Read Online The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) by Stella London - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stella London
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pure pleasure strong enough to drown
in. I feel St. Clair tense, and then his climax is ripped from him
too, and I hear him cry out my name as we both fall into the bliss.
CHAPTER 8
I
wake up surrounded by soft sheets in a luxurious bed, feeling dazed
and disoriented, but content. I smell coffee before I open my eyes.
“Mmm,
that smells good,” I
say out loud, still sleepy.
“Hey
there, sleepy head.” St.
Clair kisses my cheek and I suddenly remember everything about last
night.
Everything .
“Hey.”
I peek at the
man beside me, and can’t
help but smile. His sleep-tousled hair is sticking up adorably, and
his normally chiseled features seem softer, more relaxed. I want to
kiss him all over.
“Did
you sleep all right?” He
leans down just inches from my face like we’re
old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed.
He smiles. “I
slept very well, thanks to you.”
I
blush. “Me
too.” Better
than I’ve
slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t
just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more.
But it’s
too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s
the Joe?”
He
points at his chest. “I’m
Char-les, remember?” He
grins.
“Oh,
oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,”
I grin.
“These
British guys all look the same.”
“Well
then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,”
he says and
pulls me closer.
“Guess
so,” I
mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his
chest and it’s
then that I realize what it is about him: I’m
comfortable. It’s
stress-free to be with him, fun.
Careful,
Grace, what happened to keeping it professional? Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s
apartment last night.
I
grin. “But
seriously, I smell coffee.”
He
shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You
Americans and your precious cups of joe.”
“What
about you?” I
tease. “You
better not tell your neighbors you’ve
defected from tea. They’ll
take away your citizenship.”
He
laughs again and I can’t
help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s
too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to
enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m
not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally
come true?
A
timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t
even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and
much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That
means your coffee has finished brewing.”
He squeezes
me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair
sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s
like he’s
trying to kill me with cuteness.
I
sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets.
We’re
on the second floor which I know because all I see out the
floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and
tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and
in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”
St.
Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.”
He tugs the
covers away. “Come
on, sleeping beauty. I’ll
make you breakfast.”
There’s
so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large
skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes
everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a
Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent
British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more
contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.
“Your
collection is incredible,” I
say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we
couldn’t
make it to last night—a
mere four feet away from the door—is
soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel
frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where
do you find the time to buy it all?”
“I
don’t.”
He
in. I feel St. Clair tense, and then his climax is ripped from him
too, and I hear him cry out my name as we both fall into the bliss.
CHAPTER 8
I
wake up surrounded by soft sheets in a luxurious bed, feeling dazed
and disoriented, but content. I smell coffee before I open my eyes.
“Mmm,
that smells good,” I
say out loud, still sleepy.
“Hey
there, sleepy head.” St.
Clair kisses my cheek and I suddenly remember everything about last
night.
Everything .
“Hey.”
I peek at the
man beside me, and can’t
help but smile. His sleep-tousled hair is sticking up adorably, and
his normally chiseled features seem softer, more relaxed. I want to
kiss him all over.
“Did
you sleep all right?” He
leans down just inches from my face like we’re
old lovers, rests his cheek in his hand, elbow propped up on the bed.
He smiles. “I
slept very well, thanks to you.”
I
blush. “Me
too.” Better
than I’ve
slept in months, actually. And it wasn’t
just the physical connection. With St. Clair I feel something more.
But it’s
too early to analyze my love life. I need coffee. “Where’s
the Joe?”
He
points at his chest. “I’m
Char-les, remember?” He
grins.
“Oh,
oops. I must have gotten in the wrong cab last night,”
I grin.
“These
British guys all look the same.”
“Well
then I guess I need to be in the wrong cab more often,”
he says and
pulls me closer.
“Guess
so,” I
mumble as he brushes his lips across mine. I happily snuggle into his
chest and it’s
then that I realize what it is about him: I’m
comfortable. It’s
stress-free to be with him, fun.
Careful,
Grace, what happened to keeping it professional? Guess I left it behind when I got in that cab to St. Clair’s
apartment last night.
I
grin. “But
seriously, I smell coffee.”
He
shakes his head, mock-disappointed. “You
Americans and your precious cups of joe.”
“What
about you?” I
tease. “You
better not tell your neighbors you’ve
defected from tea. They’ll
take away your citizenship.”
He
laughs again and I can’t
help but love how easy this is. Part of me worries it’s
too good to be true, but I tell that part to be quiet and leave me to
enjoy this moment in peace. How can I find true beauty if I’m
not willing to hope, to take a chance that fantasies do occasionally
come true?
A
timer dings from another room and I realize I haven’t
even seen the rest of the house, and the living room was dark and
much less interesting to look at than St. Clair last night. “That
means your coffee has finished brewing.”
He squeezes
me in a sweet lingering hug and then sits up, the back of his hair
sticking out like porcupine quills. It’s
like he’s
trying to kill me with cuteness.
I
sit up, too, finally seeing beyond the fluffy pillows and blankets.
We’re
on the second floor which I know because all I see out the
floor-to-ceiling windows across the room is light, and blue sky, and
tiled rooftops stretching for miles. A flock of birds shoots by and
in the distance a church bell chimes. “Gorgeous.”
St.
Clair stands up. He looks down at me with affection. “Indeed.”
He tugs the
covers away. “Come
on, sleeping beauty. I’ll
make you breakfast.”
There’s
so much glass in his condo, we might as well be outside. A large
skylight above and lots of windows let in natural light that makes
everything glow, the morning sun illuminating his many art pieces: a
Van Dyck, yet another Picasso. There are also some more recent
British artists in his collection here, a bit bolder, more
contemporary and freeform, but still amazing.
“Your
collection is incredible,” I
say as we pass through the living room to the kitchen. The couch we
couldn’t
make it to last night—a
mere four feet away from the door—is
soft taupe suede, the walls plain white, and a white wood mantel
frames a clean gas fireplace. “Where
do you find the time to buy it all?”
“I
don’t.”
He
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