The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (8 page)

“I’m
not sure I can wait that long.” He
kisses my ear lobe, plants lingering kisses on my neck, his lips warm
against my wet skin. “My
place is closer.” He
rubs his thumbs across my neckline, sending a shiver of longing that
spreads out and pools between my thighs.

I
try to keep it together. “Sounds
good.”

“Let’s
hail a cab.”

We
make out the whole way to St. Clair’s
apartment, steaming up the back windows of the cab like a couple of
teenagers. When the cab pulls up to the entrance, St. Clair throws a
couple of twenty pound notes down. “Keep
the change.”

He
hustles me inside, kissing me up against the wall before the door has
even closed behind us.

“You’re
all wet,” he
murmurs, caressing my breasts through my wet clingy dress and the
lace of my bra.

I
shiver against him, running my hands across his torso. I peel away
his shirt, stripping him down to his bare skin as I kiss along his
chest. I’m
so caught up in the moment, I’m
hardly able to stay on my feet. I should take a moment to calm down,
to think this through, but I don’t
want to.

I
want to lose myself in him and never come up for air.

St.
Clair takes my chin and tilts my face up toward his to claim my mouth
again, kissing me passionately. He reaches around to unzip my dress
and it slides to the floor. I let out a small moan, remembering the
last time he undressed me, the way his hot tongue traced the curves
of my body. I shudder in anticipation. He unclasps my bra and dips
his head to kiss my breasts. I moan again at the sensation, arching
against him, desperate for more. He teases my nipples, licking at
them until they’re
stiff with need, then taking each into his mouth in turn. He sucks
hard, and I cry out with pleasure, clinging to his broad shoulders to
keep from swooning to the floor. But I needn’t
worry – he
lifts me up then, sweeping me into his strong arms and carrying me
through the dark apartment to his bedroom.

St.
Clair sets me gently on the bed. I gaze up at him as he slowly peels
off my panties, and suddenly I’m
laying naked and spread before him. His eyes devour every inch of me
in the dark.

“God,
you’re
beautiful,” he
whispers, slowly undoing his belt and stripping off his pants. “I
could look at you forever.”

My
heart sings, but as much as his words are a gift, I need more from
him; not just more: everything. When he’s
naked, I pull him down to me, covering my body with his. The feel of
him, skin to skin, is incredible. I can hardly believe it. And then I
feel the hot length of him, hard and rigid against me.

Yes
.

I
lay back, spreading my thighs wider in welcome. “I
want you so much,” I
whisper, and St. Clair groans in answer. He reaches across to the
nightstand, and a moment later, settles between my hips. I feel his
fingers caress lightly between us, stroking my clit with perfect
pressure until I can’t
take the heat anymore. “
All
of you.” I
reach for him, so big and hard, and guide him toward me, ready and
waiting. “God,
Charles…”

He
enters me slowly, like he’s
savoring every inch of sensation. I press my head up against his
shoulders, it’s
such a rush. God, he feels so good.

“Grace,”
his voice is
strained, and his usually calm expression is replaced with pure need.
He rocks deeper, thrusting harder, filling me completely. I gasp and
dig my teeth into his shoulder, my nails into his back. I wrap my
legs around his torso as he plunges in and out, deeper and faster,
and I feel a swell of sweet fire building, the throbbing pressure
rising like a tide. He squeezes my ass, holding me in place, and
bites at my neck, groaning low in his throat. This is everything I
need.

My
hips rise to meet his and I throw my head back, reveling in the
sensation as his thrusts become quicker, harder, deeper, getting lost
in the hot build of our rhythm until the orgasm rips through me like
a tsunami, a beautiful wave of pure pleasure strong enough to drown
in. I feel St. Clair tense, and then his climax is ripped from him
too, and I hear him cry out my name as we both fall into the bliss.

I
wake up surrounded by soft sheets in a luxurious bed, feeling dazed
and disoriented, but content. I smell coffee before I open my eyes.
“Mmm,
that smells good,” I
say out loud, still sleepy.

“Hey
there, sleepy head.” St.
Clair kisses my cheek and I suddenly remember everything about last
night.

Everything
.

“Hey.”
I peek at the
man beside me, and can’t
help but smile. His sleep-tousled hair is sticking up adorably, and
his normally chiseled features seem softer, more relaxed. I want to
kiss him all over.

“Did
you sleep all right?” He
leans down just inches from my face like we’re
old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed.
He smiles. “I
slept
very
well, thanks to you.”

I
blush. “Me
too.” Better
than I’ve
slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t
just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more.
But it’s
too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s
the Joe?”

He
points at his chest. “I’m
Char-les, remember?” He
grins.

“Oh,
oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,”
I grin.
“These
British guys all look the same.”

“Well
then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,”
he says and
pulls me closer.

“Guess
so,” I
mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his
chest and it’s
then that I realize what it is about him: I’m
comfortable. It’s
stress-free to be with him, fun.

Careful,
Grace, what happened to keeping it professional?
Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s
apartment last night.

