Stolen Hearts: An Axe Backwards Bonus Scene

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Chapter 1

Nico

Last September

This job is gonna be easy-fucking-peasy.

That isn’t a thing you’re supposed to think until the job’s done. First, because cockiness is a personality trait only unbearably annoying humans possess. Second, because over-confidence might make you miss something. 

But I’ve been a professional thief a long damn time. Fifteen years, as of my twenty-ninth birthday last month. I can look at a job and immediately know the score.

Federal Hill Fine Art is a tiny shop. And they clearly don’t recognize the Bierstadt for what it is. When I was in here yesterday, I saw they had the little framed landscape propped on a table by the glass checkout counter like candy at a bodega. Like some rich fuck might spot it as he hands over his credit card and impulsively say, “Oh, why not? Throw that one in my bag, too.”

Now that I’ve bypassed the alarms and cut the cameras, I have five whole minutes to snatch the piece off the table and leave. Then I’ll drive to Boston, drop the painting with Bertie the broker, collect my earnings, and probably still make it back to the Airbnb before my dumbass twin who’s busy fucking his woman’s brains out. 

As I reach for the painting, I can’t help but grin. It’s jobs like this that really make me enjoy my career, you know? Easy-fucking-p—

“Nice night, huh?”

I do not jump, in case you’re wondering. Because professional, as mentioned. Also because I recognize the deep, amused voice speaking from behind me. 

“Callahan.” I freeze in place and shut my eyes, profoundly annoyed. “What the fuck?”

“Alone, Gemelli? Where’s your shadow?” I hear his boots thunk against the wood floor as he moves in a wide circle around me, but I’m not foolish enough to think it’s because he’s big or clumsy. Rome Callahan is the size of a small planet, but the man can move. He’s making noise for my benefit, so he doesn’t spook me. Or maybe because he thinks it’s funny.

This fits, because Rome is a deeply unserious person.

“None of your damn business,” I tell him. But because his mocking tone pisses me right off, I can’t help but add, “We’re not conjoined, you know. Jules and I do things separately from time to time.”

“Priya probably appreciates that.”

I don’t ask how Rome knows about Julian’s girlfriend. The man’s the worst gossip I’ve ever met… after my own mother. 

“Too bad for me, though,” Rome muses. “Julian’s way nicer than you.”

I snort. This is true. “He’s also handy for helping to fend off assholes who try to steal my jobs.”

Rome completes his circle and comes to a stop directly in my line of sight, which means I have no choice but to look at him. At his ridiculous jaw with the tiny little scar under his chin. At his eyes, which look dark because the shop is dark, but are normally a lively green. At his grin, which makes me believe in magic since it practically forces me to smile back when I am not a smiley guy, ask anyone.

I scowl. “Who hired you? I didn’t think anyone else knew about the Bierstadt.” This gallery is way too small to have anything else worth taking, and I don’t believe in coincidences. 

“At the risk of quoting you,” Rome says, still smiling that stupid, annoying, terrible, perfect smile. “None of your damn business.”

The man is fucking infuriating. I think that’s patently obvious to anyone. Cocky people, as mentioned. He also has this deep, drawly rumble of a voice that’s a weapon. Underestimate me! it says. 

I’ve known Rome too long to be fooled—our parents are frenemies who insist on making us vacation together at thief-family summer-camp every year, for fuck’s sake. I know he’s not lazy or unintelligent, even if he is always after a laugh. 

But although I’ve known Rome half my life, it wasn’t until this past summer that I learned his voice has… other powers. Powers to make my dick hard against my will.

Powers that are working on me right now.

Fucking fuck, Nico. Stop this madness. 

It’s bad enough I spent most of family camp jerking off over this guy, and the rest of the summer fucking my way up and down the Eastern Seaboard attempting to scour his voice from my mind. 

I refuse to get hard during a job. 

“Doesn’t matter who you’re working for anyway. I’m doing work for Bertie,” I tell him sweetly. “So piss off.”

Bertie Simms looks like the Cryptkeeper on that old TV show, but the man is a powerhouse in professional circles. You don’t fuck with one of his jobs unless you wanna have problems.

“Meh. You don’t scare me, Gemelli. Never have.” Rome shoots me a teasing wink and lowers his voice an octave. “I love a challenge.”

My heart does this crazy dance in my chest and I swear I start swaying like he’s a snake charmer and I’m a very dazed boa. 

It’s unacceptable. It’s ridiculous. It’s… reprehensible, is what it is. 

I inhale sharply and lift the painting from the stand. Because some of us do take things seriously, and there’s no way I’m explaining to Bertie that I lost this score because I was hypnotized by a sexy voice. 

We both hear the click at the same time.

And I see what I should have seen two minutes ago. What I would have seen, if I hadn’t had my entire vision obscured by a pair of really muscly shoulders and a smoke bomb smile. 

The painting was on a pressure pad. A fail-safe alarm, in case someone as industrious as me bypassed all the main alarms and got close enough to lift it. As soon as the precise weight of the painting was removed, the shutters over the front windows began lowering with a motorized whir. 

This particular alarm locks down the building… and probably alerts Providence PD, too.  

I don’t have time to beat myself up too much before Rome grabs my jacket and hauls me toward the back room. The shutters on the front windows and door are already down, sealing off those potential exits. 

We’re not making the loading door—my entry point—either at this rate. 

Fuck!

Rome pushes me toward a service door he left propped open. 

“Down!” he commands. And with the painting cradled to my chest beneath my jacket, we slide under the grate just before it slams into place. 

I lay on the filthy asphalt of the alley and suck in cold, free alley air. Jesus Christ, that was way too close. 

“You good?” 

Rome doesn’t sound lazy anymore. He doesn’t sound smug or amused, either, which I’d lowkey expected. He sounds concerned. Like I’m someone’s incapable child. Like this is my first rodeo. Like fucking up this epically is my usual MO. He stands and reaches a hand down to me.

Have I mentioned he’s infuriating?

“I’m fine.” I scramble up by myself thank you, make sure the painting is secure, and fast-walk (never run, because I’m not an idiot) around the corner. 

Rome follows. “Gosh, Rome,” he says in a high-pitched sing-song that I guess is supposed to be an impression of me. “You really saved my fine ass back there. How can I ever thank you?” He clears his throat and says in a deep voice that’s supposed to be his, “Don’t mention it, Nico. Honor among thieves. Happy to help a friend out.”

