She lifted her hips, and he initiated a slow, deep rhythm.
Raven moved with him, clinging to his shoulders as his powerful thrusts pushed her toward the headboard.
She kissed him, their tongues matching the movements of their lower bodies.
William trailed down to her breasts, grazing a nipple with his teeth before pulling it into his cool mouth. He began a strong, sucking motion, alternating with gentle licks that had Raven teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain.
Her fingers slid down his spine and along the firm curves of his backside. She clutched him, urging him into her again and again.
William would not speed. His pace was sure but slow, and breathtakingly deep.
“I want to drink you.” His expression grew dangerous.
She managed a nod as he surged forward and withdrew, again and again.
He shifted the angle, and Raven groaned, scratching at his lower back.
“It seems I’ve taken a tiger to bed.” He grinned wickedly.
Raven scratched harder, trying to force him to increase his pace. Her nails barely made an impression on his pale, impervious skin.
“Why hurry?” He gripped the hip above her uninjured leg, adjusting the angle so he could enter her more deeply. “We have hours to enjoy one another.”
She moaned at the suggestion. Surely she would explode into flames before a few more minutes elapsed.
He kissed her nose. “Relax.”
His mouth tasted her breasts. “Savor the sensations.”
“I need to come.” She arched her back and lifted her breasts.
“You deserve more.” He nipped across her chest. Then, with his mouth fastened on a nipple, he increased his pace.
Raven gripped his backside, pulling him into her.
He lifted his mouth to her neck, his tongue tasting the skin. He rolled the flesh in his mouth before using the edge of his teeth.
Raven murmured something that collapsed into a moan as William began to suck her neck.
Two more thrusts and she was climaxing, holding her breath as she gave herself over to pleasure.
William growled and bit her neck, his teeth penetrating her artery. He drew blood into his mouth in pace with her heartbeat, his lips fastened to her neck. All the while, he continued thrusting, as her body seized and contracted around him.
A third orgasm chased the second, and Raven drew an uneven breath as her body remained tightened.
William swallowed and lessened the suction at her neck, waiting for her to relax in the wane of her climax. When she began to soften, he withdrew his teeth.
She inhaled, arms flopping to the mattress.
The tip of his tongue made lazy circles against her wound. He fluttered his lips up and down her neck, as if he couldn’t bear to part from it.
“You didn’t,” she whispered, feeling lightheaded from the sudden blood loss.
“Not yet.” He slid down her body, making sure his chin scratched a line between her breasts and down to her belly button.
He pulled her legs open, his mouth hovering above the place where she still trembled. “I am in a mood to savor.”
He lowered his lips to the tender flesh.
Chapter Thirty
“IT ISN’T YOUR CASE.”
The voice of Batelli’s superior rang in his ears as he hurried across the Piazza della Signoria.
“Forget about the club.”
It was easy enough to discover the true owner of Teatro, the club he’d been forbidden to search. A Swiss corporation owned it. And although he couldn’t find out very much about the corporation, he took the fact that it was Swiss to be confirmation Teatro was somehow connected to William York.
When it came to the elusive Mr. York, all investigative roads led to Switzerland—all except for Raven Wood, who had mysteriously disappeared from Florence after a dead body turned up in her building.
The police investigating the murder had given the corpse to the FBI because the victim was American. The FBI had transferred it to Rome for an autopsy. They’d promised to share their findings with the Florentine police.
Batelli had read the police file, invoking a favor from a friend who had access to the documents. Raven Wood was a person of interest in the death, but so was her sister, who had also gone missing.
It seemed the murder investigation, like that of the robbery of the Uffizi, had stalled.
Batelli had forensic evidence, but he’d kept its existence out of the newspapers. He had a piece of parchment that presumably bore the handwriting of one of the thieves. The forensics team from Interpol had identified the writer as male, but they were puzzled by his style of handwriting. He used a very old, very out-of-date hand—one more in keeping with medieval manuscripts than contemporary European modes of writing. The letters seemed to have been penned with a quill.
The parchment, like the financial trail that led from a mysterious donation to the Uffizi back to a numbered Swiss bank account, was a piece of a much larger puzzle. Teatro was another piece.
For this reason, Batelli was eager to investigate the club. He’d learned of its existence from an anonymous source, but his supervisor had ordered him to abandon the investigation and he’d flatly refused to allow him to search the premises.
Batelli lit a cigarette as he stood several feet away from the Loggia dei Lanzi.
He knew better than to challenge his superiors. He was already a joke around the world—the detective who had no leads and no prospects relating to the greatest art heist in Uffizi history. It was a matter of pride as well as justice that he continue the investigation, even though his superiors had already assigned him to another case.