Epilogue #2
The begging was entirely genuine at this point. I was so far gone, I legitimately thought I might die if what I needed didn’t happen.
“I know you do, baby,” he cooed in my ear, nipping at my earlobe. “I’m gonna fill you up then plug you up, so you can feel what a slut you are for the rest of the night.”
Fuuuuck.
“Rowen…” I whimpered, feeling my balls draw up tight as I bounced in his lap, both of us chasing release with a wild desperation. “Please, kiss me.”
He turned my head until I was staring directly at Poppy #5. “After, baby. I want your eyes on your silly flower painting when you paint my sheets. I want you to think about me fucking you every time you look at it from now on.”
As if I wasn’t already.
“Yes… Mr…. Quincy,” I choked out, my words turning into a long, pathetic whine as I coated his hand and his bed with what felt like an endless stream of cum.
I kept my eyes on Poppy #5 as I spilled and shook, until the bright orange dots scattered across the dominant foreground blurred into a mesmerizing memory of love at first sight.
Rowen joined me a moment later, releasing an animalistic snarl as he buried his teeth into the crook of my neck, slamming into me one last time, pumping me full, and finally, finally, claiming me as his.
Even though I already was.
We both caught our breath for a moment before he gently lowered me back down to the mattress—mindful to avoid the wet spot—and slowly, carefully withdrew.
He can be sweet when he wants to be.
Instead of immediately reinserting the plug, Rowen traced my sensitive rim with his finger, making me whimper as he pushed the tip inside.
“I hate to break it to ya, Mr. Luxford, but your expensive hole is looking a helluva lot more Dollar Store at the moment.”
That had me erupting into laughter and rolling onto my back to better see the shit-eating grin I was obsessed with.
The one I hope to see every day for the rest of my life.
“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Quincy,” I replied. “But your hole is classified as expensive now too.”
That had his smile softening, as did mine when an adorable blush crept over his freckles. Even two months later, I’d insisted the black card stay in his possession and made it abundantly clear that everything that was mine was now his as well.
And hopefully, he picked up on the subtext of that declaration…
It was incredibly freeing to exist in Rowen Quincy’s presence—to no longer need to pretend to be anyone other than who I was—but being able to also openly shower him in affection, without the fear of him running from me?
Heaven.
It was slow going at times, but he’d been steadily lowering his walls as well. So when he leaned down to capture my lips for the sweetest kiss, while simultaneously sliding the plug back into my noticeably abused asshole, I knew he was doing so with the greatest affection.
“C’mon, Mr. Luxford, Let’s take a shower together then gorge ourselves on pizza.”
“Sounds like a plan, Mr. Quincy.”
The future Mr. Luxford.
I had no intention of asking Rowen to marry me—not yet anyway. Him moving in with me on the Upper East Side was only one step in the grand scheme of our epic partnership.
Which is now so much more than “just business.”
There was still a business aspect to our arrangement nowadays, but one that was totally legal and aboveboard.
From now on, Luxford Holdings would use the value of its existing properties as collateral loans to pay off the hardships faced by non-profit organizations like St. Anthony’s, allowing them extra time to get back on their feet and repay, with zero interest. Rowen was given the position of Grants Consultant—my man on the ground responsible for scouting and vetting those who truly needed the help.
Of course, he’d resisted at first—claimed “going straight” wasn’t for him—but then I pointed out how he would play a key role in deciding where the corporate money flowed, to ensure the have-nots could receive their equitable fair share.
Eat the rich.
With Stanley Monmouth and Abraham Divani taking the fall for my stolen art, their shares in Luxford Holdings were now up for grabs.
I informed the remaining shareholders that our days of ruthless corporate maneuvering were over, and they could either stand with me or be bought out and removed from the board altogether.
The subtext being: Anyone who stayed and stood against me would be made an example of.
Unsurprisingly, most shareholders chose the buyout—to slink away quietly—but some stayed, and I’d since filled quite a few vacancies with more community-minded individuals.
Some with sizable collateral of their own.
One of the new players had taken on a mostly honorary role after seeing me on the news and learning of St. Anthony’s plight.
Mrs. Robert A. Winchester had stepped in at the eleventh hour to purchase the orphanage outright and save it from foreclosure, which meant my entire scheme with Rowen—from the heist to the misadventures that followed—had been for nothing.
I still wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Because of my manners, I insisted on shouldering at least some of the financial burden, but old Mrs. Winchester had simply patted my arm and remained firm in her generous offer.
“Robert left me more money than I know what to do with, dear, especially with the time I have left. Why don’t you take the money from the Sotheby’s auction and start a new art collection?
Select pieces that better reflect what you and your red-headed sweetheart find beautiful.
Mr. Quincy of Fire Island, correct? Such a handsome and polite young man… ”
I’d been too stunned to speak in that moment—and didn't know where to start on her impression of Rowen—but as Mrs. Winchester continued, she proved how astute she was. “Oh, you think you’re the first man in our social circle to have a lavender wife, Giancarlo? Pshhh…”
With that, she’d tottered away, leaving me with a valuable art collection I no longer needed to sell.
Along with a trust fund I can now do with as I please.
Even though my family name had come out miraculously unscathed after the high-society “scandal,” I was no longer content to see Mother’s art disappear behind the closed doors of another Upper East Side residence.
In honor of Mrs. Winchester’s generosity, and my late father’s egalitarian dreams, I donated the entire collection to St. Anthony’s—as enrichment for the children—and then told Rowen we were going shopping.
His favorite thing.
“I think we need to fly your private plane back to Rome, Moneybags,” Rowen mumbled around a folded slice of pepperoni, briefly peering through the fire escape bars as someone loudly honked on the street below. “Get you a Bond villain watch of your own. It’s fancier.”
“My Calatrava is fine,” I assured him, grabbing another addicting garlic knot from the tinfoil “plate” we’d precariously created. “I don’t care about provenance or price tag. I just like beautiful things.”
Like you.
When Rowen simply pressed his lips together, allergic to compliments as always, I strategically switched gears. “Besides, I’d much rather continue art shopping for the apartment.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, but then changed his mind. “Sooo… back to Florence then? Get some inspiration from the Uffizi?”
“And visit your brother?” I teased, suspecting he’d wished he’d gotten more time with Mick before the proverbial shit hit the fan.
“Maybe we should bring your ‘brother’ with us,” he countered with a smirk before stealing a garlic knot of his own. “Play a little matchmaker?”
I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. While Franz and I had come to an understanding about my role in the heist since returning to New York, he hadn’t brought up Rowen’s foster brother—aside from occasionally grumbling about his missing favorite fedora—and I’d left him alone on the subject.
Involving him in our quest for new art had given him something else to focus on, but he still seemed uncharacteristically distracted, as if his mind were elsewhere.
Perhaps I should send Franz on his own vacation to Florence…
Purely to broker art, of course.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of the stolen Luxford Hotel bathrobe Rowen had given me to wear, to “stay cozy” while we enjoyed our feast. When I glanced at the screen, I saw it was Ana sending me photos of her and her new girlfriend traveling around Morocco during one of her rare breaks from modeling.
Since now my ex-lavender wife is free to be herself.