Free A Thief in Venice by Tara Crescent Page A

every nerve ending in my body danced with pleasure.
    “Please,” I begged him. My wrists were uncomfortably bound behind my back, but that wasn’t what I cared for at the moment. “Take off the blindfold, Antonio, I want to see you.”
    “Gladly, little thief,” he muttered, and his fingers were on my head, and the blindfold came off. I blinked and looked into his eyes, and I wrapped my legs around him and drew him further into my body.
    “Ah fuck Lucia,” he groaned in response, and he started pounding. Deep and hard and fast. Taking me with utter disregard for my bound wrists. A disregard I shared, as I raised my hips to meet each thrust.
    I kept my eyes on his. His gaze never left mine. He thrust into me for what seemed like hours, and I groaned and arched and writhed and flailed and begged him for more. Finally, his eyes clenched shut, and his body stiffened. “Fuck, Lucia,” he groaned and grabbed my thighs as he thrust into me once more before he erupted in orgasm.
    Eventually, he stirred and took the condom off, knotting it and tossing it uncaringly over the side of the bed. “That was pretty selfish of me,” he muttered, referring to the fact that I hadn’t come. “Sorry. Come here, I’ll make it up to you.”
    “It doesn’t always have to balance out. You’ve made me come a whole lot more, if you are keeping count,” I said.
    He laughed. “I’m not keeping count.” His fingers were on the wrist cuffs, removing them, and then he pushed me so I was again lying face down. He straddled me at my waist, and he took each wrist in his hands, and kissed it softly, before massaging away the ache in my shoulders. I groaned in pleasure as his strong hands wandered over my body.
    “Antonio,” I whispered.
    “Hush,” he said. His fingers kneaded tight knots of stress that I didn’t even know I was carrying, until I was limp and relaxed.
    “Now,” his voice teased, “since you are all relaxed, let’s get you tensed up again, shall we?”
    He moved to the space between my legs. “Part them wider, sweetness,” he ordered. Four fingers slid into my pussy, and I groaned as my pussy stretched to accommodate the invasion. His other hand searched for and found my clitoris. His thumb rubbed over that tender, pulsing mass of need, steady strokes as his fingers pistoned in and out of my pussy, and I arched my back and begged and exploded in orgasm.
    My breathing slowly eased, and I nestled into Antonio’s body. “Thank you,” I whispered, and he smiled and kissed my lips softly. “Thanks are hardly necessary, sweetness.”

Chapter 18
    Lucia:
    Eventually, he carried me upstairs to his bed and set me down. I stretched and turned, and there it was – hanging on the wall of Antonio Moretti’s bedroom. My Madonna. I sucked in a harsh breath, and turned to him. He had a tiny smile playing about on his lips as he watched me.
    “Is that the real painting?” I asked bluntly.
    He nodded.
    “Cocky bastard, aren’t you?”
    He laughed aloud. “Don’t hold back, little thief,” he encouraged through the laughter. “Tell me what you really think.”
    I rolled over on the bed, and he slid next to me and pulled me into his body. We lay there, spooning like lovers, for a long time.
    “I’m going to steal it, you know,” I said finally.
    “I fully expect you to try, sweetness,” he replied. “But I don’t expect you to succeed.”
    I ignored that. “Good night, Antonio,” I said instead.
    He kissed my neck gently. “Good night, Lucia.”
    ***
    When I came back to my apartment the next day, my painting of Venice was back on my mantel. And a vase overflowing with wild flowers was on my coffee table.
    “You really are a cocky bastard, Antonio,” I said aloud. But there was a silly smile on my face as I said it.

Chapter 19
    Antonio:

And so we played. I put her painting back. She made another attempt at stealing the Madonna. A surprisingly good attempt, one we foiled more by dumb luck than any real