My face is fire hot, but I manage not to say, “Tell me more about my ass.”

“I wouldn’t have needed help if you hadn’t distracted me,” I complain instead. “On my worst day, I’m still way better at this than you.” 

The asshole laughs and laughs. Positively doubles over with it. “Fuck, baby, you say the sexiest shit,” he manages to wheeze.

I have zero patience for his shenanigans. 

“Suck it, Callahan,” I say. Then without turning back, I walk my fine ass to my car.

I’m not proud of my performance this night. Of course not. 

I got distracted. I very nearly fucked up. Rookie-level shit. That’s not the level of professionalism I expect from myself.

Worse, I know that even hours (days, weeks) after the incident, my pulse will race every time I remember tonight, for reasons that have nothing to do with the danger. I’m particularly displeased with myself for that bullshit. 

But my parting words? Ten out of ten, no notes. 

I didn’t fall for his act. I didn’t fall on his dick. I put cocky, infuriating Rome Callahan in his place. 

And now I won’t have to see him until next summer, at camp, by which time I will have gotten over this… whatever the fuck.

Watch. It. Happen.

Chapter 2

Rome

The following January

I let myself into Dick’s EZ Pawn, which is located in a rundown neighborhood south of Hartford. It’s just after midnight and it’s January, which means it’s fucking freezing outside, but fortunately the whole entrance operation only took about fourteen seconds. A minute and a half, if you count the walk from my car. 

On the one hand, this security setup of Dick’s is just adorable. Quaint, my little brother would call it. A legit security grate, a couple deadbolts, a Beware of Dog sign in the window, and an alarm from Radio Shack circa 1987. It’s like one of those living history museums where people churn butter… but specifically for thieves. 

On the other hand, the crap security means there’s no way there’s anything worth stealing in this place. Not for a professional of a certain caliber anyway. Not unless they have a thing for crusty old golf clubs or an old karaoke machine emblazoned with a sticker that says DJ Righteous.

As far as I know, Nico doesn’t have a dust kink… which begs the question why he’s currently crouched behind the counter, pawing through the jewelry case. 

I lean against a display of musical instruments and sigh. “Why the fuck are we here?” 

Nico barely pauses in his rummage. “I don’t know why you’re here, Callahan,” he says, all purse-lipped and uptight and cranky. “Just like I didn’t know why you showed up at the Corsini job, or the Key Biscayne job, or the one at that fucking Italian castle.” His dark eyes—strong and bitter as espresso, and twice as hot—flick up to mine. “But I am working.”

It’s not fair how sexy the man is. Really, it isn’t. 

Every time he gets all haughty and tells me to fuck off, my heart pounds. When he gets smart-mouthed and bitchy—like after the Corsini job, which was a total clusterfuck Nico rightly opted to scrap at the last minute—my dick inflates. And don’t even get me started on how fired up I get when the guy challenges me directly. 

Hngh. 

No lie, it makes me wonder if my brothers aren’t wrong when they tease that I was dropped on my head as an infant. Legitimately, who finds this sexy?

“Don’t just stand there like an enormous stalkery lump of asshole,” Nico complains. “Come be a useful lump of asshole and help me look.”

Me. The answer is me. I find it sexy. 

So sexy, I can’t even argue about the stalker thing because… well, Nico’s not wrong. 

It’s like this: my family earned a huge score about seven years ago, and most of them stopped working as professionals. My parents are getting older. My brother Sinclair’s focused on his kids and playing with his tech toys. Merry developed a conscience, which sucks for him, so he’s all about his kick-ass photography career now. 

Since they quit the game, I’ve mostly been working with my buddy Devon, which… isn’t my favorite. Devon’s nice enough, and if he spent as much time working on his skills as he does fantasizing about white whale heists, he might be able to keep up with me… but he doesn’t, so he can’t. 

I still have a shit ton of money in various accounts from back in the day, and since I’m a simple man—more beer-and-restored-Chevies than champagne-and-Bugattis—it could conceivably last the rest of my life. I don’t need to work. I keep a hand in here and there, because a man needs something to fill his days, but the passion I felt for the work is dwindling.

Or at least it was…

Until I happened to be working the same job as Nico at that gallery in Providence last fall, and he’d nearly gotten caught. He’d been snarky and gorgeous, and it hit me like a two-by-four to the skull. Then he’d challenged me, and well… that was that. I was already teetering precariously on the edge of… something… and that challenge on his puffy lips, the snap in his eyes as he uttered it? That was the shove that pushed me over the edge. Game over. 

I am down bad for the guy.

But Nico is… let’s call it prickly. So I can’t just say, “Nico, I wanna take you on a date” or even, “Yo, Gemelli, let’s fuck.” Not if I like my cock and balls located exactly where they are… and it goes without saying that I do.

So I’d decided to sorta… slow roll the hookup. 

Soft launch the fucking, if you will. 

Get him used to the idea of me being around as something other than a competitor or his parents’ frenemies’ kid, then make my move… the specifics of which are still TBD because sometimes you just have to go with it. 

I’d approached him like I would a job: I’d done some intel. I’d asked around. I’d figured out what jobs Nico was working on, to sorta get the lay of the land. And that had led to me coincidentally showing up while he was working a time or two… or, fine, seven… in the last six months. 

It’s not a big deal. I mean, sure, I probably could’ve learned a whole language, if I’d invested that amount of time in my Duolingo Spanish. But the damn owl doesn’t look nearly as hot when he bends over and his jeans pull tight against his ass. 

I clear my throat as I join Nico behind the counter. He has this distinctive spicy vanilla smell that makes my gut tighten. “What are we looking for?”

“A woman’s engagement ring. Gold band with a diamond on each side and a peridot in the center.”

I pull out my flashlight and run the beam over the case beside the one he’s searching. There are racks on racks of dusty velvet ring holders fucking packed with jewelry. “What kind of carat weight are we talking?”

“Dunno exactly. Half a carat, total, probably.”

I stop and look at him. “Who the fuck’s this job for? Unless Bertie’s deteriorating faster than I thought, there is no way he took a commission for this. Not at your rates.”

Nico’s jaw tightens and I can see the indecision on his face as he tries to decide whether to lie. Finally, he blows out a breath. “It’s not a job. It’s… it’s personal, okay? The woman is… someone I know. It’s an engagement ring—”

“You got engaged? To a woman?” I demand. 

