Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“I don’t,” I answer as I try to not focus on my rock-hard dick that is reaching uncomfortable levels in need of being satiated. “How do you know if you can trust me?”
“I don’t,” she nearly purrs as she lowers her lips to the same nipple she was circling and kisses.
She continues kissing, lower, and lower as she moves her body down mine. Every move she makes brushes against my cock, and I can’t help but groan as the heat from her lips only intensifies the need for more. Her mouth makes its way to the thatch of hair circling my dick, and she takes her time kissing all around.
Lifting her head, Valentina’s eyes lock with mine as she says, “I never trust anyone on a job.”
“Neither do I,” I say in a moan. I reach down and take hold of her hair, guiding her face to my cock. “But I’ll take my chances.”
Not giving her a choice, I pull her mouth to my cock, tightening my grasp of her hair. She doesn’t resist but rather parts her lips and allows my dick to enter. The wet heat, the tightness of her mouth around my thickness, and then how she swirls her tongue along the head of my dick nearly has me exploding immediately.
Valentina begins to bob her head up and down without my urging or guidance. She trails her tongue down my shaft, tightening her lips, and then licks all the way back up. The repeated act drives me closer and closer to the edge.
She cups my balls with her delicate fingers and pulls her mouth away just enough to ask, “You like it like this?”
“Fuck yeah,” I moan, my eyes closing as I struggle not to shoot my cum into her mouth. Although something about Valentina tells me she’d be just the right level of dirty girl to swallow every last drop of it.
“That’s good to know,” she says as she suddenly pulls my cock completely out of her mouth and hops off the bed before I can even process what she’s doing.
I open my eyes, lift my head to see why she’s getting up, and notice she’s lowering her dress over her ass rather than lifting it and removing it completely.
“What are you doing?” I ask. I lean over to the nightstand to grab another condom. “You have entirely too much clothing on.”
Valentina looks over her shoulder, gives a wink, and smiles. “I told you I needed to leave. I have things to do.” She makes her way to the door, looks back at me one last time and says, “And I want all my paintings back in my apartment by the end of the day.”
Chapter Fourteen
VALENTINA
After the third attempt, I finally get the false eyelash on exactly how I want it. I glance down at the time on my phone, pushing down the growing anxiety as it gets closer to my departure time.
To be fair, I’m always a bit nervous before a big job. After all, what I do for a living isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s hazardous—risky even—which is part of what I love about it. But if I’m even half-way honest with myself, I know I’m anxious about tonight for reasons that have less to do with the perilous job and more to do with the man I’m working on it with.
As I apply the finishing touches to my makeup, my mind wanders back to the last few unusual days. Atlas’s invitation to join him on tonight’s gala job had been so unexpected that I’d accepted without thinking through all of the implications working with him would bring.
My pulse races just thinking about the many hours we’ve spent together making arrangements. That he’d use our time together to try to get me back into his bed had been expected. What I hadn’t been prepared for was getting a masterclass on international art theft.
It wasn’t until I was lying in my own bed last night, reliving this week —alone—I finally had to admit to myself I’ve been wrong about Atlas. Oh, he’s definitely still an egotistical aristocratic billionaire, exactly like I had thought, but he’s proven to me he is also a consummate professional. Watching his preparation, the attention to detail, his sheer knowledge of art—both historical and modern—it was a peek into a part of him he rarely shows others.
For me, stealing paintings was a means to an end. It is more lucrative than boosting TVs and car stereos out on the streets of Boston and much safer than running ugly errands for the city’s worst crime families. Upgrading to snatching priceless art represented not only my own independence, but also sophistication, wealth, and class to me. Everything that Atlas embodies.
But I’d never really stopped to appreciate the artwork I steal on its own merit.