Chapter 23 #2
Elm House is already throbbing with bass and laughter when we arrive. It's their territory. Dante and Cole's fraternity. A fortress. He kills the engine, but he doesn't let go of my hand. He just sits there for a moment, the silence stretching between us.
"Optics," he says, his voice rough. He finally releases my hand and gets out of the car, coming around to open my door.
A performance for anyone who might be watching.
As we walk up the lawn, the front door swings open and a wave of people spills out, music and light pouring into the night.
The guys see Gio first, and a cheer goes up.
Adrian claps him on the back, Cole grins, but their eyes slide right to me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and caution.
Genny and Talia appear at my side, a silent, supportive flank.
"You came," Genny says, her eyes wide.
"I was summoned," I reply, my gaze finding Gio across the room.
He's already looking at me, a silent, watchful sentinel.
But he doesn't stay across the room. He breaks from his team, a slow, deliberate prowl through the crowd that parts for him.
He doesn't go to the kitchen. He comes right to me.
He stops beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, and claims a spot against the counter like he owns it.
The separation I'd planned on is gone before it even started.
He's here, a solid, territorial presence at my side.
"Beer?" he asks, his voice low, but he's already reaching past me, his chest pressing against my back as he grabs two red cups from the stack behind me.
The contact is brief, electric, and entirely intentional.
I squirm, shifting away, but there's nowhere to go.
I'm trapped between him and the counter.
He hands me a cup, his fingers lingering against mine.
"Relax, Barnes. We're just hanging out."
"Don't call me that," I snap back, my voice tight.
I take a sip of the beer, the bitter liquid doing nothing to cool the heat inside me.
Genny and Talia are watching us, their expressions unreadable.
Dante and Cole materialize on Gio's other side, forming a loose, protective circle.
This isn't two separate factions anymore. It's a merger. A public declaration.
Gio leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "You're squirming." His voice is a rough whisper, a private threat in a public room. "I can feel you from here."
My body stiffens, hand tightening around my cup. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" He shifts, his thigh pressing against mine, a heavy, undeniable weight.
"Is that why you're breathing like you just ran a marathon?
Why you can't stand still?" He lets his hand drop to his side, his knuckles brushing against my hip.
A casual, possessive touch that no one else can see.
"Tell me, Zoe. Are you wet for me right now? "
My entire body goes rigid. I want to slap him. I want to pour my beer over his head. Instead, I just stand there, pinned by his words and the suffocating weight of my own desire. I hate him. I hate him for seeing right through me, for naming the ugly, desperate need coiling in my gut.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. "Yeah. That's what I thought." He leans closer, his breath hot against my throat. "You want me to find a closet? Give you some release?"
I turn my head, my eyes locking with his. The challenge in my gaze is sharp enough to cut glass. "Don't you fucking dare."
His eyes flare with heat, with approval.
"Good girl." He straightens up, taking a sip of his beer like he didn't just verbally undress me in the middle of a crowded kitchen.
The tension between us is so thick I can taste it, metallic and sharp.
We stay like that for a long time, a strange, volatile unit in the middle of the party, our friends a silent, watchful audience.
The air crackles, a live wire waiting for a spark.
Then, it happens. A guy I don't recognize, all muscle and a cocky smirk, blocks Gio's path. He's wearing a rival team's jacket. Kade.
"Heard you like to hit people, Rossi," Kade says, his voice loud enough to carry over the music. "Your girl's into that too? Or do you only beat up on guys?"
The living room goes quiet. Gio's posture goes rigid, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. I see Adrian take a half-step forward, ready to intervene. This is it. The public test. The blog made him a liability, and this asshole is here to prove it.
Before Gio can move, before he can throw the punch that will confirm every nasty rumor, I move. I push through the crowd, my movements fluid and deliberate. I slide in between Gio and Kade, my shoulder brushing Gio's chest. I look Kade up and down, my expression one of utter disdain.
"He has better taste than to waste his time on you. Move." My voice isn't loud, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. Kade blinks, stunned into silence. The sheer audacity of it—a girl stepping into a fight between two hockey players—silences everyone. I'm his weapon.
A hand clamps down on mine. Gio's. "Upstairs. Now." It's not a request. He pulls me through the crowd, which parts for us like the Red Sea. The energy is no longer about the party. It's a live wire connecting the two of us, humming with a dangerous, possessive energy.
He pulls me into an empty bedroom at the end of the hall—Dante's, judging by the meticulously made bed and lack of clutter. He slams the door, and the noise of the party becomes a muffled, distant heartbeat. He spins around, his eyes burning.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"He was touching what's mine," I shoot back, the words out before I can stop them. The claim hangs in the air between us, shocking and true.
"Say it again," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous command.
And then he's on me. He backs me against the door, his body pinning mine.
This is slower. More deliberate. His hands are shaking as he frames my face, his thumbs tracing the line of my jaw.
It's a moment of shocking tenderness that is more intimate, more dangerous, than anything he's ever done.
Then he kisses me. It's a branding. His mouth slants over mine, a hot, demanding claim that steals the air from my lungs.
His stubble scrapes my chin, a delicious, raw friction that sends a jolt straight through me.
My brain shuts up entirely, every thought wiped clean by the sheer force of him.
I kiss him back with equal fury, my hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more of the punishing, possessive heat.
I'm demanding my place on the front lines.
This is my truce. My surrender. My victory. And I'm going to burn for it.
His hands leave my face, trailing down my sides, leaving a path of fire in their wake. One hand grips my hip, holding me in place, while the other slides between us. His fingers trace the waistband of my jeans, a teasing, maddening promise. He's dismantling me, piece by piece.
"You've been squirming all night," he growls against my lips, his voice a rough vibration. "Let's see if I can give you some release."
Before I can form a reply, his hand dips lower, the rough denim of my jeans doing nothing to dull the pressure of his palm as he cups me.
A broken gasp escapes my throat, my head falling back against the door with a soft thud.
He takes that as an invitation, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to tangle with mine as his fingers deftly undo the button of my jeans.
The sound of my zipper lowering is obscene in the quiet room, loud as a gunshot.
His hand slides beneath the fabric, his fingers finding the slick heat he's been teasing all night.
He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction, as one long finger slides inside me.
My hips buck off the door, a helpless, involuntary reaction to the sudden, overwhelming pleasure.
"Fuck, Zoe," he breathes, his forehead resting against mine. "So fucking wet for me."
He doesn't give me a chance to respond, to deny it.
He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and stars explode behind my eyes.
His thumb finds my clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a devastating, expert rhythm that he learned from my own body's desperate reactions.
He's using my own need against me, turning every squirm, every sharp intake of breath from the last hour into a weapon.
The tension that's been coiling in my stomach all night snaps, a white-hot wave of pleasure cresting and breaking over me.
I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my cry, my body shuddering against his as the release he promised rips through me.
He doesn't stop. He works me through it, his movements slowing, drawing out every last aftershock until I'm a boneless, panting mess in his arms. Only then does he lift his head, his eyes dark and triumphant.
He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting me, and the possessive, filthy act is the most erotic thing I have ever seen.
This is my truce. My surrender. My victory. And I am well and truly burned.