The Art of Stealing Forever

by Stella London

  I gasp, thrusting up against his mouth. He pulls away and licks again, then settles between my thighs, lapping his tongue over my clit and moving his hand to tease at my slick entrance. I pant, needing more, and God, he answers as he plunges two fingers deep inside me.

  “Oh,” I pant, arching my back again. Charles, please. I want to scream, to beg him to fill me up, but he teases me by licking my clit so softly I feel like I’m going to explode with desire. Oh, Jesus Christ. I can feel my wetness spilling out in anticipation, and St. Clair’s lips are still brushing over me, the heat of his body hovering against my skin, his fingers probing, a little harder, a little faster, finding their rhythm, stroking deeper and sweeter…

  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 cli
pboard weighing her down. She looks plain and terrified, and definitely underdressed, so I’m guessing this girl is his employee. Poor thing.

  “What is it, Natalie?” he snaps at her, not even turning around. The dog whimpers.

  “You have a new message from the Director of—”

  “Shh!” he cuts her off. “How many times have I told you not to give me my messages in public?” he scolds and the dog whines again. “And shut that damn dog up!”

  She looks flustered, and pushes up her glasses. “But sir—”

  “Shut it,” he glares. “If you can’t do your job quietly, I’ll find someone who can.”

  Natalie makes a whimper like the dog but doesn’t say a word. I send her a sympathetic look, but she quickly looks away, flushing red.

  Crawford turns back to St. Clair. “You running a horse today?”

  St. Clair shakes his head, his jaw tense.

  “I am,” Crawford says. “Care to make a friendly wager, despite us not being friends?” He hacks out another awful laugh that makes me cringe.

  St. Clair smiles icily. “Not with you.”

  “Learning from your father’s mistakes, huh? I can respect that.”

  It’s a low blow, and I feel St. Clair tense up even more. I take his hand. “I could use a drink, Charles,” I tell him, ignoring Crawford. “Let’s go.”

  I practically drag him away. He’s got a look in his eyes like he wants to knock Crawford out, and although I wouldn’t blame him, that kind of attention is the last thing we need.

  Once we’re clear, St. Clair lets out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, glaring back at where Crawford is berating his poor assistant.

  “For what? He’s the asshole.”

  St. Clair gives a sharp laugh. “I wish that’s all he was. But he’s cunning, too. It’s how he gets ahead, finds his opponent’s weakness, then uses it to get the upper hand.”

  “Is that what he did with your father?” I ask carefully.

  St. Clair nods. “Everyone knows my father has a gambling problem. The gentlemen in town won’t take his bets, but Crawford is no gentleman. He let him get deeper and deeper into debt, until he went to desperate measures.”

  “And stole your mother’s painting to pay it all off,” I finish, feeling a surge of anger.

  St. Clair collects himself. “It’s in the past. Don’t let him spoil our day. How about those drinks?”

  “Sounds great.” I kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll meet you at the bar. Restrooms?”

  “That way.” St. Clair sends me off with a light tap on my ass.

  I find the luxurious bathrooms across the main marquee area, and splash some water over my wrists to cool down. A couple of older women are settled in on the silk settee, gossiping with gleeful expressions. Snatches of their conversation drift over as I touch up my makeup.

  “And did you see Muffy? I heard her youngest ran off with her Latin tutor…”

  “….Of course, she served the scallops practically raw…”

  “…all those funds, just vanished. Crawford’s got a lot to answer for.”

  Crawford? I perk up, and pay attention.

  “I’m just glad my husband had the sense to put our money in gold,” one woman declares, sounding smug. “You can’t trust the markets anymore. Do you think he’ll face charges?”

  The other woman laughs. “Of course not. It’s all perfectly legal, the investors knew the risk. He’s covered himself.”

  “Didn’t he buy that new pied-a-terre in Cannes the other month?”

  “And a yacht to match. Our Crawford will be just fine.”

  They finally look up and see me lurking there, so I quickly snap my purse shut and head back outside, pondering what I’ve just heard.

  I find St. Clair on the main balcony, with two glasses of champagne. “What happened with Crawford’s company?” I ask. “I heard people gossiping in the ladies’ room.”

  St. Clair scowls. “His investment company went bust. It’s a racket—thousands of people lost their pensions, their life savings, but Crawford and his partners won’t lose a dime.”

  “That’s so unfair!” I exclaim.

  “He’ll get away with it, unfortunately.” St. Clair looks downcast. “It’s the way the world works, especially for people like Crawford.”

  We walk back to the box, arriving just as the race gets started. I want to shoot daggers at Crawford’s sweaty back all day, but I’m distracted by the starting pistol. It’s exciting when the gun goes off and the horses jet out of their gates, legs pounding the ground in a fury of hooves, jockeys hunched intently over their saddles.

