
says
a voice behind me and I see the expression on St. Clair’s
face shift to fury quicker than these horses can run a lap. “Hello
St. Clair, old friend.”

St.
Clair tenses. “Spencer
Crawford,” he
says with obvious disdain. “You
know we were never friends.”

I
turn. It’s
the same man we ran into at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago; the
same smug-faced, red-haired creep who swindled St. Clair’s
family out of their prized Armande painting. He just keeps turning
up, like a bad penny.

Crawford
booms out an obnoxious laugh. “Touché,
man. You got me there.”

“Sir?
Mr. Crawford, sir?”
A
timid young woman stands behind him holding a small dog, a large
laptop bag and clipboard weighing her down. She looks plain and
terrified, and definitely underdressed, so I’m
guessing this girl is his employee. Poor thing.

“What
is it, Natalie?”
he
snaps at her, not even turning around. The dog whimpers.

“You
have a new message from the Director of—”

“Shh!”
he
cuts her off. “How
many times have I told you not to give me my messages in public?”
he
scolds and the dog whines again. “And
shut that damn dog up!”

She
looks flustered, and pushes up her glasses. “But
sir—”

“Shut
it,” he
glares. “If
you can’t
do your job quietly, I’ll
find someone who can.”

Natalie
makes a whimper like the dog but doesn’t
say a word. I send her a sympathetic look, but she quickly looks
away, flushing red.

Crawford
turns back to St. Clair.
“You
running a horse today?”

St.
Clair shakes his head, his jaw tense.

“I
am,” Crawford
says. “Care
to make a friendly wager, despite us not being friends?”
He hacks out another awful laugh that makes me cringe.

St.
Clair smiles icily. “Not
with you.”

“Learning
from your father’s
mistakes, huh? I can respect that.”

It’s
a low blow, and I feel St. Clair tense up even more. I take his hand.
“I
could use a drink, Charles,”
I
tell him, ignoring Crawford. “Let’s
go.”

I
practically drag him away. He’s
got a look in his eyes like he wants to knock Crawford out, and
although I wouldn’t
blame him, that kind of attention is the last thing we need.

Once
we’re
clear, St. Clair lets out a breath. “I’m
sorry,” he
says, glaring back at where Crawford is berating his poor assistant.

“For
what? He’s
the asshole.”

St.
Clair gives a sharp laugh. “I
wish that’s
all he was. But he’s
cunning, too. It’s
how he gets ahead, finds his opponent’s
weakness, then uses it to get the upper hand.”

“Is
that what he did with your father?”
I
ask carefully.

St.
Clair nods. “Everyone
knows my father has a gambling problem. The gentlemen in town won’t
take his bets, but Crawford is no gentleman. He let him get deeper
and deeper into debt, until he went to desperate measures.”

“And
stole your mother’s
painting to pay it all off,”
I
finish, feeling a surge of anger.

St.
Clair collects himself. “It’s
in the past. Don’t
let him spoil our day. How about those drinks?”

“Sounds
great.” I
kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll
meet you at the bar. Restrooms?”

“That
way.” St.
Clair sends me off with a light tap on my ass.

I
find the luxurious bathrooms across the main marquee area, and splash
some water over my wrists to cool down. A couple of older women are
settled in on the silk settee, gossiping with gleeful expressions.
Snatches of their conversation drift over as I touch up my makeup.