Page 39 of Thief Taker

Duvall flinched, turning his face away too slowly to hide the flash of distress. “Unprofessional,” he repeated stiffly. “Yes, you’re right to remind me of our situations.” He closed his eyes, his fingers curling into a fist, and took a deep breath. “God blast it to hell.”

Then he was on his feet, pulling his damp shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor like a challenge. “A dry shirt then, Cole.”

It took a moment before Elias could tear his eyes away from Duvall’s brazenly naked chest, lean, muscled, and tanned like his face. There was an elegant sweep of collarbone and—Mary mother of God—initials inked over his heart. F.G. Elias’s mouth went dry, his blood sinking south so fast his head started spinning.

“Cole.” Kit’s blue eyes sparked in challenge. “A shirt.”

Bloody hell, was he angry? Typical bloody nob, thought he could get what he wanted just for the asking and didn’t like the word ‘no’.

Stalking over to the clothes he’d laid out, Elias grabbed the shirt and shoved it at Duvall without much grace. Then he folded his arms and watched as he pulled it over his head, jaw set and eyes adamant, struggling to tuck it into his breeches one-handed. “Allow me,” Elias said, and pushed his hand out of the way with some force. “Sir.”

Duvall glared. Elias glared back as he tucked the linen into his breeches, fingers dipping below the waistband and into dangerous territory. Duvall’s nose flared, lips pressed into a hard line, but he didn’t protest. “Waistcoat,” he snapped when Elias was done.

He obliged. Walking behind him, Elias slipped it over his shoulders and let his hands run down his arms as he did so. Duvall shivered beneath his touch, and it was all Elias could do not to press himself against the man’s back and give in to what Duvall wanted. What they both wanted.

“I don’t have all day, Cole,” Duvall growled.

Angry with desire, Elias manhandled him around and tugged the front of his waistcoat together, so hard Duvall had to take a step forward. Not breaking eye contact, Elias fastened the buttons by feel, reached for the neckcloth and looped it around Duvall’s neck. He tied a quick knot, tucked the ends under his waistcoat, and didn’t let go when he was done. He gave a slight tug—just a hint at what he could do—and it was enough to make Duvall’s eyes widen.

God, Elias wanted him. He wanted to rip off all those clothes and go to his knees. And sod the bloody consequences.

“Cufflinks,” Duvall said through gritted teeth.

“Sir.”

Elias fetched them, Duvall held out one cuff and then the other. When Elias fastened them, he made sure to slide his fingers over the soft skin on the inside of Duvall’s wrists.

This time, they both shivered.

In a strained voice, Duvall said, “My coat, if you will.”

“My pleasure.”

He held the coat as Duvall slipped into it, turned him around and ran his hands over the shoulders to ensure the fit was correct. Then he curled his fingers into the lapels and pulled hard, until they were flush together. Mouths close enough to kiss, he hissed, “Will that be all, sir?”

“I think that’s quite enough,” Duvall said faintly. Then he drew back, the sparking anger fading from his eyes and turning into something heavy. “What must you think of me?”

Elias had no time to even form an answer in his mind before Duvall pushed his hands away, stalked past him and out of the dressing room. A moment later, the bedroom door slammed shut.

Elias sank down onto the chair, legs shaky, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “What the devil are you playing at, Elias Cole?”

He had no answer for himself.

Chapter 13

Kit was in a black mood as he stalked along Chancery Lane towards Chichester Rents, where his solicitor had his offices.

He was furious—with his brother, with the world, but most of all with himself.

It would be unprofessional, sir.

Damn Cole for being right. And damn himself for misjudging the situation so badly. What had possessed him to make an advance like that? It had been a stupid risk.

But Cole had been standing so close, touching Kit’s face with such care, raising goose-skin on his arms as the blade slid carefully along the line of his jaw… The physicality of the moment had been excruciating. Overwhelming. The press of Cole’s knee against Kit’s thigh, the warmth of his breath against Kit’s lips…

Lord, was he so starved for touch that he’d lost his reason?

He ran a finger around his throat where Cole had tied the neckcloth a little too tight, remembered the flash of angry desire in his eyes as he’d curled his fingers into Kit’s coat and dragged him close. Close enough to kiss that beautiful, angry mouth. And, God, how Kit had wanted to do it.