Don’t ask me why I’m so horrified. Just… something doesn’t sit right about me lusting over—and, yes, lightly stalking—a man who’s involved with someone else. 

It really doesn’t sit right thinking Nico is involved with someone else.

Nico’s whole frame relaxes when he laughs. “Are you serious? I’m gay, Rome.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” I blurt without thinking. 

He laughs harder, and it lingers around his plush mouth even when he sobers. “My auntie Lucretia’s friend’s house got robbed last month. I made some inquiries and heard her jewelry ended up here. Including the engagement ring the lady’s dead husband gave her. But Dick is holding it all hostage. Told the police he didn’t have it. And since I can’t get them any official proof to the contrary, I needed to take matters into my own hands.” He shrugs. 

Whatever I expected Nico to say, it wasn’t that. And the whole story delights me for reasons I don’t want to think about too hard. 

“Aw! This is your good deed for the year! You’re such a…” sweetheart, I want to say. 

But Nico’s giving me a look that fucking drips with poison and, again, I really enjoy my junk right where it is. It’d be a shame to lose it before Nico even got to see it. 

“… such a good, competent professional thief?” I finish hopefully. 

He rolls his eyes. “Keep looking, Callahan. Half this shit’s unlabeled, and I swear the other half’s labeled wrong.”

We work together side by side and it’s… I dunno how to describe it. 

This work is boring as fuck, obviously. Tedious, or it should be. But every once in a while I come across something funny—a bracelet that looks like a tiger eating its own ass, a ring with a hidden compartment presumably for cyanide pills—and I point it out to him, just to hear him laugh or hide his smile as he tells me to “be so fucking serious for once, Callahan.” 

It’s weirdly satisfying. Not the usual thrill of a job, but like… deeper or something.

And even more weird is how it feels when I notice Nico’s mounting frustration. He’s really invested in this thing that he’s not even getting paid for. He genuinely gives a shit about getting this lady back her ring. 

It’s not that I didn’t know Nico cared deeply about things. I mean, I’ve been to family camp with him. I’ve seen him literally sprain a finger trying to hold on to the Callahan Key when the Gemellis managed to nab it a few years ago and my grandfather tried to nab it back. 

But this is different. Softer. Not competition but… care.

It confirms what I’ve long suspected: Nico Gemelli has a squishy-soft core beneath his hard shell and his prickles. A place a man could curl up with a sigh and rest there comfortably forever… assuming he could crack his way in.

Fortunately, some of us are really, really skilled at breaking and entering. 

Also, it’s worth noting that as we search, Nico’s shoulder keeps bumping mine and I keep smelling spicy vanilla. I don’t hate that part of this either. 

In fact, I’m liking it a little too much.

“You keep going here,” I say, needing a minute to adjust myself. “Betcha there’s a safe in the back or whatever.”

“Yeah, okay.” His eyes hold mine for a beat and he grits out a rusty (but sincere!), “Thanks, Callahan.”

I manage to give him a normal-ish smile in return, even though my heart’s two-stepping gleefully.

I search the safe thoroughly, and it takes a while because it’s more of the same—a dozen trays of mislabeled jewelry. I’m just about to give it up for lost when I find a little felt bag all the way in the back. Inside are a class ring and a pair of big hoop earrings… along with one scarred, scratched gold band with three stones. 

“Got it!” I yell triumphantly. 

Nico comes running. “Wait, really? You’re sure?”

“Two diamonds and a peridot,” I confirm. I play my flashlight over the inside of the ring “Says E+H, 8/23/92.”

“Elyssa and Hunter.” Nico’s fingers brush mine as he takes the ring and, no lie, my fingers burn everywhere we touched. He turns the ring and exhales a sound of relief before clasping it in his palm. Then he looks up at me, opens his mouth like he’s going to speak…

And he kisses me. 

Zero warning. No slow-roll or soft-launch. No build up whatsoever. Just Nico’s hand fisting in my thick sweatshirt, his mouth on mine, his tongue invading my mouth and stealing all my secrets. 

I kiss him back, obvs. I’m no fool.

When he pulls away, I’m breathless and dazed, and feeling… well, way more than I can show without freaking him out. So I pull a smile out of my ass and paste it on. 

“So, ah… is this a service I can expect every time I help you out?” I demand. “Because if so, I might start showing up on purpose.”

Nico snorts. “As opposed to all of these coincidental meetings?” He’s already backing toward the exit. His cheeks are pink and he looks way too pleased with himself. “Don’t get any cockier, Rome, or I worry your head won’t be able to fit through doors.”

“So you’re saying you worry about me?” I call, unable to stop myself from grinning wildly. “How often would you say you think about me?”

“Suck it, Callahan,” Nico calls back as he disappears. But it’s not sharp this time. The words are… warm. Maybe even… fond. 

I can work with fond. 

Because seeing Nico Gemelli holding that lady’s ring, feeling his lips on mine…  my interest in the man won’t be going away.

In fact, I plan to see him again as soon as possible.

Chapter 3

Rome

March

I’m currently laying on a hotel bed in Miami with my hands stacked behind my head and my ankles crossed. 

I didn’t follow Nico to Miami, per se. 

Lots of people who nominally live on Long Island spend time in Florida in March for weather reasons. Because they want to remember what it’s like to be warm.

It’s important that I keep this rationale top of mind, because when Nico and I just happened to be in the same place two weeks ago—at a ski chalet in Vail—he very firmly warned me that his next job, in Miami, was for a new Boston broker named Jeb Wasserman. Wasserman had put together a crew including Nico and a few other people, and Nico warned he’d “better not see you there, Rome, I swear to god. I need to prove myself to these guys, and I don’t need a giant fucking sidekick yukking it up in the corner, you hear?”

For the record, I did hear. My ears are perfectly functional.

But because Nico followed this up by grabbing my hair and hauling me into another giant fucking kiss, it’s entirely possible that I didn’t remember it word for word. 

This habit we’ve fallen into—the one where we celebrate his jobs, our wins, by him kissing the shit out of me—is new since Hartford, and I am a big fan. Huge. 

Such a big fan, there was no way I was letting him go to Miami for this Wasserman job alone. 

Because I’m not a total idiot, though, I took Nico at his word. I haven’t let him see me. 

Not last night, when he and his, ah, coworkers hit up a bar and made their plans. And not tonight, when I watched from a rooftop two buildings over as that bunch of dumbfucks left Nico’s ass swinging in the wind. 