  Crawford cheers loudly for Thundercloud, his horse, as the thoroughbreds take the first curve. “Go go go go go go go gooooooooo!” he yells, pounding his fist on the ledge so hard he spills everyone’s drinks.

  The race is thrilling, horses inching ahead by their noses, small gasps from the audience, and intermittent cheers for certain horses, but it is much more subdued than American sports. Crawford would probably fit in better at a football game.

  The horses. They race down the final stretch of the track and for a moment, Thundercloud noses ahead, literally, and then Buttercup, the predicted winner, shoots up at the last second and crosses the ribbon first.

  Cheers erupt from the bleachers below, but Crawford’s loud booming “No! God damn it!” echoes off the walls and everyone turns to look at him. A few women fan their faces like they’ve been scandalized, but Crawford pays no mind. He storms off, his poor assistant and the dog trailing behind him like cartoon sidekicks. It would be funny if it wasn’t real life.

  St Clair and I mingle for a while longer. “You want a closer look at the horses?” he asks.

  “Can we?”

  “VIP all the way,” he winks, and takes me down to the paddock.

  Buttercup is surrounded by press and photographers, having his photo taken with an arch of roses draped around his neck and proud jockey and owner at his side. Buttercup looks almost as happy as his handlers, munching on alfalfa.

  Thundercloud, on the other hand, looks miserable. When I get to the stalls, leaving St. Clair to speak with some of his associates, I see the second place horse whinnying and pawing at the ground in his stall as Crawford yells at his jockey. I take a few steps back.

  “You tiny, worthless rider!” Crawford screams. “You’re about as useful as this horse.” Crawford looks at Thundercloud, a dappled bay, neighing and pacing in circles. “What? You think you deserve praise? Second place is still a loser!” He punches the door to his stall. Natalie and the jockey jump, and so do I. What an asshole.

  “Mr. Crawford, sir,” the jockey starts, but Crawford doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

  “You’re fired! And I want this horse shipped off to the knackers yard! I’m not paying for this thing anymore. What a waste of my time.”

  He kicks the stall again, and his dog starts barking, straining at his leash as if he can’t wait to get out of there. I sympathize.

  “This is a magnificent creature, Mr. Crawford. You can’t just—” The jockey tries to argue, but Crawford is relentless. “Dismissed! Get out of my sight before I ship you off, too.”

  Natalie looks like she has tears in her eyes but she keeps a straight face as the jockey storms off and Crawford looks at her. “You too!” he bellows.

  “Yes, sir,” she squeaks, starting to move away.

  “And shut up that damn dog!” he yells but the dog just barks more rapidly.

  Natalie trembles. “I don’t think he likes the horses—”

  Crawford swiftly kicks the dog in its ribs, lifting it off the ground with the force of his foot. The poor dog yelps and cowers around Natalie’s legs, shaking now, but it stops barking. “There,” he snorts. “Now go do your damn job before I have to fire you, too.”

  Natalie looks like she’s about to burst into sobs as Crawford stomps past her and out of the stables in a cloud of dust.

  I watch him go, overcome with rag
e. It’s not fair that men like Crawford can do whatever they want and get away with it. Where’s the justice for the lives he’s ruined?

  The anger is hot in my veins. I turn and go find St. Clair in the crowd, dragging him away from his friends and over to a quiet corner away from all the noise.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

  I nod, forcing myself to stay composed. “We need to make Crawford pay.”

  “How?” he asks.

  “You know how,” I say, steel in my voice.

  St. Clair looks surprised, and he’s momentarily speechless. “But Grace—”

  “I know what I asked of you, but I can’t stand it. The way he treats people, it’s not right. He deserves to pay for what he’s done. And you’re the only one who can hit him where it hurts.”

  St. Clair studies me, still uncertain. “I agree with what you’re saying. But Grace, you know, I’ve given all that up now. I really have.”

  “So we do it together.” I look at him, determined. “We steal that Armande painting back. That’s one less thing he’ll have to lord over someone.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, I wake up still determined to make Crawford pay for his wrongs, but St. Clair isn’t next to me in bed. I smell coffee and delicious bacon so I wander downstairs and find him in the kitchen, cooking me a feast.

  “What should we do today?” he asks as he pulls crisp waffles from a waffle iron and sets them on plates next to bacon and fresh fruit. “I was thinking a picnic in St. James Park, by the lake. We can relax in the sun, watch them feed the pelicans…what do you say?” He tops the waffles with sliced berries and whipped cream and hands me a plate. “It’ll be lovely, just like you.”

  I smile. He’s so sweet. “Mmm, that smells heavenly.” I take the plate from him and sip the coffee he’d already set out for me just the way I like it. “You’re spoiling me.”

  He grins. “Exactly my goal. Then you’ll never want to leave.”

  I take a bite and am awed again by how good a cook he is. “Maybe you should have gone into culinary arts,” I say and he laughs. We eat for a few minutes until I work up the courage to ask, “Have you thought any more about what I suggested last night?”