ItTakesaThief (2 page)

She pulled him down, shifting until his cock rested in her
slick folds. They pulsed as if to draw him inside her. Unable to wait a second
longer, he drove into her velvet heat.

He was buried to his balls, and her gasp of pain or surprise
stilled him. His own harsh gulps filled his ears until, finally quieting, he
heard her breathing steady. He began the ancient rhythm and she matched him,
withdrawal for withdrawal, lunge for lunge. He increased his pace, his breath
wheezing in and out like a locomotive on a steep uphill climb. Her eyelids
fluttered open, revealing exquisite pleasure as it built, higher and higher
until she climaxed again. Still pulsing around his cock, she moved with him.
Arching away when he withdrew, gliding up when his hips descended. The friction
was almost more than he could bear. Every thrust brought him closer and closer.
She shook her head, but her body betrayed her.

“Not again,” she pleaded. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. We will,” he promised, spewing into her
pulsing cunt. He yelled in triumph, then swallowed her scream of release.

“Look at me,” he demanded. She tossed her head and squeezed
her eyelids even tighter. He withdrew until he was barely inside her.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

“Then look at me.” She slit her eyes open. “Look at us.”

Propping himself on one elbow, he directed her gaze downward.
She gasped and tried to toss him aside. When he inched deeper, she stopped
struggling, sighed and arched her hips to take him completely into welcoming,
wet heat.

“I can’t,” she murmured even as her inner muscles began to
quiver once more. Her eyes widened as he rocked his hips, barely moving his
cock. “Oh my…I-I guess I can.”

“I know we can.” What little cum he had, he left in her. He
collapsed on her, panting. She sighed and nuzzled his neck.

“How do you feel?” he asked, brushing damp, silky tendrils
away from her flushed cheeks and forehead.

“I’m starving.”

Laughing, he stood with her still wrapped around him, her
arms wreathed around his neck, her legs around his waist. He got as far as the
bedroom door before her trembling aroused him again.

“Are you very hungry?” he demanded, losing himself in the
pools of her shimmering eyes.

“Ravenous.”

“Truly?”

“Can’t you feel how hungry I am?” she whispered just before
her lips claimed his and her body began again its sensuous, sinuous dance.

In spite of his efforts to remain inside her, his cock
slipped free. Covering his embarrassment with a laugh, he put her on her feet.
She sent him a smile as she took his hand, then led him back to the Jacuzzi.

“This seems like the perfect time to use the tub,” she said,
leaning over to fill the deep vessel.

“The lodge provides bath salts if you would like to use
them,” he said. Unable to resist, he stroked the firm globes of her buttocks,
arousing once more when she wiggled into his hands.

“You won’t mind smelling like perfume?”

“I can shower later.”

She eyed his recovering cock then turned off the bath water.
“We can both shower now, bathe later.”

In the small enclosure, Damian discovered she was ticklish.
She discovered that tickling his testicles had immediate benefits in renewing
his cock’s hardness. Lip-locked, they made their way to his bed.

“I want you to scream for me again. Now and again when you
come once more.”

She slid her hand down his chest to the thick, silky thatch
that surrounded his penis and balls. Laughing, she grasped his cock with her
fingers. It pulsed, enlarged until it throbbed against his belly like a living
scimitar.

“No wonder.” She expelled a sigh and touched her tongue to
the glistening head.

“No wonder what?” he ground out when she took him fully into
her mouth.

She laughed and seemed to choke on his fullness. “You taste
like a perfectly salted steak.” Lowering her head, she swallowed him. Her
tongue swirled around his cock head. Her fingers tickled his balls.

His mind went blank for a moment. Recovering his ability to
think, he said, “That is not what you were going to say. No wonder what?” he
repeated, pulling out with a pop that made her laugh harder.

A blush seeping up her chest, she buried her face in his
groin. Then, running her tongue up and down his length, she whispered, “Rub
my…rub me and…and…”

“Rub your clit while I fuck your juicy cunt.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that exactly, but—essentially that’s
what I meant.”

“Just as I thought.” He flipped her onto her back, teased
her legs apart and placed her hands between her spread thighs.