Fortunately, Nico isn’t just the hottest thing on two legs, he’s also hella competent. He knows what he’s doing. So when the gallery’s motion sensor turned on in the middle of the job, he didn’t panic and rabbit like the rest of his crew. He froze, he waited, then he busted out some moves like he was a fucking acrobatic extra in a kung-fu movie. He got the painting. He cleared the building. And if he was limping slightly afterward, I don’t think anyone who hadn’t spent the last six months watching him obsessively would’ve noticed.

It was sexy as fuck. 

Also, enraging. 

I’m not usually a violent person, but I very much want to crack some heads together hard right now and teach his “crew” a lesson.

Since I know Nico would not approve, and I’m still operating from a standpoint of not doing anything that will actively encourage him to harm my cock and balls before he’s gotten to enjoy them, I didn’t know how to rid myself of this excess of emotion. How to calm myself down so I could act like a rational human again. 

I needed to see Nico. To reassure myself he’s okay, physically and emotionally, since the adrenaline crash from this job’s going to be severe. But if I called and asked to meet him, he’d shut me down. He wouldn’t want me to see him weak or injured. He wouldn’t want to appear needy, even if he really wanted me there.

It was a real quandary.

Until I remembered I’m a goddamn fucking thief, and I don’t wait for an invitation to enter. I can show up without making him jump the fence of his own pride to let me in the door. And if he genuinely wants me gone after that, I’d go. But maybe we’d both feel better.

So I’d broken into his hotel room.

It’s a nice room. Very Nico-coded. Not opulent or luxurious, but clean and modern and cheerful. And with an impeccable view of the Miami waterfront from the handy-dandy balcony, because Nico knows what’s important. 

I’m trying to do some soothing, listening-to-the-water meditation shit when the card reader on the door beeps and Nico walks in. His dark hair, curly because of the humidity, hangs over his forehead.

He spots me, looks me over for a long, greedy moment, then lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and leans back against the door. “You saw.”

“Oh yeah.” I don’t move. 

“I did it, though.” He sounds defensive. “I scored.”

I snort. “Obviously. No thanks to those fuckers you were working with.” I lever myself up and cross the room, hands out. Innocent-like. “If you weren’t as kick-ass as you are, it would’ve gone so, so wrong. Hurt your ankle?”

Nico gives me a disgruntled nose-wrinkle. “I’m fine.”

I brush my knuckles along his jaw. “I know. I also know you wouldn’t tell me if you weren’t.”

He looks away. “I… might,” he says softly.

Those two words hit me hard. They’re a huuuuge fucking admission from this guy, and we both know it. More poetic and revealing than the sappiest love song. And if Nico thinks about that too long, he’s gonna freak himself out and his prickles will get even pricklier.

“Well, good,” I tease, tossing him a wink. “Because I’m an excellent nurse. It’s one of my many, many talents.”

“Suck it, Callahan,” he scoffs. And I swear, it sounds like thank you.

Nico doesn’t say anything else. He hauls me in by the front of my button-down with both hands—have I mentioned I love when he does that? Because I really, really do—and kisses me like he’s trying to climb inside me, to burrow under my ribs right next to my heart. 

I don’t know how to tell him he’s already there. 

His hands tremble, and the pulse in his neck flutters as I kiss him back. Like those seconds of fear are finally catching up to him. My heart aches for him… and for me because I get to be here with him. I get to help him right now.

I back him toward the bed without breaking the kiss and he goes easy. He falls back and pulls me down on top of him, hands already working my fly. I return the favor, both of us shedding each other’s clothes urgently. There’s nothing competitive in this. It’s as close to tender as you can get when you’re… well, us.

“Rome,” he whispers breathlessly against my mouth. 

“I got you, baby.” I mean it in more ways than he probably wants to acknowledge, but I’m smart enough to keep that to myself. 

I kiss my way down his chest and stomach, feeling him shiver against my lips. His perfect cock is already flushed and hard, tip glistening with pre-cum. Cocky bastard I might be, but I know his hard-on’s not just about our kisses. He’s a mess of adrenaline with lust piled on top. 

Been there. Hell, am there, even if my adrenaline surge was thanks to vicarious thrills—and concern for Nico—tonight. 

I lick his slit and inhale sharply, trying to commit this to memory. I’ve had lots of sex, don’t get me wrong, but this, with Nico, is different. I want to savor it.

When I finally take him in fully, he makes a punched-out sound like a safe giving up and breaking open, and he fists his hand in my hair like he needs something solid to hold onto. I moan in response. 

I don’t tease either of us. I get down to it because that’s what he needs, and giving Nico what he needs is what I need. I hollow my cheeks, I use my tongue, I fondle his balls with my fingers. 

Nico doesn’t last long. He can’t. He comes with my name half-strangled on his lips, and I gentle him through it before licking him clean. 

The worst of the angry head-cracking energy has burned off me, but I’m still a mess of emotions I don’t know what to do with. Tenderness, mostly. Deep, longing shit. Shit that makes me want to take him in my arms, though he’s stopped shaking now so I don’t think he’d let me. 

So while Nico is still panting and relaxed and out of it, I press soft kisses to his skin. To his balls, to the crease of his leg, to his sensitive tip, to each of his inner thighs, to the juts of his hipbones. Stealing bits of tenderness because I’m a thief and that’s what I do. 

I worship his bellybutton. I rub my cheek against the smattering of hair on his chest, letting myself appreciate it. I run a thumb over his flat nipples and the tiny freckle just beneath one. I can feel him watching me, still and a bit wary. 

I have to stifle a sigh. I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I am out of my depth. And I’m very worried that if I can’t choreograph my moves just as accurately as Nico did earlier, I’m going to fuck things up for good. 

Fortunately, Nico moves before I have to think about it too hard. He flips us over so forcefully, I land on my back in the bed with a grunt. He kisses his way down my body, fast and desperate. His hands are shaking again, like he’s re-terrified himself somehow, and I want to ask what he’s scared of.

Before I can, his brow furrows and his hot mouth closes around me, sucking me with the same total absorption I showed him. Like he’s trying to stop himself from thinking, too. Like he’s trying to convey a wordless message I don’t understand—which makes me think maybe I should’ve kept at Duolingo. 

For tonight, I decide, this is enough. Because I’m a thief, but I’m not the smash-and-grab kind. I don’t need to take everything all at once. I know how to be strategic. I know how to plan. 

This time when we’re done, I don’t walk away.

And neither does he. 