I
grin. “But
seriously, I smell coffee.”

He
shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You
Americans and your precious cups of joe.”

“What
about you?” I
tease. “You
better not tell your neighbors you’ve
defected from tea. They’ll
take away your citizenship.”

He
laughs again and I can’t
help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s
too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to
enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m
not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally
come true?

A
timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t
even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and
much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That
means your coffee has finished brewing.”
He squeezes
me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair
sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s
like he’s
trying to kill me with cuteness.

I
sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets.
We’re
on the second floor which I know because all I see out the
floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and
tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and
in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”

St.
Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.”
He tugs the
covers away. “Come
on, sleeping beauty. I’ll
make you breakfast.”

There’s
so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large
skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes
everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a
Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent
British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more
contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.

“Your
collection is incredible,” I
say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we
couldn’t
make it to last night—a
mere four feet away from the door—is
soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel
frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where
do you find the time to buy it all?”

“I
don’t.”
He rummages
through a cabinet next to the stove for a frying pan. He finds one
and twirls it in his hand as he turns to me. “That’s
why I need you.”

I
sit at the counter in a bar stool facing him and watch him as he
cooks. He’s
confident in the stainless-steel clad kitchen, cracking and beating
eggs, toasting bread, frying ham and a few tomato slices as I sip my
coffee. I try not to imagine how many other women he has cooked
breakfast for and just enjoy him doing it for me. And I mean, doing
it for me in every way possible, his white robe creating a triangle
of smooth chest I want to run my hands over, feeling the definition
of his muscles as I move my hands down his abs—

“So
I have a surprise for you,” St.
Clair says as he puts a plate in front of me.

“A
surprise?” A
little flurry of excitement flutters in my chest. “What
is it?”

He
chuckles. “Well
that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t
it?”

“Tell
me!”

“Let’s
eat and then we’ll
go.”

“Torturer,”
I say, eating
a bite of ham and eggs. It’s
good, of course. Everything St. Clair does is good. Could this man be
any more perfect?

St.
Clair doesn’t
take me far for my surprise, just a few minutes walk away. He turns
of off a bustling street with chic cafes and boutiques, and stops
outside a narrow townhouse. On the ground floor, there’s
a small dry cleaners. I’m
confused. “Is
there something you’re
trying to tell me?”
I joke.

He
laughs and pulls out a key that opens one of the doors. “Do
you trust me?”

I
look up into his deep blue eyes and feel it in my gut. I do trust
him. I have from the beginning.

“Grace?”
He looks
worried.

“What?”

“That
wasn’t
meant to be a trick question.”

“Right.”
I shake my
head. “Of
course I trust you!”

“Good.
I was beginning to worry there for a second.”
He unlocks
the door beside the dry cleaners and leads me up a flight of narrow
stairs. There’s
another door at the top, and this time after he unlocks it, St. Clair
stands aside. “Go
ahead,” he
grins, looking like he’s
the one about to get a gift.

I
slowly move past him, then stop in my tracks. It’s
an art studio. A dozen canvases of varying sizes line one wall, and
several easels are set up on the concrete floor that’s
splattered with paint drops and a large spill in some dark color. A
shelf against one wall is stocked with all kinds of paints: acrylics,
oils, watercolors, and brushes of all kinds and shapes. The studio is
filled with light from three windows near the ceiling, and an
industrial sink sits in the corner, lovingly stained by past artists.

“Is
this space connected to the college?”
I ask, still a little confused. “Are
we meeting the students?”

“Not
exactly,” he
says, grinning ear to ear. “This
is your surprise. It’s
for you.” He
gestures at the room.

“For
me?” I
echo dumbly.

“No,
for your art. So you can work, paint again.”
He gives a
bashful shrug. “Maybe
it will help you find your inspiration.”

I’m
speechless. “You
got this space for me?”

“Do
you like it?”

I’m
fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money.
He cares about me and my work. “How
can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?”
I whisper.

“I
want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.”
He smiles.
“Deal?’

“Deal,”
I say, my
heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands
trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our
tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s
electric as always, but there’s
more than heat, too; a deeper connection.

“Thank
you,” I
whisper when we pull apart.

He
kisses my forehead. “Thank
you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He
checks his watch. “Now,
I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you
like and see what creativity erupts.”

When
he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and
running my fingers along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t
believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about
passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about
creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.

Still,
I’m
nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I
pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in
random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t
even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the
windows, and I realize I’ve
had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before
there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair
to thank for that.

I’m
walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if
I don’t
paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put
brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my
street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St.
Clair. He’s
the man who seems to have everything, but I’m
sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything
he’s
done.

“Hello,
Miss Bennett.”

I
look up. A man is waiting, leaning against the railing in front of my
apartment. I recognize him as Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who’s
been investigating the art thefts back home in the States.

I’m
surprised to see him here. “Hi,
umm, is everything okay?”

“Just
dandy.” Nick
looks around. “Nice
neighborhood. Not bad for an auction house intern.”