Page 67 of The One-Night Heist

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.