Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Rowen
I woke up with a start, realizing to my horror that not only had I fallen asleep on Giano, I’d been drooling all over his leisurewear for God knew how long.
Just fucking perfect.
“Buona sera,” he murmured as the pilot continued babbling something over the intercom about the weather in Rome and how we’d be landing in one hour. “Sleep well?”
“Like shit,” I snapped, even though it had been the best sleep of my life. “Whatever your leisure suit is made out of irritated my skin.”
Those honey-brown eyes of his peered at his shoulder, and the incriminating wet spot on his soft-as-hell heather gray top, before meeting my gaze.
“You’re allergic to Egyptian cotton?” he deadpanned, raising a brow. “The hotel bedding may pose a problem then, but I can see about an alternative. Do you prefer a satin-lined coffin?”
Despite my stubborn desire to be pissed off, I laughed loudly, which only put me in a worse mood. That this billionaire—this bazillionaire who’d pulled all the sneaky strings to trap me in this situation—could make me enjoy his company during this kidnapping should be nothing short of illegal.
Thoroughly exposed, I immediately turned that smile upside down, but that didn’t stop Giano from dropping his gaze.
To my lips.
I would have needed to have my eyes closed in a pitch-black room to miss the way this man constantly stared at my mouth—hungrily, as if all he could think about was kissing me before devouring my soul from the inside out.
The worst part was that I occasionally caught myself thinking the same, despite not giving two shits about making out with whoever I slept with. Yet, here I was, seriously considering finding out how expensive Giancarlo Luxford’s lips felt against mine.
They certainly felt nice wrapped around my dick.
“Do I have something in my teeth?” I asked, just to be a jerk.
I knew I didn’t. I’d been up to use the lavatory—and snoop—a few times during the flight and had discovered not only individually wrapped natural wood toothbrushes, but pretty much anything a rich asshole could need in his fancy home away from home.
I’d also discovered this flying mansion came equipped with more food than I had in my entire kitchen, as evidenced by the carnage of movie marathon snacks surrounding us.
“Your teeth are perfect,” Giano surprised me with a reply to my combative question. “Especially the gap between the front two.”
I froze, unsure as always what to do with his undivided attention. Most people barely paid me any mind—unless I made them—and this ability to blend into the background had always served me well in my previous life.
Being noticed meant being caught. It was because I’d been stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime that the FBI coerced me into consulting for them in the first place. And it was because Giano had noticed how useful I could be that I was now being held captive on this plane.
All captive and cozy… watching movies and drooling on leisurewear…
And eating ass that tastes like it was wiped with hundred dollar bills.
“You’re weird, Luxford,” was what I finally said, hoping that would be the end of it.
Even though I kind of like the attention when it’s coming from him…
“So I’ve been told,” he sighed.
My opportunistic ears perked up at his defeated tone, but instead of squirreling away the intel as collateral as I normally would, I just felt… uncomfortable.
I blame the accidental cuddling.
Even I could admit it was more than that.
My geriatric bestie, Mrs. Winchester mentioned Giano had always been an “odd” child, and the way those closest to him—Franz, his driver, his doorman, Anastasia—treated him with disgustingly loving care confirmed there might be a good reason to protect this man at all costs.
Ugh.
This would be so much easier if I could just hate him.
A joke to make up for my insensitive words was on the tip of my tongue—along with an offer to stick my tongue in his ass again if that would help—but then, Giano stood from the enormous couch we’d been lounging on together.
“I should… get dressed before we land.”
Before I could reply, he’d hustled toward the back of the plane, leaving me alone with my conflicted emotions.
This is the worst.
Now all I could think about was how adorably attached he was to his silly little flower painting, while trying to unload an entire collection of priceless works of art.
Or how he genuinely laughed at my dark humor when most people gave me serious side-eye for the shit that came out of my mouth.
And I was really thinking about the way he sounded when he came for me, like whatever I was giving him was better than what he paid the big bucks for from his fancy sex club.
And then there was the way he’d responded to learning I was an orphan—not with pity or fake platitudes but with the exact observation I’d made countless times.
Class differences are mostly luck.
For a one-percenter to be the one to point that out was odd, but that was because Giano was weird.
And I really like his brand of weird.
It also wasn’t like I couldn’t relate to his situation at all.
Being an orphan meant I’d been an outcast since birth.
Even once I ended up with a foster family in my teens, it wasn’t because they actually wanted me.
I was a means to an end for a payout, and it was only once I started using everyone else around me in the same way they used me did I finally feel comfortable in my skin.
But that’s not how it works with him…
Before I could second guess my instincts, I stood and strode down the aisle after Giano.
When I reached the obscenely large walk-in closet, he was already dressed, and I had to restrain myself from dramatically clutching my chest like a simp.
