Page 36 of The One-Night Heist

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.

Twelve

Rowen

For as long as I could remember, I’d considered myself to be a lone wolf.

Even back when my foster siblings and I used to skip school and head to Times Square, making a game out of how many wallets we could steal by nightfall, I preferred to work alone.

While they teamed up with a bump and dip method to pick their pockets, playing the roles of busy New Yorkers maneuvering around lost tourists, I liked interacting with my marks. It was so much more satisfying to charm someone into trusting me only to take everything they valued and disappear into the wind.

To never let them touch the cup.

Even when I began working as a thief-for-hire, it was fairly standard to not make friends with your colleagues. Not only was it highly possible they’d turn on you to save their own skin, the dangerous nature of our jobs meant any one of us could end up in prison or dead, so it was better not to get attached.

And definitely better not to sleep with anyone involved…

I tipped back the shot of soda I’d asked the bartender to give me instead of vodka, playing the role of “fun, workplace friend pre-gaming with the boys,” all while being annoyed as fuck about the entire situation.

Just get the job done then get out, Rowen.

Dine and dash.

The problem was that Giancarlo Luxford had the most perfect dick, and not only could I not stop thinking about it, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he’d whimpered and begged, how he’d submitted to me without question, and the stupid message he’d sent after receiving my little prep kit Instacart delivery.

“Thank you for the gifts, Mr. Quincy.”

I wasn’t the least bit ashamed to admit I’d jerked off to that message—while leaving him on read, of course—but what I couldn’t forgive myself for was how I’d demanded we make our little fuck-buddy situationship exclusive while he was buried inside me.

Why the hell would I say that?