The Theft (Thornton 2)

Partly because she understood the basis for his rage; partly because, in the end, she did recognize him after all.

And mostly because she loved him.

"You're not dangerous," she replied softly.

"No?" Ashford's eyes narrowed into fiery opalescent slits. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She never flinched from his gaze. "Very sure. You're not dangerous. You're frightened. Not for yourself, for me. You're also not used to losing control like this—which frightens you even more. I understand, Ashford." She leaned up, brushed her lips across his chin. "I was terrified for you, too."

A harsh groan tore from his chest, and his arms flexed, dropped to her shoulders, then down to her waist. He pulled her into his arms, lowered his head to devour her mouth with his. "God, if anything had happened to you…" He kissed her deeply, savagely, his tongue sweeping inside to mate with hers. He was shaking, the energy that had consumed him now transforming to something else, something Noelle recognized and yearned for as much as he.

"I'm fine." She twined her arms about his neck, pressed as close as she could, and met the hunger of his kisses with her own. "I'm here. You're here. It's over."

"No." He unfastened her mantle, let it drop to the floor. His mouth moved greedily down her throat, her neck, his entire body shuddering with an urgency that pulsed through him, coursed through them both, until it fill

ed every particle of space, pervaded every raw emotion. "It isn't over. Not yet. Not until this."

His mouth captured hers again, moving back and forth in relentless possession. He sought her tongue, her breath, lifting her higher and crushing her lower body to his.

Noelle's heart was slamming against her ribs, her head swimming with sensation. She realized, with whatever final vestiges of reason she possessed, that Ashford was cementing his decision, sealing his resolution with the entirety he'd promised her. And, oh, how she wanted that, wanted that with every fiber of her being.

He was all she'd professed him to be: decent and honorable; not guiltless, perhaps, but still the very finest of men. He'd stolen that painting, yes. But there was a reason for it. And whatever that reason was, he'd tell her—later. For now, all that mattered was that she was here with him, that they belonged together, and that this culmination was as right as dawn melding with day.

She needed to show him.

Brimming with emotion, Noelle threw herself into the moment. She met Ashford's desire with her own, caressing the nape of his neck, gliding her tongue into the warm recesses of his mouth, and telling him without words all she felt.

He understood. His groan vibrated through her, and the world tilted askew as he swept her into his arms, carried her down the hall and into his sitting room. He lowered her onto the settee, coming down over her and giving her his full weight as he continued devouring her mouth with his.

Had anything ever felt this good? Noelle wondered, wrapping her arms around his back. She doubted it. Nothing could feel this right, this wonderful, this unbearably erotic.

Pulses racing, Noelle lifted her hips, pressed herself against Ashford's rigid erection, intensifying the exquisite pressure building between them, their bodies separated only by frustrating layers of clothing.

"Noelle." Ashford muttered her name thickly, his hands balled into fists above her head, depressing the cushions as he nudged her thighs apart, settled himself between them. His mouth was traveling again, tasting her cheeks, the delicate line of her jaw, the pulse fluttering at her neck. "We need to talk. I have to explain…"

"You will. Later." She shook her head when he hesitated, met his burning gaze with her own. "I know all I need to for now. Ashford, please … don't stop."

A harsh growl escaped him, and he buried his lips in her throat. "I don't think I can."

"Good." Noelle arched her neck to give him free rein, and he took it, his hands shifting to drag her gown off her shoulders. His mouth moved lower, his lips devouring every inch of exposed skin leading to the upper slope of her breasts. His fingers worked frantically at the buttons of her gown, but his mouth, unable to wait, found her nipple, tugged at it through the muslin. He paused only to push the gown aside, resuming his heavenly torture with only the barrier of her chemise between them.

Even that was too much.

With a slight tearing sound, the fine linen gave, and Noelle felt a rush of air against her breasts—quickly replaced by Ashford's mouth, Ashford's hands. She dragged air into her lungs, wondering if she was going to die with pleasure, crying out as he worked his magic—stroking, tasting, circling her aching nipple with his tongue and drawing it rhythmically into his mouth.

God, she was going to die.

Frantically, Noelle reached up to yank at Ashford's coat, desperate to see him, touch him, learn him as he was her.

He raised himself onto his elbows, his eyes nearly black with desire, his breathing labored. Urgently, he stood, flinging his clothing off in hard, determined motions, his fingers hesitating, then halting, when they reached the buttons of his trousers. Relinquishing his task, he returned to Noelle, knelt over her.

"Why did you stop?" she whispered, sitting up, her eyes drinking in his hard masculine beauty.

"Because I'm already out of my mind. If I strip away that last barrier, I'll lose all control," he replied huskily.

"But it's not a last barrier. I'm still half-dressed." She reached out to touch him, to let her hands explore what her eyes had just feasted upon.

"Not for long. God, Noelle." Ashford expelled his breath in a rush, shuddering when her palms caressed his shoulders, his chest, gliding through the dark mat of hair, stroking his nipples and moving down to the taut planes of his abdomen. "You could convert a saint to a sinner."