At least not for the rest of the night.

Chapter 4

Nico

May

The Cambridge job is done and I’ve delivered another piece to Wasserman, who lives down the Massachusetts coast in a house that overlooks Boston Harbor. He’s trying hard to be the new Bertie, now that Bertie’s health is declining, and I’m mostly okay with that. 

He sucks at putting a crew together, so I have to be wary, and the drive to his house in Hull is shit. But the parking’s a lot easier than on Beacon Hill, and as far as I know he also doesn’t keep a written fucking record of every sin every professional has ever committed on his behalf, like Bertie does. 

The professional world has been buzzing about Bertie’s little black book now that he’s dying, let me just tell you. I’m not particularly worried for myself—I’m not sloppy, and it’d take more than my name in a book to get me in trouble. But other people? Professionals who’ve been less careful at their jobs, and have left prints or gotten caught on camera, where all the authorities need is a name to put to a face before they can start collecting alibis and shit? They’re freaking out.

I really hope that doesn’t apply to anyone I actually know. Anyone I care about.

After delivering the piece, I’m back in my car as the sun’s coming up, driving down the empty road on a summery spring morning. Adrenaline’s fizzing in my bloodstream like champagne, even before I see a familiar souped-up antique Dodge Charger pulled over near the big-ass stone fort that overlooks Boston Harbor.

I am entirely unsurprised that Rome is here. His stalking game has gotten even better over the past… fuck, has it really been nine months?

At first, it used to be that I’d see him every third job, then every second. Now I can’t seem to do a job without his big ass showing up, and I see him sometimes when I’m just living my regular life, too. 

Walking down the street in Brookline, I’ve found him walking toward me and smiling. Getting El Pollo Loco in Eastie with Julian, Rome’s suddenly appeared and asked if he can sit at our table. One time, he came up behind me while I was eating a cinnamon pastry in Copenhagen and demanded a bite, and I hadn’t even flinched (though, to be clear, I’d made him go buy his own because it was a damn good pastry).

But as I park my Mercedes behind his car, I decide the worst thing of all about Rome’s stalking is that I’ve started expecting him to be around, even when he’s not. Especially since Miami.

The other day at Market Basket, I was standing in the chip aisle debating Cheetos or Sun Chips, when I’d said out loud, “Let me guess, you like the ones that don’t turn your fingers orange. You probably have some whole-ass rationale involving fingerprints. Or sex. Or both.”

The old lady picking out water crackers on the opposite side of the aisle had literally clasped her pearls. The woman stocking Tostitos a few feet further down had given me a sloe-eyed look and sucked a tooth. “Well, I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for having orange fingers.” 

To restate the obvious, Rome had not been there. 

I might be losing my mind. 

And don’t even get me started on family camp in a few weeks. I already know exactly how it’s going to go. Me trying to pretend he doesn’t exist, but also constitutionally incapable of not looking for him all the fucking time. Him always, always looking back at me, with an eyebrow raised and a grin on his face that says he’s caught me staring. 

The man’s gotten in my head. I’m distracted con. stant. ly. 

We haven’t talked about what this… thing between us is. And that’s good. We’re just two dudes who repeatedly end up in the same hotel rooms and on the same rooftops and, one memorable time, in the same walk-in restaurant freezer in Quebec City. 

I could not tell you how to define it, honestly. It defies definition. Me, having a… a thing for Rome Callahan? Impossible. A… fondness for my competition? A… heart-pounding… tender… interest in the guy who should be nothing but my frenemy, at least according to my mom? No effing way. 

I think the reason it works is because it’s undefined. Lack of definition means no promises. No promises means no disappointment. 

Because what I’m not going to do—absolutely fucking not—is let myself believe that teasing, happy-go-lucky Rome Callahan actually has serious, lasting feelings for me. No matter how tempting that would be. 

If I did, I might really start to expect him to be there. I might expect… seriousness. Permanence.

And when he inevitably decides there’s no more challenge for him here and gets bored, that would be humiliating. 

Worse, soul crushing. 

The fort overlooking the harbor is built into the side of a hill, which means you can walk straight out from the parking lot along the top wall. That’s where Rome has seated himself, legs dangling two stories off the edge, over the green grass of a cemetery below. The sky is perfectly blue, but the water is choppy, and every so often, you can see the glint from Boston Light as it turns, warning sailors of danger, danger, danger.

Rome could see me coming from a mile away, so I don’t even try to be sneaky.

“Gemelli,” he says as I sit beside him. “Took you long enough.”

“Was I on a schedule?” I yawn and move closer. Close enough that our shoulders touch because… Because I don’t know why, okay? Jesus, just let me live. 

Rome puts an arm around my shoulders. “Long night, huh?”

I huff and burrow against him further. Maybe he’ll think the breeze off the water is more bracing than it actually is. “You were there for most of it. You know it was.”

He hums noncommittally. “Might be nice to meet up someplace we can get horizontal and, you know, sleep. I happen to know you have a perfectly good apartment just… there.” He points toward the Boston skyline. “Even if I’ve never actually seen the inside.”

On a morning like this, you can see the city so clearly, it feels like you can pick out the individual buildings. Like, if you squinted, you might be able to see my apartment windows.

It’s deceptive, let me tell you. Because we’re not actually close.

We’d have to cross a whole harbor to get there. Traverse miles of highway and honk our way through traffic. It’s not the straight shot it seems.  

“I’m okay right here,” I tell him, closing my eyes and trusting him to make sure we don’t fall off this high wall. 

“That’s not… I don’t mean…” Rome blows out a breath. “What I’m trying to say is, maybe it’s time you and I made things… intentional.”

I lift my head reluctantly. “Intentional.”

“Yeah, like… a date. A meal, a show, a walk on a beach. Any beach, anywhere, honestly. I want us to agree to meet at a certain time and place, rather than me just showing up, and us occasionally fucking.”

As date invites go, this one is ham-fisted at best. No suaveness. No game. It’s not what I would have expected from Rome Callahan, that’s for sure.

So you might be wondering why my mouth’s gone dry and my stomach’s a mess of butterflies. 

Good fucking question. 

“That’s not… we don’t…” I clear my throat. “That’s not what this is.”

“Well, it’s not what it’s been, sure. But I do a lot of things I didn’t used to do. Like… eat seafood. And sort my recyclables. And, uh, speak Spanish.” He winces. “Sorta. So I’m saying, we could try doing things differently.”