“Touch yourself. Show me yourself. Hold yourself open and
watch while I slide in and out of you and touch you…everywhere.
Dios
,
but I want you again. I want to taste you until you scream for me over and
over. But a promise is a promise.”

Inching into her slick channel, he watched her pupils dilate
until only a ring of green showed. Her breath alternated between deep sighs and
desperate-sounding gasps. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips
as her body joined his in the ancient, timeless dance.

“Yes,” she whispered, writhing against him as he deepened
his strokes. Her cunt muscles grasped his cock, clenched around it as he
withdrew, then clutched it tighter when he sank into her. “Faster. Yes, like that.
Oh god, yes. Yes, yes,
yes
.”

Her pulsing folds triggered his own release. Driving into
her, his balls slapped her soaked curls and his cum spurted deep inside her
liquid heat. Struggling for breath, he gathered her trembling body in his arms,
then rolled to his back. Like a living blanket, she went slack.

Her breath a murmur along his neck, she muttered, “Thank
you.”

He smiled, and his breaths matched hers as they drifted on
gentle waves of bliss.

* * * * *

They never did eat, he recalled when the late-morning light
streaming through his bedroom windows wakened him. With a satisfied smile, he
rolled to his side and reached for her. Somewhere deep inside himself he was
not surprised to find his bed, his arms, empty.

Was this payback for his wanting the perfect fantasy?

Because, for him, she had been just that—the beautiful
stranger, a night filled with the best sex he’d ever had in his life, the
painless parting.

Her leaving was more painful than he had imagined.

* * * * *

LAX SECURITY AT BANQUE DE MEDELLIN LEADS TO THEFT OF
PRICELESS ARITIFACT, one London newspaper headline screamed.

“Are you cold, Miss Carter? You’re shivering like a
Chihuahua.”

From her seat in a Queen Anne chair, Tiffany Carter smiled
up at Sarah Paddington, Sir James Foster’s formidable secretary and dogsbody.
“No, I’m fine, thanks. It’s quite pleasant in here.”

“I’ll leave you to your tabloids then. Just a few minutes
longer, Miss TC.”

The invariably cheerful and discreet Mrs. Paddington then
beckoned TC to a Chippendale sideboard—as far away, she noted, from Sir James’
office doors as they could get unless they left the room. On its marble top
rested a sterling silver tea service and Limoges china. A Chippendale shelf
unit, accented by a vaguely Rococo design, hung above it. A modern mirror
attached to the back of the unit allowed visitors a trisected view of the room
or their own faces. An upholstered side chair sat to one side.

Mrs. Pennington whispered, “This theft has everyone in a
dither. Even Interpol.” Matching her Wedgwood-blue suit, her blue eyes sparkled
with anticipation. Her silver curls quivered. “Two agents are in with his
lordship now.

“Are you sure you’re not cold? Your hands feel like ice. I
suppose it’s the fog. I haven’t seen a pea souper like this since we Londoners
stopped using coal for heat. Just the sight of it’s enough to chill a body to
her bones.”

“That must be it. I’ll just take a cup of tea back to my…to
the newspapers.” The teacup rattled in its saucer. TC separated them before she
spilled the entire contents on the ivory Aubusson carpet.

She resumed her seat in a corner duchesse chair where she
could see the entire room. With all its antique furnishings, TC suspected Sir
James’ reception area was intended to remind callers of how long Bijoux
Indemnity had been in business.

She didn’t intend to read, but another bold headline caught
her attention. She picked up the paper.

Expert Summoned. George Fox of Interpol, she read, stated
that the theft of Isabella’s Belt conformed with the modus operandi of an
international jewel thief well known to Interpol. Yes, his agency had called in
outside help—expert help. TC could almost hear the smugness in the agent’s
voice. The expert’s name? Mr. Fox was not at liberty to say.

Nothing more. No mention of when the artifact had been
reported missing or who had discovered it was gone.

She heard voices and somehow found the courage not to cower.
Still, she wasn’t ready to face an introduction to Interpol. Behind her
newspaper, she fought to maintain her composure. A small headline captured her
attention. Georges Cinq Theft—Precursor to Richer Pickings?

