Free Touch of a Thief by Mia Marlowe Page A

movements were disjointed. It was clear she was too distracted by her own need to focus on the exercise.
    That was fine with him. He was happy to fan the flames till she erupted in a fireball. He leaned forward and used his mouth. Kissing her breasts. Licking. Sucking. Nipping.
    “I can’t . . . can’t do that to you at the same time,” she gasped.
    “That’s fine,” he murmured as he cupped both breasts and nuzzled between them. “We’ll take turns.”
    As if he’d play as fair as that.
    While he suckled her, he let his hand drift down over her belly. He teased her curls and smoothed his fingertips over the tender skin of her inner thigh.
    She drew a ragged breath.
    Then he explored her delicate folds. So slick and wet. Her “little pearl” had risen to be stroked and he found the nub of flesh easily.
    Her body jerked in surprise.
    “Don’t you like that?” he asked, all innocence as he circled the sensitive spot. Her mouth went slack.
    “Like it?” she gasped. “I may never let you stop.”
    As if he would.
    To his surprise, she put out her hand and searched blindly along his body, her fingertips skimming his belly, then grasping his erect penis. She wrapped her fingers around him and smoothed her palm over his length from root to tip. His balls clenched.
    She explored the head, and discovered the patch of rough skin at its base. His breath hissed over his teeth.
    “Like that, do you?” she asked slyly.
    “I may never let you stop.”
    A pearl of fluid formed at the tip and he feared he might lose control. Time for a shift in position to distract himself.
    He leaned over to kiss her lips again, lifting her at the waist and depositing her on his lap. She wrapped her legs around him and pressed her body from breast to groin against his. Soft and pliant, she was everything he imagined when he thought woman.
    His lingam stood upright between her wet folds. He matched her breath and felt her heart pounding between her legs, throbbing around him. If he didn’t want a fountain to erupt between them, he needed to enter her now.
    He lifted her again, positioning her above him so he could impale her by finger widths, drawing out their torment. The tip of him slid into her yoni. He narrowly restrained himself from driving in his full length in a single quick stroke.
    Before he could lower her onto himself, she lifted the blindfold and looked down at him. A cat’s smile played about her mouth. “Not until you tell me what happened at the lake,” she whispered. “I need to know who you are.”

     
    Quinn jerked awake. It was only a dream. She didn’t know anything. She couldn’t know. No one did.
    Except his father, may he rot in hell.
    Viola’s gentle breathing was undisturbed but his came in short pants. His cock was set to go off. Only a tug or two would do the trick.
    But self-gratification was a cheat, Padmaa had explained. A useful exercise in discovering one’s limits of control perhaps, but if one wished to experience the heights of the act of love, one needed to save one’s energy and seed for release with a partner.
    Quinn wondered if the Indian courtesan wasn’t in collusion with his vicar. The man constantly warned of blindness and other ills if young men “abused” themselves.
    “Delay brings delight,” Padmaa was fond of saying.
    Try telling that to my cock , he thought, grinding his teeth with frustration.
    Viola had meant it when she’d turned him down. She wouldn’t bed him unless he allowed her to ferret out his secrets. Quinn would be willing to tell Viola about his time at Eaton, his stint in the military, even his relationship with Padmaa, but how by all that was holy had she latched onto the one thing he’d never told another soul?
    No, his mind was playing tricks on him. That was only in his dream. Viola might have sensed his estrangement from Lord Kilmaine, his father the viscount, but he’d never let anything slip about the lake. Not to anyone.
    And he intended to keep it