Touch of a Thief (12 page)

In
his fevered imaginings of lovemaking with Viola Preston, he saw their bodies twined together, sweat-slick and aching. He dreamed of rutting her like a beast, slamming into her soft sweetness and hearing her beg him to do it harder. Faster. Deeper. He fancied they’d claw at each other as they strained toward completion, not caring if blood ran.

He never envisioned starting his ultimate seduction by brushing out her hair.

Once he got all the pins out, the shimmering auburn mantle fell in waves. “How many strokes?” he asked, picking up the boar-bristle brush.

“One hundred.” She perched cautiously on the vanity chair.

“One hundred it is.” Quinn pulled a stool behind her and settled his knees on either side of her hips. He followed each long stroke with his hand, smoothing her hair down every time.

He didn’t think he’d ever touched anything so soft. Finer than the finest silk, it smelled of citrus and rainwater and . . . her, a warm, womanly scent that was unmistakably her own. Spicy, sweet and musky at the same time.

He gathered her hair in one hand and ran the brush along the underside starting at her nape. It gave him a chance to graze his fingertips over that delicate skin. She shivered, but he knew she wasn’t cold.

The pulse point beneath her ear beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” he finally said, almost sorry to be done. “Now what?”

“I plait it so it won’t tangle in the night.” She reached around and quickly worked her hair into a thick braid, tying it off with a ribbon.

His chest constricted with the simple sweetness of the moment. He’d never figured himself for the domesticated type, but if a husband was regularly treated to the sight of his wife in various degrees of delightful deshabille, perhaps there was something to be said for the institution of marriage after all.

“Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

She gave him a searching look and amazingly enough, obeyed him. Quinn picked up her braid and teased the loose ends of her hair along her nape and hairline. Then he reached around her to trace it along the top of her bodice over the swell of her breasts.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes popped open and their gazes met in the mirror.

“Giving you pleasure,” he said, drawing the end of the plait from the hollow between her breasts up her neck to her chin. Gooseflesh pebbled her skin. “Don’t you like it?”

“It feels wonderful and . . . wicked,” she admitted. “But that’s beside the point.”

“No, pleasure is exactly the point.” He lowered his mouth to her neck and delivered a string of baby kisses up to her ear. His soft palate ached with the sweetness of her skin. When he took her lobe between his lips, she made a soft sound he recognized.

The sound of a woman caught in needy bliss. His cock throbbed in answer.

He worked the hooks marching down the back of her emerald gown. It parted to reveal her corset and the lacy edge of her all-in-one, two of the wicked, silky underthings he’d bought that afternoon. She thought he’d picked them out for her. When he’d insisted on the black lace confection, it was because
he
couldn’t wait to see how she’d look in it.

And out of it.

He pressed kisses on the exposed flesh as her gown fell away, feathering his lips over her shoulder blades and down her spine to the top of the corset.

Looking over her shoulder he met her gaze in the mirror again. She was holding the gown up in front, her lips softly parted.

He reached around and gave the gown a tug. She let the silk slip through her fingers and turned her head toward him.

Quinn took her mouth then. Not in a heated rush. Not with the animal need that clawed at him. He held that in check. He took her softly. Tenderly. So tenderly, he wondered at himself. She opened to him and his tongue swept in to claim her. She suckled him and chased his tongue back into his mouth. He reached around to cup a breast and she groaned.

He plunged his hand into her bodice, pushing back the stiff corset and lifting her breast to rest on the lip of fabric instead of being imprisoned behind it. Her nipple, taut and hard as one of the buttons on his uniform, fairly burned a hole in his palm. He toyed with it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger while she squirmed. When he gave her nipple a tug, she made urgent noises into his mouth.

He dropped to one knee beside her and covered her breast with kisses. He nuzzled the crease beneath her breast. He licked. He sucked. When he bit down softly on her taut nipple, she cried out.

Not with pain. With fierce joy.

She was so sweet. So perfect.

His hand found its way under the yards of silk, heading for the slit in the all-in-one. The modiste had assured him the racy new garment did away with the need to have a separate chemise and drawers. Less to remove was always a positive development in feminine fashion and the open crotch was pure genius.

God bless the French!
He couldn’t wait to touch her soft folds and luxuriate in her slick wetness.

But the wire cage that held out her skirts in the required shape stymied his approach.

“Damn fashion,” he growled as he stood and raised her to her feet. “What fool ever thought encasing a woman in wire was a good thing?”

She stood on tiptoe, kissing his frown away, her lips a balm on his brow. “Nothing worth having comes easily.”

Quinn drew the yards of her gown over her head, leaving her in only her crinoline, corset, and all-in-one. One breast was still exposed, the nipple drawn and tight. He covered it with his hand and squeezed. “You’re definitely worth having.”

He worked the drawstring that held the crinoline at her waist, but hopelessly fouled the knot. After a frustrating few moments, he pulled out his pen knife and cut the string.

“You’re not a very good lady’s maid, Quinn. You’ve just ruined my crinoline.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He yanked the wire contraption down to collapse at her feet. He was fast losing patience with drawing out the seduction. Now that the cage was gone, in a pinch, he could bend her over and enter her from behind with her fingers splayed on the Persian carpet.

He could see how it would be. Her lovely curved bum smiling at the ceiling, her pink slit glistening, trembling to receive him. He’d hold her hips steady and plunge into her in long hard strokes, teasing all the sensitive places inside her.

She’d whimper. She’d plead. She’d scream his name.

