Chapter 11
Eleven
Giancarlo
I woke up alone, but that wasn’t a surprise. After an oddly businesslike discussion at the penthouse’s dining room table, Rowen announced he “didn’t do sleepovers,” grabbed one of the monogrammed robes, and unceremoniously walked out the door.
He also raided the wet bar, I believe…
What shocked me more was that I had spent the night.
In the past, once my trysts were over, I generally called them a car, showered, and left soon after they did to head home.
It was a business transaction, nothing else, and there was no more need for me to sleep here afterwards than there would be for me to remain in the boardroom downstairs after a quarterly shareholder’s meeting.
The difference was that none of them had been Rowen, and the painfully obvious reason I’d stayed was because the entire bed smelled like him. Citrus and spice, an unexpected freshness disguising that hint of nicotine I normally despised, all combined with the heady, musky scent of sex.
I fucked Rowen Quincy last night.
Technically, he’d fucked me, and if I closed my eyes, I could still see the heavenly sheen of sweat on his freckled skin, the way his taut muscles flexed and his dick bobbed as he rode me almost angrily.
My own twitched beneath the blanket as I remembered how perfectly his ass had clenched around me, how frustrating it had been to not be able to touch him—to empty into a condom instead of filling his hole with my cum like I’d wanted to.
Like how he’d filled me…
While I could no longer taste him on my tongue, my throat was slightly raw, and the bite mark he’d left on my neck was sore to the touch.
I relished these physical reminders, especially since I’d been herded into the shower immediately afterward, as if I wouldn’t have remained bathed in him all night if given the choice.
I need to see him again.
As soon as possible.
Unfortunately, our post-sex discussion hadn’t included scheduling our next date.
Rowen kept us focused on the job with a cool efficiency I recognized well, because it was the same method I used while muscling through necessary social and business interactions when I’d rather be anywhere else.
His detached behavior had stung at first, but he’d been more than clear from the start about how wary he was to mix business with pleasure.
The last thing I wanted was for Rowen to regret the exception he’d made for me, so I’d matched his demeanor and focused on the heist at hand.
After comparing our calendars, we noticed we both had social events this coming Friday night—a charity gala for me and an outdoor concert for him that he’d already debated “ghosting” but now would dutifully show up for.
“It’s the perfect alibi,” he explained, the lips I was dying to kiss curling in a smirk. “The mailroom clerks from the field office invited me and they’ll be so wasted by the time the first song ends, they won’t notice if I disappear for the rest of the show.”
After that, we’d discussed my apartment’s security system—which was independent from the building’s—and how hiring an electrician to come over earlier that day would provide plausible deniability when it came to a strategically tripped breaker that would allow Rowen to avoid being caught on my cameras.
The building’s cameras were another story, but Rowen assured me he already knew how to access the service elevator and could handle avoiding detection from there.
It’s probably best not to ask how he knows that…
“I assume a power outage will activate a fail-secure response with your exterior doors instead of a fail-safe, right, Moneybags?” When I nodded, he’d added, “Okay, so I’ll need the keypad code for the staff entrance near the service elevator.”
I’d hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but of course, Rowen noticed.
“Giano…” He’d sighed heavily, rising from his chair and circling the table before gripping me by the chin—exactly as he’d done when I was on my knees for him. “Your dick was just in my ass, but you’re worried about handing over a security code?”
I’d already started drifting off into the strange calm his control brought me, but immediately snapped back to attention. “It’s not that! I-I don’t want my staff to get in trouble—”
“They won’t,” Rowen interrupted, calming me once again with how certain he sounded. “The Feds will question them, for sure—because it will look like an inside job—but as long as no one starts admitting things they haven’t done, they’ll be fine.”
My blood had run cold at that moment. “What about me? Won’t I also be questioned if they believe it’s an inside job?”
Rowen had scoffed, tilting my chin up as he leaned down, and for one foolish moment, I’d thought he might soothe me with a kiss.
“Baby…” he crooned, his breath tickling my lips, taunting me in every way. “You’re Giancarlo fucking Luxford and your lawyers are probably scary as hell. The FBI won’t ask you shit.”
After he’d left, I’d made a few phone calls and ordered room service before attempting to relax by watching a silly superhero movie, but it was futile. I was so on edge that every explosion on screen made me jump, and the worst part was that it had nothing to do with my incredibly illegal plans.
It was because Rowen wasn’t with me, and it was only thanks to a miracle, and wine from the wet bar, that I managed to drift off. I’d thought my nearly overwhelming desire would lessen after a night’s sleep, but waking up surrounded by his scent now had me hard and wanting all over again.
I suppose I should take care of this before I head home…
Unfortunately, it appeared Rowen had also helped himself to the “gold” lube I kept in the bedside drawer, although he’d kindly replaced it with a one-time-use packet of his own.
In… peach flavor.
With a laugh, I tossed the packet back into the drawer, determined to save it for the next time I brought Rowen here.
Because there will be a next time.
And I will figure out how to convince him to “do sleepovers.”
I had only just pulled my briefs over my flagging erection when my phone rang on the bedside table. For another foolish moment, I thought it might be Rowen, before reminding myself our only form of communication was supposed to be the encrypted text message app he’d installed for me.
When I saw who the caller was, I grinned, my mood immediately brightening.
“Hello, Ana…” I put the call on speaker while I pulled on the shirt I’d ironed last night as a distraction. “Where in the world are you?”
“I am standing in the lobby of your building, Gianechka,” my longtime friend cooed over the line in her slight Russian accent. “But Robert tells me you are not home…”
Shit.
