The Theft (Thornton 2)

Undeterred, Tempest blinked her huge dark eyes—the only sign that she'd heard her mistress's instruction. Then she relaxed her stance a bit, stretching out on the cushion, yet never closing her eyes nor averting her gaze from Ashford.

"She's reserving judgment," Ashford noted, shutting the door as completely as he dared, given Eric's proximity.

"I don't really think she'd claw you," Noelle clarified, watching Ashford's blatant bid for privacy, her flushed cheeks telling him that Tempest's reaction was the farthest thing from her mind.

"I'll take my chances." He couldn't wait another instant. Urgently, he drew Noelle into his arms, tilting back her head and covering her mouth with his. "Kiss me," he commanded.

Noelle said nothing, just wrapped her arms about his neck and did so—fervently—as desperate for him as he was for her.

Gathering handfuls of her hair, Ashford tangled his fingers in the silken strands, parting her lips and possessing her with his tongue, his breath. He molded her closer, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs as he reveled in all the wonders he'd missed: Noelle's taste, her softness, the exquisite way she trembled in his arms.

God, three days felt more like three years.

He groaned deep in his throat and, ignoring the voice of reason that screamed out its censure, disregarding the imprudence of timing and whereabouts, he gave in to the moment, sinking into the hypnotic spell that separated the two of them from the world and all its realities.

Of its own accord, his hand shifted to cover Noelle's breast, to savor its softness, its exquisitely rounded contours as they molded to his palm.

"Noelle." He breathed her name into her open mouth, swallowing her gasp of pleasure as his thumb found and circled her nipple, feeling it peak and harden beneath his touch. It wasn't enough, and he unfastened two buttons of her gown, slipping his hand inside, untying the ribbons of her chemise and delving beneath to find and cradle her warm, bare skin.

The contact was excruciatingly erotic—too erotic to resist.

Ashford shuddered, his palm caressing her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, then capturing it, rubbing it with shivering, heated strokes.

"Oh … Ashford." Noelle melted in a rush, rising on tiptoe and fitting her body to his, arching her breast more fully into his palm, straining to urge his hardened contours into her welcoming softness.

Live flames licked at his loins.

"God, I want to strip you naked and take you right here, right now," Ashford growled, gripping her bottom, lifting her higher against him, assuaging one ache and creating another. His body responded of its own volition, his hips jutting forward, pushing him deeper into the warm hollow that beckoned him through the intruding layers of clothing. He crushed her lower body to his, nearly shouting aloud at the gnawing hunger that now clawed at his loins.

"I want you, Noelle," he said hoarsely, burying his lips against her throat. "So much I can't think."

"I want you, too," she managed, struggling to get closer, to overcome the barrier of their clothes. "Ashe, I don't want to think. And I don't want to stop."

Stopping was fast becoming an impossibility—a fact that shattered its way through Ashford's passion-drugged mind.

"Dammit," he ground out. He threw back his head, forced himself to think rationally, to overcome the insanity that had possessed him the instant he took Noelle in his arms. "Sweetheart, your father's going to walk in any second. This can't happen—not here, not now."

"Then when?"

He lowered his head, met the wildness in her eyes. "Soon," he heard himself say. "As soon as possible."

Silence ensued, as the significance of Ashford's words sank in, shimmered through them both.

Then, slowly, tenderly, Ashford lowered his head, sealing his irrefutable message with a kiss—not a hungry kiss, but a slow, consuming one that branded her as his. When it was over, he remained silent, just readjusted her clothing before he leaned back against the wall, tucked Noelle's head beneath his chin, and clasped her against him until her trembling had ceased.

"We need to talk," Noelle whispered against his coat.

"I know we do."

"While you were away, I dreamed about us. About the night of the ball … about what happened in that anteroom." She leaned back, gazed up at him—all her emotions bared for him to see. "Ashford, I—"

"Sh-h-h." He kissed her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her parted lips. "I dreamed about us, too. I burned for you every night I was away. I'm burning for you now."

"Then why must I 'sh-h-h'? Why can't I tell you that I lo—?"

"Noelle—don't." He released her, turned away as frustration knotted his gut.

"Don't what?" she demanded, walking around to face him. "Don't describe my thoughts? Don't give voice to my feelings? Why, Ashford? Why can't I tell you what's in my heart?" An astute pause. "Is it because you can't tell me what's in yours? Is that what this is all about?"