I cannot say why this makes my heart race like it does. Why my mind is screaming immediate no, for all kinds of logical reasons, even as my body relaxes against his. Why I want to believe he means what he says so badly.

It’s fucked up. My body is locked in a civil war. I’m confused at a cellular level. It cannot be healthy. 

“If we started dating, I could even teach you all my tricks,” he teases. “Might give you a leg up at the heist in a few weeks. And god knows you guys’ll need it.”

I snort. “Suck it, Callahan,” I manage weakly.

“See, we’re already on the same page.” He beams. Then he leans over and confesses against my lips, “I really, really like to suck you, Gemelli.”

I laugh almost against my will, and somehow he gets his arms around me and pulls me against him. His lips find mine and… ugh. It’s so fucking good. Warm like sunshine, tangy as salt air, fresh and clean as the breeze. 

I lean against him again.

“I take it this means you accept my invitation?” he asks, carding his fingers through my hair.

I lick my lips. “I didn’t say that.”

Rome makes a sound of amusement, like I’m joking. And… okay, yeah, I can’t even blame that on his cockiness. 

I should have said no. I will say it. I will remind us both exactly who and what we are…

In a minute.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “I haven’t exactly minded casually and accidentally running into you on your jobs. But the last couple jobs you’ve done for Wasserman… eesh.” He shakes his head and whistles low. “I dunno, man.”

I stiffen in his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Corsini job? Those guys had real firepower, babe. And Miami? With that shit crew he put together? Even last night’s job—just you, and Julian, and Davina Marks? Risky shit, using a three man crew to do a four-man job. I get he wants to keep the profits higher, but—”

“We got it done.”

“Because I was there,” Rome says matter-of-factly. 

“Excuse me?”

He sighs. “I’m just saying, you don’t need to be taking on those jobs at this point in your career. So… why are you?”

I refuse to admit the truth. That the adrenaline-junky jobs give me something to focus on besides the guy who keeps stalking me. The guy I’m starting to miss when he’s not there. 

I’d rather be boiled in oil than say that aloud.

Just thinking it makes me feel… twitchy. Exposed. Vulnerable. 

Like maybe I should’ve heeded that lighthouse danger warning. 

“What I don’t need is someone telling me what to do,” I inform him acidly. “I make my own choices. You stalking me for months doesn’t give you a say in those choices. If you don’t want to participate, don’t. No one’s asked you to do that. Understand?”

Rome exhales softly. “Yeah, Nico. I understand.”

He keeps his arm resting around my shoulder. Not holding tight. Neither pushing nor pulling.

This is how he usually is with me. It’s comfortable, and I like it. A lot. 

But if I’m being honest, it’s also part of what’s holding me back.

Rome Callahan is not known for his patience. When he wants a thing, he wants it. That passion and drive are what make him such an effective thief and such a compelling person to be around. 

So what does it mean that he’s not pushing me? I’ll tell you. It means he doesn’t really want me. That he likes the challenge of the… undefined thing. And that once we defined it, and the covert thrill of it was gone, he’d stop wanting it.  

We watch a tanker pull through the harbor, heading out into the big, wide ocean. As soon as it passes the lighthouse, Rome sighs again, softer this time. Then he presses a kiss to the side of my head, squeezes my shoulder lightly, and pushes to his feet. 

“I’ll see you around, I guess.”

“You’re… leaving?” I squawk, staring up at him. “Now?”

Usually he’s as amped as I am after he joins me on a job. Usually we kiss and fuck until we flame out. Usually, these days, we even fall asleep together. 

Not that I expect any of that, of course. Because I don’t. No expectations here. It’s simply what I’m used to. A habit. A pattern. 

“Yeah. Let you get on with your day.” He smiles a little—not the devastating, wild grin I’m used to, but a smile that’s subdued. Un-Rome-like. Almost… sad or something. 

“Right.” I nod. “Yes. Good. Will I, ah, coincidentally and unexpectedly happen to see you at the job I’m doing in New York a week from Saturday?”

The wind off the water ruffles his dark-gold hair. “You know what? I think maybe I’m going to take a stalking sabbatical.” He laughs, and like his smile his laughter’s not… right. Not Rome. Not light and free. A shade off, a beat too late. “But I’ll see you at family camp in a few weeks. I’ll be the one kicking your ass.” He nudges said ass with the toe of his shoe. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” His eyes meet mine like he wants me to know he means it.

My throat gets thick and tight.

“I… I always do,” I say, because it’s what’s expected. 

But I’m fucking bewildered by his behavior. No, worse. I’m thrown. 

I sit there for a long while as his Charger pulls out onto the street, replaying our conversation. Trying to figure out what happened and why I feel like I’ve lost something precious. 

Like I broke something precious. 

I’ve been telling myself that Rome can’t take what’s happening between us seriously. That it’s not in his nature. That his patience is just indifference in a fake nose and mustache. 

Sitting here as the breeze chills me through my shirt, I start to realize some flaws in my logic.  

We’ve been fucking since March. If he was looking for a challenge, he’s already won. Instead of gloating, he asked for a date. 

The man has been following me around the world for so long, humans are alive now who weren’t conceived when he started. He shows up and helps with my jobs. He holds me afterward. He shares his snacks, and thinks it’s hilarious that I won’t share mine. He likes my prickly nature. He doesn’t judge. He lets me depend on him… and understands why I need to pretend that I don’t. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Just how much will it take for me to believe that he means what he says? What the fuck is my standard here? What the fuck is my problem? 

Rome Callahan isn’t the one who needs to prove he cares. He’s done that over and over and over. 

But because I am an idiot who is hopelessly, all the way gone for him, I was scared I’d lose him… so I went and pushed him away. 

It’s time I get my head out of my ass.

It’s time I prove I believe he means what he says. 

And it’s time I stop being a coward and show Rome that I take this seriously too.

I just need to figure out how to make that happen.

Chapter 5

Rome

Family Camp

When I’d left Nico on the fort wall that day, I’d meant what I said. 

I’d pressed pause on the stalking… even though that meant also pausing the kissing and the fucking. Even though it had physically hurt not to join him in New York, if only to watch from a distance and make sure he was okay. 

But being a thief is all about timing. I’d mistakenly thought Nico and I were on the same page… or closer to it. Sometimes when he’d looked at me, I’d thought I’d seen something in those big brown eyes that meant he wanted what I wanted. That he was ready for more. So I’d asked for a date… and he’d hissed like a vampire in the sunshine.

