Free The Gentleman Jewel Thief by Jessica Peterson

dreadful it had been, for both him and the women!
    He turned her away from him. Slowly, patiently, his fingers went to work at the satin buttons marching single file down her spine. He felt her tremble beneath his touch but she did not protest.
    He reached the last button and, loosening it, allowed the gown to fall from Lady Violet’s shoulders. It pooled around her feet in a sweet-scented tangle; she was left in her chemise. Gently he raised her right arm, then her left; but when he tried to pull the chemise over her head, she shook her head.
    Even a lady of vice has limits, he mused with a smile. He dropped the chemise back over her body.
    Pressing a kiss into her shoulder, he turned her back around to face him.
    Lady Violet stood very still against him. He could feel the prick of her hardened nipples pressing through his shirt. Her breasts pushed back against his chest, firm and insistent; from the feel of them they were generously sized, more than a handful each. Perfect, perfect, so goddamn
perfect
.
    He nearly groaned as he imagined taking one breast, then the other, in his mouth, imagined her feminine curves filling his hands, her moans of surrender when he brought her to the brink with his touch . . .
    He hovered above her, eyes wet with desire—a man completely transformed from the smooth, grinning devil of just a few moments before. She did not cower but rather stared at his naked passion in silent wonder, stunned by the force of his body, his desire.
    “Why can’t we both win?” he whispered in her ear. “Two thousand for you, and for me . . .”
    Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand from her waist to her buttocks. Fisting the fine fabric of her chemise in his palm, he pulled the fabric up, up, with his fingers, baring first her ankle, then her calf, then a delicious, milky white thigh. Finally his fingers found purchase in the soft skin of her backside.
    With the same care he slid his hand over her hip. She gasped as he cupped her sex in his palm, her curls soft and ticklish against his hardened skin.
    “And for me, this,” he said.
    “Lord Harclay.” She swallowed, voice hoarse. “You wouldn’t, not after losing—”
    “Oh, Lady Violet,” he murmured, “I would indeed.”
    He slid his first two fingers deeper, so that they rested on either side of her sex. With great gentleness he opened her; she sucked in her breath but did not protest. With his second finger, he stroked the insides of her smooth, hot skin. Despite her fighting words, she was very aroused; slick and hot and pulsing. He stroked a little deeper, found the center of her sex, that small, delicious bead of flesh.
    Lady Violet let out a breath. Her eyes flew wide, then fluttered shut altogether.
    “Please, Harclay,” she whispered, “please.”
    The words were more plea than command—what did she want? Please
yes
, please
no
? Perhaps, like all women, she wished for both.
    When Harclay looked her in the eye he saw lust, and champagne, and desire and sex and fear. In her hands she’d fisted the fine fabric of his shirt, as if she clung to him for dear life itself.
    “Please,”
Lady Violet repeated. Having a beat or two to compose herself, her voice was a bit steadier, her resolve stronger.
    Gently he slipped a finger inside her, watching her face all the while. Instinctively she tightened around him, urging his finger deeper. She felt small, hard with desire, and deliciously wet.
    Her eyes rolled back with pleasure as he began to move his fingers in tandem, one rolling the hood of her sex, the other deep inside her. Her hips circled against him, urging him to move faster, harder, and he obeyed. As she tightened further around him he slipped a second finger inside her.
    Violet’s eyes went wide but she did not protest. He stroked and he pulled and he touched until he thought he might explode himself. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers digging into his hair, pulling it as she came closer and closer to her