Distracting her, an unknown voice said, “Nice legs.” The
comment was met with a preoccupied grunt that made her grind her teeth, not
knowing if the remark or the grunt aggravated her more. She continued to hide
behind her paper until Mrs. Paddington announced that Sir James would see her.

Determined not to appear cowed, she stood and smoothed her
pencil-thin leather skirt over her hips and thighs. Damn it, she was innocent,
she told herself, raising her chin and stalking defiantly into Sir James’
office. She even managed to close the tall double doors with a polite,
virtually silent click.

Speaker’s Corner, that bastion of English free speech, was
just across Knightsbridge Road from Sir James’ offices. Despite not being able
to see the Corner through the thick fog, she gained a grain of courage just
knowing it was there. At Speaker’s Corner, anyone could say virtually anything
with impunity. She prayed that same impunity would extend to Sir James’ office
and to her.

With a tremulous sigh, part fear and part relief at being
with her mentor, she crossed the carpeted room to his side, but maintained her
silence. She would not let an apology convict her now.

“Tiffany, may I present Mr. Ian Soria? Mr. Soria, my
daughter-in-law Tiffany Carter-Foster.” Sir James Foster slanted an indolent
glance at the man standing near the windows, partly hidden by the drapes.

She felt the blood leave her brain, then return in a rush to
heat her face.
Merciful heavens, don’t let me faint
, she prayed, as her
nameless lover paced toward her like a great, dark cat.

Black sweater and slacks, black eyes now looking at her with
glee simmering in their fathomless depths. That dark gaze made a leisurely
stroll down her left arm and ended at her ring-less fingers.

“Tiffany has just returned from holiday in Austria,” Sir
James offered. “I had expected her to look more rested, but our Tiffany will
throw herself into things and damn the consequences.”

Would he give her away? Announce to her father-in-law just
how wholeheartedly she had thrown herself into having sex with a complete
stranger?

“Mr. Soria,” she said, surprised and grateful to sound her
normal self. Her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara Desert while her heart galloped
and thumped like a horse running at Ascot. What trick of Fate had brought him
here? Now?

“I hope you enjoyed your holiday,” Ian Soria said in a
gentle voice laced with an accent Tiffany couldn’t quite place. He took her icy
right hand—which she had not offered—and chaffed it between his two warm ones.
He didn’t even flinch, as if he’d expected her hand to be as cold as the Thames
in March.

She looked up at him and caught a brief flash of… Anger?
Spite? Hatred?

“I didn’t realize you were with a client,” TC said,
extricating her hand with more reluctance than she’d anticipated. She didn’t
like being touched, especially not by strangers. But Ian Soria’s warm grasp
made her feel safe and oddly cherished. And, obviously, she didn’t mind his
touch.

“I’m staying at the Savoy,” she said to Sir James. “Perhaps
we can have an early dinner when—”

“No, stay. Mr. Soria’s business is with you.”

The words, Sir James’ cool voice, struck her like a fist in
her belly. Ian Soria’s chuckle did little to dispel the feeling that prison lay
but a few short steps away. In the week since she’d left him in St. Anton,
she’d dreamed of meeting him again. But not like this, not with the theft of
the century hanging over her.

“In your capacity as appraiser,” Sir James added.

TC expelled a slow breath of relief.

“I shall call for you at seven, for an early dinner,” Ian
Soria said with a warm smile at odds with his imperious tone. He recaptured her
hand and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles.

About to make excuses, TC heeded the warning look in Sir
James’ gray eyes. “Seven,” she repeated.

The two men shook hands and then Ian Soria left. TC sank
into a chair.

“How was Paris?” Sir James asked just as she said, “Who is
Ian Soria?”

“Paris,” Sir James insisted.

“Cold,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and
tucking her icy hands into her armpits. The apology she’d rehearsed stuck in
her throat.

“A fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Tiffany,” he said just
when her resolve failed. He turned to face her, his expression grave, his gray
eyes the color of a winter dawn. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in a gray
Savile Row suit and a white shirt with French cuffs fastened by dark pewter
cufflinks. His tie was charcoal gray.

“I was incredibly, unforgivably stupid,” she blurted, hoping
he would at least hear her out before he clapped her in irons. Or let those
Interpol agents lead her away to prison.