It had stung. A lot. 

But I recognized that I’d fucked up. I’d pushed too hard, too fast. Which meant I had no choice but to make a cautious retreat and give him some space before trying again. 

So that’s what I’d done… at least until family camp.

One look at Nico, especially since he’d been looking back at me with this kind of wary hopefulness and genuine excitement to see me, was all it took to suck me back in again. 

On the second day of camp, I’d swung by his cabin just before dawn, telling myself it was for surveillance. A few hours later, I’d snuck in to steal clothes for the sheriff. But smelling Nico’s vanilla cologne had made me throw caution to the wind, so that night I’d snuck in once more, like that vampire in Twilight, just to watch him sleep. And… well, he’d caught me. 

Okay, fine. I’d let myself get caught. 

Either way, we’d fucked. And then fucked more—in the forest and on the shores of the lake late at night. And it had been excellent. Because sex with Nico was always the best ever, and somehow each time was better than the time before. 

It wasn’t exactly what I wanted from him, obvi. It was the barest scraps of what I wanted. But I knew how badly Nico reacted when I pushed. Even just talking about relationships in the abstract with Merritt and Holden around the campfire the other night, he’d gotten cranky. 

So I’d told myself we were back to where we’d been in May, before I’d fucked up. And that this was a fine starting place to build something even stronger than before. And that I could be patient.

Then the man had gone off to Boston to steal Bertie’s black book… and he hadn’t fucking told me. Hadn’t said he was going to Bertie’s. Hadn’t even mentioned what Bertie had on him that had freaked him out. He’d taken off alone. 

I’d gone after him, because fucking of course I did. But now that I’ve got him safe—thanks to my whole damn family getting involved—there is no way I’m letting the man out of my sight. 

My patience is tapped out. 

I’m in love with Nico Gemelli, and if he hasn’t guessed that already, I’m damn well going to tell him so. 

Fuck. Caution.

From the time we exit Bertie’s place, through Devon’s confession, and even on the car ride back to Maine—during which I insist Nico ride with me in the Charger, while Sinclair and Cat drive his car—I keep the man less than an arm’s length away from me. 

Closer, even. 

This earns me some side-eye from Julian, when he greets us at the lodge. I bet he’s wondering if my friendly stalking has progressed to something more nefarious. 

I don’t give a shit what he thinks. 

I don’t give a shit about my family side-eyeing us, either, though I know they’re barely biting back their questions. 

As soon as I conceivably can—while Merritt is busy pacing the lodge floor, worrying about his kinda-sorta-not-actually-a-fiancé sheriff—I take Nico’s hand and drag him out the back door, then down the gravel path toward my cabin.

He hurries along beside me without saying a word.

I know I’m being a caveman, and I swear I’m trying to control myself. I know Nico doesn’t like it when I get all over-protective. 

But the pathetic truth is, whenever he’s more than six inches from me, whenever I can’t smell his vanilla cologne, my mind conjures an image of the text he sent eight hours ago. The one telling me “don’t worry, Rome” because he’d “gone after Bertie’s book” to “make things right.” I remember the helpless outrage of that moment. The worry bordering on panic. The overwhelming need to get to him. 

I hadn’t wanted my family involved in this mess, but I’d have done the same for them. That’s just how it goes when you love someone.

Now I just need to figure out how to get that idea through Nico’s head. 

Nico turns his hand over, threading our fingers together, and I blow out a breath and force myself to slow down. I was practically running, I was so eager to get him alone. But I don’t want him trotting after me. 

I’m just… fucking frustrated. 

Angry that he risked himself. 

Angry he hadn’t trusted me. 

And that text? “Don’t worry, Rome”? Was he fucking serious? Like his safety wasn’t my first priority? Like he wasn’t the first and last thought in my head every damn day? 

When we get inside the cabin, Nico turns to me. His eyes are wide and his face is earnest. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

He’d said that in the car, too, but I’d been too upset to get into a conversation yet. Fortunately, I’m calmer now. 

“What the fuck?” I demand. 

Okay, maybe not a lot calmer. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, threading his fingers together. He looks as miserable as I’ve ever seen him, and I’ve seen him in some pretty miserable, scary situations. “Look, I get that it was foolish, going after the book alone, but I—”

“You think?” It comes out sharper than I intend. “Nico, you could have gotten hurt. Who the fuck knows what his security would have done if they caught you?” I’m trying to take steadying breaths, but I don’t think there’s enough oxygen in all the land to make me steady right now. “You didn’t say a single word to me—”

“I know!” It comes out anguished. “But I wanted to keep you safe, Rome. I see now how stupid it was. But I… I’ve never done this before!”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Done what before? Something this dangerous? Sure you have. But going in alone—”

“No! No. I mean… I mean I’ve never…” He tears at his hair with both hands. “I have spent weeks racking my brain trying to figure out how to tell you, how to show you, that I… I want to be intentional about this, Rome!” he yells.

“Nico, baby,” I say, placating now. I still don’t get what he’s saying, but seeing him so upset makes me feel like an asshole.

“No, don’t Nico me. I’m trying to say, I… I very much regret what happened on the fort wall a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” I say. “That.”

“Yes! Yes, that. I fucked up. I hurt you.”

I stretch my neck from side to side, but I don’t deny it. “I was tired that day,” I admit. “I wasn’t thinking clearly and I came on too strong, I know I did. Worrying about you. Pushing for… more. It wasn’t what you needed. So I gave you space—” 

“You stopped!” Nico blurts. “You stopped coming after me. You stopped showing up at my jobs.” He turns and starts pacing the tiny cabin, wild-eyed and ranting. “And I know that was my fault, okay? I get it. That’s what I told you to do. You can’t throw a man off a fucking cliff, then be upset when he doesn’t climb back up, but—”

“Nico—”

“But I… I regretted it immediately,” he insists. “I have regretted it ever since. And I wanted to… to fix it. To show you that I… that I want…” 

He breaks off, shaking his head. “Fuck. Rome. Don’t make me say it, okay?” His voice wobbles and I feel my stomach swoop.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Does he mean—?

“You were just… there. Like, all the time. Watching my back, making sure I was okay. And I… I tried so hard not to care. Not to notice. Not to… want.” He swallowed. “But you kept showing up and then you… you asked me for more and it scared me. It was too much, too good. Too…” He waved his hand between us.

