Page 82 of The One-Night Heist

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT, GIANO, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!” he hollered, practically kicking me in the face with how he jumped. When I laughed, he grinned, displaying that perfect gap I couldn’t get enough of. “Well, don’t stop, my little stealth slut. Lick my boots until they shiiine.”

With pleasure.

I returned to my task, running my tongue over every inch of expensive, coffee-brown leather while willing myself to remain conscious.

This is bliss.

“Fine…” Rowen purred, finally relaxing as he carded his fingers through my hair, making me moan. “You wanna know what I did with your precious Poppy #5? I hung it over my pillow in my shitty little Chinatown apartment. I figured the placement would make it easier to jerk off to before I go to sleep every night.”

What I wouldn’t pay to see that…

I needed to steer the conversation in another direction before I came in my pants, so I lifted my head and sat back on my heels. “Why did you take it—really?”

Tell me the truth.

I’m begging…

He ran his thumb over my wet lips before licking his own. “Because I was jealous,” he whispered, his gaze still fixed on my mouth. “I think I might have been more jealous of that silly flower painting than I was of Anastasia fucking Bosco.”

You have nothing to be jealous of…

“When I first saw that painting in my mother’s Sotheby’s catalogue, it was like getting a glimpse of heaven,” I explained—tried to explain—cautiously edging closer. “I was certain I’d never want anything more in my life, and that’s been true… until now…”

As soon as I spoke the words, I knew I’d broken the spell, because Rowen reared back like I’d slapped him.

“No. Giano. You don’t want this. Trust me…”

Don’t. Tell. Me. What. I. Want.

Before he could continue lying to my face, I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, praying it would have the same subduing effect on him as it had at Mick’s, before resting my forehead against his.

“Stop running from me,” I growled, daring to move my lips closer still.

Please.

Rowen Quincy, master art thief, the most ridiculously cocky man I’d ever met, was shaking.

“I don’t know how to stop…” he replied, barely audible, so deliciously dazed as I finally brushed my lips over his.

You will.

Trust me.

Twenty-Seven

Rowen

I blamed Giancarlo’s magic sex potion cologne. There was no other explanation for how I’d turned to goddamn putty in his hands, for the way I’d melted against him as he made me promise not to run. For letting him kiss me.

For kissing him back…

I was doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing the man. We’d somehow both ended up on our feet, devouring each other’s mouths like we’d find oxygen in there to breathe, tearing off as many articles of clothing as possible while blindly stumbled toward the bedroom.

His bedroom.

Apparently, where I belong.

Now that I was finally tasting what I’d been—stubbornly, stupidly—denying myself for so long, I didn’t know how I could be expected to go back to treating this arrangement as “just business.”