I break apart in a sudden rush of pleasure, but before the first waves of my climax have even rolled through me, St. Clair moves back up and cradles my face between his hands.
“Thank you,” he whispers softly, the hot length of his cock pressing against my aching pussy, just close enough to tease, to set me on edge.
“For what,” I ask, still dizzy, my belly coiled tight with need and anticipation.
“For loving me.”
He presses his lips to mine, and then thrusts deep, fuck, so deep, I do cry out this time, calling his name into the empty room as I feel him fill me all the way up.
God, he feels so good.
He moves slowly at first, steady and deep, until the fire is back in my bloodstream and I think I’ll die from the pleasure. I thrust against him, our hips joined, finding that incredible tempo of give and take, our bodies moving as one.
“More,” I gasp. “Harder.”
St. Clair groans against me, and then he’s fucking me faster, a relentless rhythm, but I’m matching every stroke. He pounds me deep into the couch cushions until there’s nothing but the damp slide of our bodies and fuck, the pressure building, so deep inside.
“Yes,” I moan into his mouth. My hands reach up to grab his ass, pulling him even deeper as he strokes into me. This is everything I wanted. “God, yes.”
St. Clair flips me suddenly, until I’m face down against the couch, and then pulls my hips up to meet him. He slams inside me again, even deeper this time, every thrust of his incredible cock hitting me at a new angle, so good I can’t form words anymore. I’m moaning loudly, begging for more, thrusting wildly back against him, totally possessed by this passion. He rides me hard and mercilessly, an animal pace I’ve never felt before, never even imagined. I can’t hold back, not like this, he’s demanding everything from me, and God, I need to give it all.
I break apart in another orgasm, this time a thousand times more powerful than the last.
“Grace,” he gasps.
Before I can answer I feel St. Clair shudder against me, ecstasy slamming through us both as we sink into each other’s arms, totally spent.
CHAPTER 5
Is it possible to be too happy? A week of eating in the most delicious restaurants of London with St. Clair, getting tables at places that have two-month waiting lists and being treated like royalty; taking long romantic strolls along the river Thames, and spending the night enveloped in each other’s bodies, I feel like I have contentment radiating from every pore. After finally deciding to trust him, things feel perfect with St. Clair.
I have not yet left the bed where I have spent the last six mornings opening my eyes and wondering if I’m in a dream. This morning, the sun lights up St. Clair’s bedroom and I watch my love, my lover, my hot as hell boyfriend as he pulls a shirt on over his perfect chest. He already had his pants on when I woke up, so I missed watching his cute naked butt walk around the room, but I’ve forgiven him since he brought me a steaming hot cup of coffee and the newspaper. His thoughtfulness isn’t new, but I feel like I’m getting to know the real him now, no pretenses.
My only worry is, what if he’s having regrets about giving up his life of crime? Or what if a new case comes along and, just like that, he can’t stop himself from diving back in?
He catches me staring and smiles. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Are you sure?” I blurt out.
“That you’re the prettiest art consultant in London?” he says, coming over to me and kissing me on the lips. “Yes.”
I could let it go, but I need the reassurance. “No, I mean about…your decision.”
He laughs. “I know, Grace, and yes, I’m sure. Surer than sure, certain. Having you in my life is the most important thing.” He lifts the covers and nods approvingly at my scantily clad body. “Having you in my bed is number two.” He kisses my forehead and then looks me in the eyes. “Okay?”
I nod, feeling better. “Okay.”
“Don’t forget you have to get ready, too,” he says. “Big day ahead of us.”
Two hours later, I walk arm-in-arm with St. Clair across a bright green lawn. It’s the Ascot Champion’s Day event, the horse race of the year and apparently the high society event of the season – which is why I’m decked out in a cocktail dress and heels, which keep sinking into the perfectly manicured lawns. Above the bleacher seating in the stands are private viewing boxes, which is where we are headed, and rows of chairs line the impeccably maintained grass below. The impeccably maintained racetrack is lined with white metal railings, and I can feel the excitement in the air.
I thought I would feel overdressed, but this crowd is society all the way. Royalty, even. St. Clair told me that royal family members often attend this event and I’m anxiously keeping my eyes peeled for her Highness or one of the princes. Men in suits pass us and women in silk gowns and gloves that go up past their elbows. I can’t help feeling like Cinderella at the ball.
“Why is this horse race so extravagant?” I ask St. Clair. “And why are so many women wearing such giant hats?”
St. Clair laughs. “British tradition is a weird and wonderful thing,” he explains. “I guess it’s just the way they’ve always done things.”
We enter the private box, already filling with plenty of St. Clair’s finance colleagues who mill about with their wives and children. Even the kids are wearing dresses and tights, the boys in little seersucker suits with suspenders like Christopher Robin.
“This is my girlfriend and very brilliant art consultant, Grace Bennett,” St. Clair introduces me, and I feel a glow at the words.
All his associates are polite and gracious. “How are you enjoying London?” one asks, and another asks me what I thought of the new antiquities exhibit at the British Museum.
“I loved it,” I gush and we talk art for five minutes before St. Clair comes back to “steal me away” like I’m at the prom. With each conversation, each small gesture of approval from St. Clair and his colleagues, I feel more and more like I belong. The only way I’d fit in better is if I were wearing a hat with a wide brim and a huge lacy flower on the side.
“See that horse, number 458?” St. Clair points to the track where the horses have started to congregate. “That’s the winner’s prospect. His name is Buttercup,” he says and I laugh. “He’s the fastest thoroughbred in the country.”
“It just looks like a regular brown horse to me.”
“Well you don’t have the eye,” St. Clair teases.
I give him a flirty smile. “My eye is for other things.”
“Like quality art, I hear,” says a voice behind me and I see the expression on St. Clair’s face shift to fury quicker than these horses can run a lap. “Hello St. Clair, old friend.”
St. Clair tenses. “Spencer Crawford,” he says with obvious disdain. “You know we were never friends.”
I turn. It’s the same man we ran into at the restaurant a couple of weeks ago; the same smug-faced, red-haired creep who swindled St. Clair’s family out of their prized Armande painting. He just keeps turning up, like a bad penny.
Crawford booms out an obnoxious laugh. “Touché, man. You got me there.”
“Sir? Mr. Crawford, sir?” A timid young woman stands behind him holding a small dog, a large laptop bag and clipboard weighing her down. She looks plain and terrified, and definitely underdressed, so I’m guessing this girl is his employee. Poor thing.