“And then we got here,” he barrels on, like stopping now might mean he’ll never finish, “to camp, and I was going to say something. But things between us were so good…”

“Very fucking good,” I agree. 

“Yes. Yes! And I didn’t want to fuck that up. But also I realized words are meaningless. You didn’t tell me you cared about me, you showed me. Because you showed up for me. So I thought maybe I could find a way to show you that I care, and that would make up for me being an idiot. Then Devon came to my cabin the other night—”

“He what?” I growl.

Nico bites his lip. “He followed you here the night before, I think. He knew about us—”

“Ah, fuck.” My stomach drops and I reach for him without thinking. “Baby, I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want anyone to know—”

“No.” He waves this off. “I don’t care. I mean, I do. I want to tell people.” His eyes meet mine. “I want to tell everyone. I want to be honest. And intentional. I do. Because I do care, Rome. I care so much. But that’s not what upset me.” Nico blows out a breath. “Devon told me about some jobs. Jobs you did for Bertie. Recent ones. Ones in the book. Ones where you almost got caught. And I wanted to protect you, so—”

“I didn’t do any jobs for Bertie. I haven’t for years. Devon is a liar.”

“Yeah, no, I… I figured that out. After the fact. When we realized Devon had played us all.” His mouth pinches. “Maybe I should have realized it before. Or… or just asked you.” He sighs. “I just… wanted to do a grand gesture, like in the movies. To prove to you that I…”

“You what?” I prompt remembering the words he already said. 

Don’t make me say it… 

I care so much…

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, and his face just collapses. 

“Aw, baby.” I close the distance between us and take his face in my hands, being as gentle as I know how to be. “Sweetheart. It’s okay. You don’t have to—” 

It’s like all of Nico’s walls come down at once. All those thorns and prickles. His entire protective shell. His dark eyes fill with tears and he doesn’t hesitate to let me see. 

“I… I love you,” he admits, stammering and blubbering in a way I’ve never seen before. “And I want you to come after me, Rome. Always. I want you to stalk me. I want you to boss me around… or try to, anyway. I want to have expectations of you, and I want you to expect things from me. Mostly I… I want you to be mine, because… because I’m already yours.” 

For a second, I can’t say anything at all. I stand there, feeling like I’m holding his whole heart in my hands. An infinitely more precious and valuable thing than I have ever touched in all my years of thieving, because it’s mine. Because he gave it to me freely. 

“Say that again,” I manage. 

He sniffles, and the tears in his eyes only make the darkness shine brighter. He’s fucking beautiful. 

“I love you.” Nico’s confession seems to come out easier this time. He firms his chin and meets my eyes, like he’s defying me to argue. It’s so perfectly him. “You are an enormous, patient, insufferable, gorgeous, ridiculous, wonderful idiot. And I… I love you. And I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together and admit it.”

“I tried to be patient.” I press my forehead to his, inhale the vanilla spice, and finally, finally I calm. “But you’re impossible to stay away from. Believe me, I tried. I tried to hold back to keep from scaring you off entirely. But it didn’t work. I’m never going to stop coming after you. I can’t. Because I love you, too.” I hold his gaze and wait for him to see I mean every word. 

Nico throws his arms around my neck and kisses me hard on the lips. The familiar taste of him, the feel of him against me, under my fingers and pressed against my skin, is enough to make me groan in relief.

“I guess maybe I started to hope I hadn’t fucked things up entirely when I caught you sneaking in to watch me sleep,” he admits against my lips, just as I’m about to kick this interlude up a notch by ripping his clothes off. “It was lowkey creepy. Sweet. But still creepy.”

“Watch you sleep? Pfft. As if.”

“You snuck into my cabin and stood in the corner like Edward Cullen—”

Cullen. Right. That’s the Twilight dude. 

“It coulda been for camp heist reconnaissance, trying to find the Gemelli Lock,” I remind him. “It coulda been because I needed to borrow a few things—”

Nico sneaks his fingertips beneath my T-shirt collar. The warmth of his touch feels like a hundred tiny fireworks, lighting up my skin. 

“I fucking knew you were stealing clothes for the sheriff,” he says. He sounds fond. No, he sounds adoring. “There’s no way Holden Axford did the Cask and Flagon Crawl two years ago.”

“He might’ve! It coulda been a coincidence—”

The fingers in my collar twist, and he pulls me in closer, harder, and whispers, “For the record, I’d rather see you in my clothes, Callahan. They’d fit you nice and tight.”

My whole body shivers. “I can maybe make that happen, Gemelli,” I breathe, barely holding onto my sanity. God, I want that. To wear his clothes. To have some visible symbol that Nico is mine and I’m his.

“Better yet,” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough to smooth his hands under the hem of my shirt, up my abs, to my chest, “I’d like to see you in no clothes.”

I’m breathing too fast. Hyperventilating, maybe. But oxygen is sooo overrated. “Now who’s being creepy?” I croak.

“You’re coming home with me to Boston,” Nico says. “No more sneaking in. No more accidental meetings. Just you and me, in the same place, all the time.” His eyes flit back and forth between mine as his fingers do something to my nipple that zings all the way to my dick. “Agreed?”

I close my eyes. Maybe oxygen is important. Maybe I passed out. I can’t imagine how else this is actually happening right now. Hearing him say these things I’ve longed to hear for months… it’s like a fantasy come to life.

“Don’t tease me, please,” I beg. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I, uh… I have no defenses when it comes to you, Nico Gemelli. I haven’t for a long fucking time.”

His plush lips slide back and forth against mine. “I tried to. Hell, I once promised myself I’d get over you—” 

If his hands weren’t reaching into my pants, I might’ve been more concerned by this statement. “Uh huh.”

“Shortsighted of me. Foolish. Really poorly done, any way you slice it.”

“Nn’kay,” I croak as his fingers trace the happy trail a bare centimeter above my rapidly-hardening dick. 

“When you find a man who shows you all the time how well he knows you and how much he likes you, when he follows you to the ends of the earth just to be with you…” Nico gives me a smile that’s sweet and filthy, and I can see in his eyes that the vault of his heart’s been unlocked and he’s waving me inside. 

He drops his voice and finishes, “…you get under him instead.”

I grin against his teasing mouth, then knock him onto his back on the cabin’s tiny bed. “Get naked, Gemelli.”

He grins back, dark eyes dancing in the warm morning sun. “Suck it, Callahan.”

So I did.

Read SMART AXE, Book 4 in the Axford Brothers series HERE.

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