His chocolate brown dress pants were more on the high-waisted side than usual—forcing me to restrain myself from gripping his snatched waist—with a camel-colored linen suit jacket over a crisp white dress shirt, no tie…
With the top few buttons undone.
And now I am undone.
“Ohhh… is this what you meant by sprezza-whatever?” I cooed, eye-fucking him exactly as he deserved. “Does that translate to slutty suit showing some skin?”
Giano glanced down at himself, all shy and blushing prettily. “Sprezzatura. It roughly translates to ‘studied nonchalance’ or ‘effortless grace,’ but both sound horribly pretentious…”
“Both are accurate though,” I butted in before realizing how that sounded. “I mean, the translations… not the pretentious part.” I sighed, wanting to be nice for once. “You look really good, Giano, and it suits you. Pun intended.”
To my immense relief, he cracked a smile—hopefully picking up that this was as close to an apology as I was capable of—but then his gaze drifted to the rest of the closet behind me.
“It would suit you as well, Rowen.” His gaze met mine again, apprehension stark on his face. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of having my stylist put together a few sprezzatura-inspired outfits for you too.”
Oh no, he didn’t.
I turned, horror movie slow, to find my monogrammed garment bag—with the matched luggage below—along with three more matching, monogrammed garment bags, no doubt stuffed full of clothing way above my pay grade.
Don’t look for a parachute.
When I’d snooped around earlier, I’d assumed everything aside from my 3-piece set belonged to Giano, but now I realized his luggage was a different color than mine—chestnut instead of navy—and clearly monogrammed with GTL.
The T probably stands for Thomas, after his father…
That I remembered this random piece of Giano trivia from The Andervelt incident was terrifying—even more terrifying than our almost matching, matched luggage all lined up together in the same closet.
Wait a minute…
“Giano…” I carefully began, genuinely wanting to know. “How exactly are you spending so much money on me when you supposedly need the funds from the sale of your mother’s art for… reasons…”
Reasons you won’t tell me.
“As mentioned,” he replied, just as carefully.
“The trust my mother left me allows for certain uses of those funds, with one being the upkeep of a public image. Since there isn’t any way to prove who I’m buying luggage or suits for…
” A devilish smirk tugged at his terrifyingly tempting lips.
“You said it yourself: We love malicious compliance in this house.”
We sure do!
We usually do…
The sugar daddy situation was still bothering me, but it wasn’t because I didn’t appreciate the attention, as squirrely as it made me. I wanted to understand Giano’s motivations—why he wanted to shower me with gifts at all but also what he needed to use the auction funds for.
I wish he would just tell—
“There’s a property I want to buy!” he blurted out, and I clutched my chest for real. “And I need to outbid the people already bidding on it. That’s… that’s all I can tell you, Rowen. I’m sorry…”
That this man was apologizing to me, after everything I’d done—that he trusted me when he absolutely did not have any reason to do so…
I am in so much trouble.
“It sounds like more malicious compliance is afoot,” I purred, stepping closer and sliding my hands under his sprezza-slut jacket and pulling him against me. “Can you at least tell me if the people we’ll be bidding against are rich assholes who deserve the karma?”
Giano groaned as our dicks rubbed against each other through our clothes. “Yes!” he breathily gasped, exactly like a sprezza-slut would. “They deserve the karma and we can deliver it together.”
Together…?
That’s when I realized I’d used the word “we,” but it was too late to take it back now. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to—not when Giano smelled so fucking good, and not when he whimpered so deliciously as I dragged my teeth over his neck.
He knows he’s mine…
Yes, I’d always considered myself a lone wolf, but there would be a certain kind of poetic justice to taking down shady billionaires with the help of one of their own.
Malicious compliance for life, baby!
The pilot’s voice sounded over the loudspeaker again, giving us the thirty-minute warning for landing and interrupting our moment, but it was probably for the best.
Enough of this cuddly cozy shit.
“Am I expected to change my clothes?” I haughtily asked as I forced myself to step away.
“Isn’t it like… eleven-thirty at night in Rome right now?
Why did you bother changing when we’re just getting off the private plane, getting into a private car, then checking into the hotel to get undressed all over again? ”
Hopefully together.
He smiled wryly. “Because I feel most comfortable presenting my carefully constructed public image, but… you can suit yourself, Rowen.”
It wasn’t until he’d walked away that I realized he’d thrown my pun right back at me, along with the much more terrifying, terrible realization that he’d meant it.
“Suit yourself.”
Giancarlo Luxford didn’t want to change me or put me in a box and throw away the key. He was legitimately okay with who I was, felonies and all, and for some unknown reason, felt completely comfortable taking on the world by my side.
Absolutely. Terrifying.