The Theft (Thornton 2)

"Yes. All of which I resolved the other night at Markham."

"Not all." Noelle wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Ashford, I understand you better than you think. It was crucial for you to officially sever ties with your past, end things with one final theft. You now believe you can walk forward and never look back. Well, I'm not certain you can. Your commitment might be satisfied, but what about your restlessness? There's a certain thrill that arises from this kind of life; I felt it emanating from you tonight. Are you truly ready to give up that rush of excitement you feel when you outwit an undeserving scoundrel?"

"Definitely." Not the slightest hesitation marred Ashford's claim. "More than ready."

"But—"

"Noelle, listen to me." He drew her to him once again, threaded his fingers through her hair. "I'm not relinquishing anything. I'm simply trading one rush of excitement for another." His lips brushed each corner of her mouth. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing. And you, my darling, are all the excitement I want or need. Sometimes, in fact, you're more than I can handle. I nearly crumpled tonight when you leaped out of that rumble seat and I realized the danger you'd put yourself in."

Hearing the absolute certainty underlying his words, his tone, Noelle was besieged by joy. He meant it. He was sure.

He was hers.

Weak with relief, she smiled against his mouth. "Then I'll have to think of equally remarkable but more acceptable ways of offering you excitement—and of making you crumple." She slid her arms around his neck. "Any suggestions?"

Ashford rolled her onto her back. "Several." He bent to kiss the pulse at her neck. "We haven't finished our talk," he reminded her, his lips trailing down to the hollow between her breasts.

"We'll finish it tomorrow," Noelle managed, her body clamoring to life. "As I told you at Markham, conversations can be conducted in public, while other things cannot. So our talk can wait—" Her words ended on a moan, as Ashford shifted, drew her nipple into his mouth.

"My sentiments exactly," he murmured.

This time he lingered, tormented her slowly. His tongue swirled over the rosy peak, his lips tugging rhythmically until Noelle felt the tight knot of passion coiling inside her, faster and sharper than before, spiraling instantly out of control, hot and wild—even more unbearable now that her body knew the pleasure it was capable of experiencing.

Ashford felt it, too, because he made a rough, hungry sound, shifting to her other breast, torturing it with the same excruciating friction as he had the first, until she was writhing beneath him, her hips undulating with a will all their own. He then continued kissing his way down her body, holding her wriggling hips and wedging himself between her thighs.

He lifted them over his shoulders, muttering, "You're mine, Noelle," before his mouth closed over her, taking her in the most intimate of kisses, his tongue gliding over her swollen flesh—again and again, his lips surrounding and tugging at the tiny bud.

Shock waves of pleasure jolted through Noelle, and she screamed, arching frantically and, by doing so, deepening Ashford's presence in her body.

His tongue plunged inside her, his lips burned into the very core of her being, and she shook her head wildly, begging him to stop, then never to stop, the sensations too acute to withstand.

Ashford ignored her pleas, capturing her hands in his and holding them as he continued his sensual assault, his lips and tongue relentless as he drove her higher, higher still.

Her climax slammed through her without warning, the spasms so powerful, she couldn't scream, couldn't even breathe. Ashford rode them out with her, gripping her bottom and fusing his mouth to her heated flesh, sharing, tasting, savoring every exquisite spasm.

Finally, the pinnacle of sensation ebbed, and Noelle floated slowly back to earth—although she couldn't seem to steady her breath or still the tremors rippling through her.

Pressing gentle kisses up the insides of her thighs, Ashford crawled over her, a look of primitive possessiveness in his eyes. "Your taste, your scent—they're intoxicating. I'll never get enough of you."

A faint smile touched her lips. "I hope not."

"I know not." He kissed her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her chin, perceiving the magnitude of her exhaustion and, with a visible effort, squelching his own ardor. "Rest for a few minutes."

"No." She shook her head, reached up to caress his shoulders, the nape of his neck, her palms gliding down over his taut biceps. Every one of his muscles was rigid, rippling with tension, and his body radiated a fierce, unmistakable heat that, despite her innocence, Noelle recognized and knew just how to assuage. "I don't want to rest," she demurred, her thumbs teasing his nipples.

"Noelle, don't." He was shuddering, fiercely aroused, fighting for control.

"I heed that particular plea about as well as you do," she informed him, her fingers moving down his abdomen, then lower, finding and caressing his pulsing erection.

"God." Inadvertently, he thrust against her hand. "Sweetheart, don't. Don't." Another thrust. "You're sore. And I have to get you home. I…" His protest ended on a strangled groan.

"Not that sore. And no you don't. Not yet." She explored his masculine shape and texture, rigid yet so smooth, steel sheathed in satin. He was huge, damp, throbbing with his need for her. "You're magnificent," she whispered.

Ashford swo

re under his breath. "How much time do we have?" he muttered thickly, moving to increase the exquisite friction as her fingers curled around him.

"Chloe's window will be open until the first rays of dawn." Her fingers stroked his velvety tip, absorbed the droplets of fluid he couldn't suppress. "It's still quite dark outside. And the sun rises so late at this time of year. We have at least three hours."