“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.#p#分页标题#e#
“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.
He’d made copies of his file on the robbery, including the information on the parchment and the Swiss bank account. He’d transcribed his rough, handwritten notes, including his remarks on Raven Wood and William York, and her sister’s murdered fiancé. Although it was completely against protocol, he’d made arrangements to have the file delivered to a reporter at La Nazione, the local newspaper, should something malicious befall him.
Batelli was no fool. Although Agent Savola’s death had been attributed to Russian organized crime, Batelli’s gut told him the death was linked to the robbery. It was only right that he take precautions.