Chapter 20
The Final Crossing
ZLATA
I'm sitting at the edge of his bed, watching myself in the mirror. His bed. His room. The receptionist had given me a knowing smile — the kind shared between women who understand exactly what's happening — before pressing the keycard into my palm.
And now I'm here. Waiting.
My fingers twist in my lap. I still don't know what I'll say to him.
He might still be angry. The silence between us these past weeks has had teeth.
But I've always been better at showing than telling, and if I can just get him close enough to remember — to feel — why he fell for me in the first place, the words can wait. The words can wait a long, long time.
He just won the World Cup.
The pride that surges through me is almost violent in its intensity. Out of everyone in the finish, out of every person who wanted a piece of him tonight, he chose me. Texted me. Sent me the room number.
But the warmth pooling low in my belly isn't just pride anymore.
He's the champion. The best in the world, at least for tonight — and tonight, he's all mine.
I cross my legs slowly and watch myself smile in the mirror.
I uncap my lipstick — a deep, bruised red, the kind that leaves a mark — and lean toward the mirror.
Slow, deliberate strokes. I line my eyes darker than usual, smokier, until the woman looking back at me barely resembles the one who drove here with her heart in her throat.
Good.
Then I stand, unbutton my jeans, and pull them down.
My clothes pool at my feet, and I step over them without looking down, keeping my eyes on the mirror. Because what's reflected there deserves attention.
The lingerie is black lace — the kind I spent forty minutes choosing in a boutique I'd walked past three times before going in.
A balconette bra that lifts and frames without hiding, the lace so delicate it's nearly transparent, tiny satin ribbon threaded through the underwire.
The matching high-waist briefs sit just below my navel, the lace overlay grazing the tops of my thighs, covering everything and concealing nothing.
Thigh-highs, self-supporting, with a wide band of lace at the top that leaves a strip of bare skin.
No garter belt — I'd decided against it.
Too complicated to remove. Too much like I was trying.
This is meant to look effortless.
I turn slightly. The back of the bra is a single satin clasp. Easy. Intentionally easy.
Now. The pose.
I think of the door — where it is, where he'll be standing when it opens. I position myself facing it, sitting on the edge of the bed, ankles crossed, hands folded in my lap. Composed. Almost innocent.
I tilt my head at the mirror.
No.
Too passive. Too much like I've been waiting on his terms.
I shift. One knee drawn up onto the bed, weight resting on one hand behind me, spine arching slightly. It opens my posture, lifts my chin. Confident. Like I'm the one doing him the favor.
Warmer.
I let the arch deepen. My free hand trails slowly up my own thigh, just to see — and the woman in the mirror watches with dark eyes, and something low and insistent tightens in my stomach.
Oh.
I hadn't expected that. The watching. The being watched — even by myself.
I shift again, fully onto the bed now, lying on my side, one leg drawn up, the lace at my hip pulling taut. My hair falls loose. I look at myself — really look — and my breath comes out slower than it went in.
The champion is going to walk through that door and find this.
I feel the heat of it move through me like something spilled. My skin feels like it's been turned up a degree. I press my lips together — that careful red — and hold the pose and think about his hands, his voice when he's undone, the way he says my name when there's no one else around to hear it.
The door handle.
Any minute now.
I don't move. I just burn.
***
The lock clicks.
The sound slices clean through the thick, heated quiet in the room.
I don’t move.
The handle turns, slow, almost cautious—and then he steps inside.
He’s still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fabric hanging loose at his waist. Damp hair, flushed skin, the sharp edge of adrenaline not yet faded from his body. In one hand, he’s holding the small crystal globe, its surface catching the lamplight in fractured sparks.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet, final click.
For a second, he doesn’t see me.
Then he does.
And everything in him stills.
The globe lowers slightly in his hand, forgotten. His gaze drags over me—slow, deliberate, like he doesn’t trust himself to take it in all at once. When his eyes lift back to mine, they’ve gone darker. Hungrier. Not just desire—something tighter, sharper threaded through it.
“You’re here,” he says.
His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it in a while.
I let one corner of my mouth lift. “You gave me the room number.”
A beat.
“That doesn’t mean I expected you to come.”
“No?” I shift slightly on the bed, just enough to make the lace pull, to make the movement impossible to ignore. “You sounded pretty sure of yourself.”
