Page 49 of The One-Night Heist

Again, the silence was thick, but I muscled through the discomfort of having possibly offended the Supervisory Special Agent, because Rowen deserved the recognition. He may have been the one in charge of me, but I was the one with the power in the current conversation.

Even if I’m sweating my way through it.

“Well, that’s interesting to hear…” Agent Lowry trailed off, as if checking her notes. “It was Agent Markel who presented the possible connection to me, so I’d assumed he came up with the idea.”

Of course he did.

I recalled a comment Rowen had made the night we met and realized I could not only kill two birds with one stone, but further prove to him that he could depend on me.

Even if he doesn’t see it that way.

Yet.

“Agent Markel seems to make a habit of taking credit for the ideas of others,” I smoothly replied. “In fact, I would like to request that he not be a part of the team working on my case. He has not… impressed me.”

That last line was a favorite of my mother’s, and even though it had been used on me a number of times over the years, I felt an odd sort of thrill utilizing it now—if only because I knew how much Rowen despised Markel.

Tiny rebellions, one by one.

“Of course, Mr. Luxford,” Agent Lowry repeated, more confident this time, and I ignored the guilt twisting in my guts, knowing I was wasting her and the field office’s time with my ruse of a heist.

It’s all for a good cause, Giancarlo.

We ended the conversation soon after that, and I hustled upstairs to prepare myself for my guest. It was only after I’d showered that I decided to be bold and wear the plug beneath my clothing. While the enema kit had been the steepest learning curve, the plug was the most invasive—physically, yes, but it was also an inescapable reminder of how badly I wanted to give this man a part of me no one else had ever touched before.

That I was squeezing in this illicit liaison in the hours before the most important press conference of my life did not even register as a bad decision, just as I had no regrets getting into bed—figuratively and literally—with Rowen in the first place. Barring the FBI itself coming between us, I had no intention of stopping whatever this was.

Or of ever letting him go.

I heard the elevator rumbling to a stop at the 31st floor just as I was deciding to not add a tie to the suit I’d put on—to unbutton my shirt a bit instead. Rowen’s eyes lit up as he stepped out into the hallway where I was eagerly waiting, confirming I’d made the right decision with my appearance.

“Hey, Moneybags,” he purred, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he closed in on his prey. “You wanted to play?”

Sixteen

Giancarlo

Judging by the hunger in his expression, Rowen had missed his “playtime” with me as well, which had me feeling both vindicated and triumphant.

Just as I thought.

“So this is your bedroom?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a response before walking me backward, using his proximity to herd me through the open doorway and deeper into the room, as if I wasn’t a couple inches taller and many pounds heavier than him.

I love it.

Rowen may have been smaller than me in height and build, but there was no question who was in charge here. It wasn’t a case of me allowing him to take charge—my body simply knew who it belonged to. Even stranger was that, despite how feeling powerless in other aspects of my life had infuriated me, giving up control in this instance blessed me with a freedom I hadn’t thought possible.

As if to demonstrate, Rowen shoved me onto the bed, smirking at the obvious erection tenting my dress pants when I landed. “Did you wash the sheets?”

I couldn’t help grinning at that question, knowing why he was asking—knowing exactly what it meant.

So, it wasn’t just “pillow talk” when he claimed me for himself.

“Yes,” I breathlessly replied as he climbed onto the bed after me and began roughly removing my shirt and undershirt, causing buttons to fly off in every direction. “And Ana won’t be sleeping here again.”

He paused at that statement, only for a moment, but his lack of eye contact was telling. “Too bad,” he airily stated, as if he hadn’t cared. “She smelled good.”

Such a brat.