Robert had been one of our doormen since shortly before my father died.
While some of the younger ones might have told my unexpected guest I was simply unavailable to protect my privacy, Robert knew Ana personally—had watched us both grow up in the building.
He wouldn’t dream of lying to either of us, and I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Woe to the man who tries to lie to Anastasia Bosco.
She was the daughter of a Russian oligarch and an American supermodel, and was one of the only other people on earth who knew I was gay.
She was a favorite “date” for my mother to set me up with, but after a particularly disastrous kiss, she’d asked—in her usual blunt way—if I wished she was a boy.
I’d confessed everything and she’d surprised me with an uncharacteristically warm hug before stating matter-of-factly that she was to be my “lavender wife” from that day forward.
Since then, I’d invited her to be my date at every gala and soiree I was expected to attend, including the one happening this Friday.
Sometimes she could join me, but more often than not, she was booked for an international photo shoot or premier runway event.
In those cases, I fulfilled my social duties alone, and since neither of us had ever been publicly tied to anyone else, the press simply assumed an ongoing, casual relationship between two independent heirs.
Which has been the perfect arrangement for both of us.
Until now…
“It is unlike you to spend the night elsewhere,” she murmured, humor lacing her tone. “Even when you’ve enjoyed an evening with someone from… the club.”
I should never have told her about the club.
The issue was that I also found it impossible to lie to Ana, but Rowen had stressed that telling even one person about our connection could doom the entire operation.
“Yes, I… was too tired after last night’s encounter to head home,” I haltingly explained. “But I can be there in fifteen minutes if you want coffee or—”
Ana snorted. “As much as I would love to squeeze the details of your encounter out of you over a double espresso from that glorious machine of yours, I must run to a fitting nearby. But count me in for the gala, Gianechka! You know I wouldn’t miss it.
Scott can pick me up in Chelsea at seven o’clock and then we’ll swing back here to get you…
Since I know Robert will want to see my outfit. ”
Robert confirmed as much in the background before we said our goodbyes. As soon as I hung up, the full weight of what I was planning with Rowen washed over me like a bucket of ice water.
There’s no turning back now.
While I knew I could call the whole thing off at any time between now and Friday, I wouldn’t. Not only was I desperate to sell Mother’s art for a small fortune of easily accessible funds, but now I needed to keep Rowen in my life for as long as humanly possible.
What if he takes the money I give him and runs afterward?
The idea—the probable reality—of that happening weighed heavily on me as my car headed uptown. Even Franz’s text message stating that not only were the photos of Mother’s art up on the Sotheby’s website, but that considerable buzz was already building, could snap me out of my dark mood.
“Good morning, Mr. Luxford,” Robert cheerfully called out as he held open the lobby door for me to stride past. “Ms. Bosco was looking well.”
I huffed a strained laugh. “We’ve both told you that you don’t need to be so formal with us, Robert.”
He made a noncommittal sound. “Yes, but… especially in your case, you are the head of the family now.”
I am, aren’t I?
My face must have shown the sheer panic I was feeling—the weight of generations of Luxfords before me—as Robert warmly chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Oh! I have a package for you. It was delivered via… Instacart this morning.”
Instacart?
I knew what it was, of course, but I’d never used the service myself. Anywhere I ordered from was usually bespoke and used a private courier service for deliveries.
Rowen would probably call that “snooty.”
“It’s from a Mr… Q?” Robert read off what appeared to be a handwritten note stapled to the side of a plastic Duane Reade bag.
“Oh, yes, I’ll take that, Robert, thank you!” I practically yanked the bag from his hands, manners be damned as I was terrified over what the bag might contain.
It could be anything, knowing Rowen.
That trepidation didn’t stop me from impatiently fidgeting in the elevator all the way up to the 29th floor. I nearly dropped my key fob at the door, but as soon as I was safely inside the private confines of my apartment, I tossed the Duane Reade bag onto the nearest surface and tore it open.
Another note fluttered out, and I snatched it up hungrily. It wasn’t in Rowen’s handwriting—I’d seen examples of that in our heist agreement the night of my art viewing party—but the message was clearly his.
“Helpful gifts for the best little Moneybags there is.”
Blowing out a slow breath—and ignoring the way my dick responded to his joking praise—I dug down into the bag, my brow furrowing as I pulled out prebiotic fiber supplement powder.
What in the world…?
Next was a small bottle of water-based lubricant, followed by a box with the words, “Douche Enema & Water Bottle System” in extremely large print on the side.
Oh, no…
Despite being completely alone, the slow realization of Rowen’s theme began to creep up on me and my face was burning by the time I reached inside for my final “gift.”
A bright teal, buzzing butt plug from a company called “Caked Up.”
Carefully setting everything aside, I sank down onto the chaise lounge and dropped my face into my hands. Then I laughed like I hadn’t laughed in a very long time, because only Rowen Quincy would send me an anal sex care package via Instacart.
Once I’d dried the tears from my eyes, I was even more determined to convince him to stick around after the job was done, off-shore bank account be damned.
For now, however, I simply pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened Signal before sending him an encrypted message, like the “good little Moneybags” I was.
Thank you for the gifts, Mr. Quincy.
Rowen didn’t reply, which didn’t surprise me in the least, but I still felt lighter than I had since he’d left the hotel room last night.
If that standoffish man was sending me these particular items—after declaring all parts of me belonged to him alone for the duration of this job—then this was a clear message even he couldn’t wiggle his way out of.
He wants to see me again.