Page 47 of Fallen Rook

I snorted. “You sound like a homophobe who just realized he’s into dick.”

“More like a commitment-phobe who doesn’t appreciate being strong-armed into a relationship.”

“Relax.” I turned sideways, tucking one hand under my pillow with a smirk. “I already told you, I don’t want a relationship with you.”

I waited until he was out cold before slipping a tracking chip into the seam of the sweatpants I would offer him in the morning.

A relationship might be off the table…

But nobody said anything about good ol’ stalking.

Chapter Fifteen

Enzo

Tom Rothwell was a tortured man.

From the minute he fell under, it was a free fall all the way to the bottom of hell.

I watched him grind his teeth, thrust, and groan in his sleep, like he was fighting an invisible beast. He cried out the word no repeatedly, pleadingly, chokingly. A few times I thought about waking him up, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. He’d be embarrassed on top of exhausted, and he’d definitely run away.

He needed the rest. And I needed him in my bed.

It was fascinating, watching a man so rigorous, so put together, fight his demons in the dead of the night.

Something haunted him, and I wasn’t sure what it was, but it was clear he was at least as fucked-up as I was. Those expressions, those moans, told me whatever bothered him chased him into the darkness. Burrowed so deep into his soul, it was imprinted on it.

He woke up with a dissatisfied frown.

It was a good call I’d decided not to make him coffee. He’d probably accuse me of trying to impregnate him or some shit. I slouched beside him instead, messing with my phone, trying to act all nonchalant and unbothered. All in order to hide the supreme internal meltdown I was currently harboring.

I had a man in my bed.

A gorgeous, older man at that.

And if I had my way, he was never getting out of it.

His eyes snapped to mine, his scowl deepening as he realized he wasn’t in his mausoleum or wherever he usually slept.

“What’s the time?” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sitting upright.

“Six thirty.”

“I’m late.”

“For what?”

He didn’t answer, standing up and scanning the room alertly. “Can I get those clothes now?”

“Sure can. I folded them for you on the ottoman.” I gestured to the corner of the room. He stomped his way there, silently sliding into my bugged black sweatpants and Versace tee.

I watched him, realizing I knew nothing at all about Agent Rothwell—where he lived, what his hobbies were, his family situation—while he knew everything about me.

And it just wasn’t fair.

“Hey, sorry about your suit.” I cleared my throat.

And about putting surveillance on your ass.