His jaw tightens. He sets the globe down—carefully, almost absently—on the table by the door, never breaking eye contact.
“I wasn’t sure of anything,” he says quietly. “Not after—”
“Then don’t talk about it. Not yet.”
The words come softer than I expect, but they land hard.
Another beat stretches between us. Charged. Fragile.
Dangerous.
“Still avoiding things?” he asks.
“Postponing,” I shoot back.
That does it.
Something in his expression snaps—not into anger, but into decision.
He crosses the room in three strides.
***
FABIO
The moment the door clicks behind me, for a split second, I think I’m dreaming. Zlata sprawled across my bed—black lace hugging every curve, red lips parted, watching me in the mirror like she’s already picturing how I’ll wreck her.
Fuck the trophy. Today, she’s my prize.
My chest heaves, the adrenaline from the race and the ceremonies replaced by a sharper, hungrier edge. I watch her shift, every little move calculated and devastating. For weeks I’ve been gnashing my teeth, burning with everything unsaid, and now she’s here—silent, offering, daring me.
And this whole thing is so unlike her that I forget to breathe. She watches me with the eyes of a cat that knows I’ll come to her. It pisses me off a little, after those weeks of silence, but it also sends certain signals straight to my dick.
I set the globe down and stride across the room. I close my hand around her wrist—possessive, in charge. She melts back into the mattress with that sly, dangerous smile, like she wants me to take everything she’s got.
“Is this what you came for?” The words scrape out of me, rough.
She arches, a challenge. “What do you think?”
I tighten my grip, pinning her, drinking in the way her eyes widen, her breath stutters. “I think you came here because you need someone to remind you who the fuck you belong to.”
She shivers, mouth twitching. “Then do it.”
That’s it. My restraint snaps. I force her arms overhead, trapping her wrists in one hand, my mouth crashing down on hers—brutal, claiming, tongue pushing until she gasps. I drink her in, devour her, pressing my body down so she feels every line of me, every intention.
“Keep your hands there,” I growl, releasing her wrists. “If you move them, I’ll tie you up and edge you until you beg.”
She nods, eyes huge, pupils blown with heat.
I peel the bra off with slow, punishing care, letting the straps drag over her skin. Her nipples are already tight, flushed, begging for my mouth; I take one between my lips, suck hard enough to leave a mark, then bite gently. She arches, whimpers, but keeps her hands exactly where I left them.
“My Golden Girl,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ve dreamt of seeing you like this. And here you are.”
She moans, legs shifting, thighs pressing together. I wedge a knee between them, forcing her softly open, running my fingers over the lace at her hips.
“These—fuck, you bought these for me?” I hook my thumbs in the waistband, dragging the panties down slowly, leaving her bare except for the stockings.
“You’re the champion,” she breathes. “I decided you wanted a proper celebration.”
“Turn over,” I say, but keep the voice gentle, and stroke her naked shoulder. She rolls, hair spilling over her shoulders, back arched, ass raised in insolent offering.
I palm her ass, squeezing, and push the edge of my palm in her cleft, opening her butt slightly. “You like that, Zlata? You like it when I take control?”
“Today you take whatever you want,” she breathes, voice rough.
I run my palms over her back, mapping her smooth skin, remembering every inch.
“I missed you so much,” I whisper in her ear, leaning close, letting my body weight press her into the mattress.
“Then, let me make it up to you,” she whispers, raising her head, arching her neck, offering me skin to cherish.
I kneel behind her, run my palms down her back, over her round ass, and spread her legs wider to give me an undisturbed view of her pink pussy.
“God, look at you—so fucking wet, already begging for it.” I slide one finger inside, and the wetness sends a bolt through my body straight to my cock.
She pushes back with her hips, rubbing shamelessly at my palm, fucking my finger.
I slide two more fingers, and her movements get frantic, pushing back and forth, moaning.
“You want to make yourself come on my fingers?” I ask. “Too bad, Golden Girl, too bad.”
With that, I pull my fingers out, enjoying her disappointed cry.
“Please,” she whines, squirming on the bed.
“Seems like you missed me, too,” I say, leaning closer to her and directing my fingers to her mouth. “Have a taste of your delicious pussy.”
She sucks my fingers, her ass making desperate, filthy circles. I clamp a hand on her hip, holding her still.