His cock cheered that line of thinking, but he wanted to make sure the first time with Viola was good for her. Bending a woman over and entering from behind was an approved position in the
Kama Sutra
, but the
Congress of the Cow
could be rough, brutal even, if a man didn’t control himself. Padmaa always cautioned that trust must be established before a man initiated that primal sexual position.

Judging from her small frown, he didn’t have Viola’s trust yet.

“I was very happy with that particular crinoline. How would you feel if I pop all the buttons from your shirt?” She peeled off his jacket and waistcoat and suited actions to words. Then she gasped. “Quinn, you’re not wearing any smallclothes.”

“Never under formal wear.” He grinned. “Neither did Brummel. Claimed it spoiled the line of his trousers.”

“So you’re a peacock at heart. I’d never have suspected.”

“Not a peacock.” He took her hand and guided it to the bulge in his trousers. “But definitely a cock.”

It was a risk. He knew he was large and might scare her. She might come to her senses and declare the little interlude over. He didn’t dare breathe.

Her eyes flared in surprise, but she smiled up at him. “You’re magnificent.”

He picked her up and twirled her around. She approved of that bit of him—more than approved, she admired him. He felt like a god.

When he set her lightly on her feet, she reached up and pulled his head down so she could kiss him. No missish coquetry from her. Viola was the sort to take what she wanted.

Why was he surprised? He should have expected that from a thief.

His belly jiggled in suppressed laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing . . . everything . . .” Quinn kissed her again, chasing her tongue, and nipping at her lips. He unhooked the front of her corset and let it fall while she tugged at the buttons over his hips to release the flap front of his trousers.

She plunged her hands into the front of his breeches.

Merciful God.

His balls drew up in a snug mound under her touch and his cock was primed to go off like a Roman candle. He started doing the geometry for cannon firing solutions in his head to keep from spilling his seed into her soft hands.

He slid his palms over her sweetly rounded belly, then moved downward. His fingers found the slit in the crotch of the all-in-one. She was wet and hot and slippery. While he kissed her, he nudged her legs farther apart so he could slip a finger into her yoni and massage her inner walls.

Her knees buckled.

“No, you don’t.” He picked her up and walked over to pin her to the nearest wall for support. “I won’t let you fall.”

But he couldn’t vouch the same for himself. Viola was a bottomless well. He was in serious danger of falling into her depths of endless delight.

Even knowing that, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing his way down the column of her throat. When he reached her breasts, he pushed the all-in-one off both shoulders and peeled the thin linen down her body.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze running over her. He suckled each breast while she ran her fingers through his hair. When he moved down to her navel, her hands rested on his shoulders, holding herself upright.

His kisses continued down her body as more flesh was exposed. He dropped to his knees before her. Her breath was thready, but she stepped out of the undergarment on her own steam.

“Quinn, you . . . you’re . . . not going to . . . oh!”

His tongue flicked across her slit. He parted her with his fingers and licked along each of her little valleys, savoring her musky sweetness. He nibbled her labia with his lips. He tongued her “little pearl” which had risen to be stroked.

She chanted his name as she braced herself against the wall. He couldn’t decide if she was pleading with him or cursing him.

She arched herself into his mouth.

Her legs began to tremble. He cupped her bum with one hand to steady her. A soft tremor began in the lips of her sex as he thumbed her pearl with his other hand. Her legs went rigid.

She came with a broken cry and a spasm that shook her whole body. He was on his feet, holding her upright with his body against hers, while he sheltered her sex with his palm. She pulsed into his hand.

When her waves subsided, Quinn stooped and hooked his elbows under her knees. She didn’t protest when he lifted her, her head lolling like a rag doll.

“Viola,” he said as he held her with the tip of his cock poised to enter her. “Viola.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, doe-eyed and languid. “Oh, Quinn. I never dreamed . . .”

As she palmed his cheeks and kissed him, he lowered her onto his lingam. Her insides molded around him, tight and welcoming at once.

“You’re so snug.” If she hadn’t told him about Beauchamp, he might not have realized she wasn’t a virgin until no telltale blood stained his cock. “Am I hurting you?”

“More.” She rocked against him, draping her arms around his shoulders. “Please, Quinn.”

He slid into her dark wetness and she expanded to receive him, her inner walls like hot velvet. She pulsed around him twice, aftershocks of her release. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from coming in answer. He wanted to savor her, to wallow in her scent, to wring every drop of pleasure from the encounter for both of them.

He began to move, slowly at first, drawing almost completely out, then sliding into her again, stopping short of pushing in up to the hilt. Their gazes locked in a connection as intimate as the one between their bodies. While his lingam thrust into her yoni, his soul was in danger of falling into her eyes.

Her breath shuddered when he sheathed himself in her deeply.

“Too much?”

She shook her head, panting shallowly. “More. Give. Me. More. All of you.”

A grunt of passion escaped his mouth.

If she knew . . . if she had any idea . . . she’d never want all of him. Some things were best left undisturbed, but he could give her all his body. He let himself drive in completely.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered.

A dam inside him burst and he lost the last shred of control. He began to plunge into her, thrusting hard. Her breasts jerked with each deep penetration. She pulled his head down between them.

All conscious thought fled and Quinn became a rutting beast, passion-blind, ruled only by driving need. She was so snug, so sweet, oh, God, so slick.

His balls clenched. Her breath came in short pants and she threw back her head, arcing in a second peak. She cried out his name as her inner walls spasmed.