Chapter 33
Zoe
The silence in the hallway is thick enough to choke on. He stands there, his confession hanging in the air between us, a raw, bleeding thing. The man looks wrecked. The arrogant, posturing Gio from the party is gone, replaced by this man who just laid his own shame at my feet.
This is his new version of atonement. A new mission.
In his mind, he can be my shield. To him, this is still a transaction.
He broke it, so he’ll fix it. He hurt me, so now he’ll protect me.
What he’s really doing is searching for a shortcut, a grand gesture that might erase the fundamental truth of his betrayal.
**In his head, he gets to be the hero of my story—**when all he’s ever been is the villain.
A cold, hard certainty settles in my chest. He needs to understand what it means to be mine.
“Get on your knees,” I say softly.
The words are soft, but they hit the air like a gunshot.
Gio freezes. His chest stops moving for a second, then heaves in a sharp, ragged inhale.
The arrogance drains out of him, leaving behind something raw and terrified.
He looks at the hard tile floor, then back at me, his eyes searching for a joke, a loophole, a sign that I don’t mean this. I don’t blink. I just wait.
His jaw works, a muscle spasming as he fights a war with his own pride.
This is Gio Rossi—star winger, the best player on the ice, the man who never bows to anyone.
He’s used to people looking up to him. He’s used to being the one in control.
But he’s also the man who just realized he would burn the world down if it meant keeping me.
Slowly, painfully, his knees buckle. He sinks to the floor, the denim of his jeans scraping against the tile. It’s a graceless descent, heavy and clumsy, but the visual is devastating. The landing is hard, his boots thudding dully.
Now he’s at eye level with my hips. To find my face, he has to crane his neck. The power shift is instantaneous, electric, and utterly undeniable. He looks wrecked already—his hair is a mess, his eyes are wide and dark, and his mouth is parted slightly like he can’t quite catch his breath.
“Zoe,” he breathes. My name sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Good,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “Now stay there.”
He shifts, restless, his hands coming up to grip my thighs. His fingers are strong, bruising, digging into the flesh above my knees like I’m the only solid thing in a spinning world. He presses his face forward, inhaling deeply against the fabric of my skirt, right at the apex of my thighs.
“Please,” he whispers, the word muffled by the cloth. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I was scared.”
“I know,” I say, staring down at the top of his head. “Words are cheap, Gio.”
He lets out a broken sound, half-groan, half-sob. He rubs his cheek against my skirt, his stubble catching on the material.
“Let me make it right. Let me taste you. I need to be inside you in any way you’ll let me.”
I look at him—this powerful, dangerous man kneeling at my feet, begging for scraps. My cunt clenches, a wet, vicious pulse that betrays my composure. I am angry, yes. But I am also starving. The adrenaline from the article drop is still humming in my veins, turning into something darker, heavier.
My hand tightens in his hair, grabbing a fistful and tilting his head back. He goes willingly, his throat exposed, his eyes locking onto mine. They are glazed, unfocused, filled with a desperate, terrifying need.
“If you want forgiveness,” I say, tightening my grip in his hair, “you earn it.”
“Yes,” he hisses. “Anything.”
Releasing his hair, I reach for the hem of my skirt. There’s no teasing. No drawing it out. The fabric gets dragged up in one clean motion, bunching around my waist. The air hits my skin, cool and shocking.
I’m bare for him.
Gio’s eyes drop. He stares at the lace of my underwear, black and barely there, already damp. He makes a sound low in his throat, a guttural noise of pure hunger. He leans in, his nose brushing against the lace, breathing me in like I’m oxygen.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “So fucking perfect. You’re already wet for me.”
“Shut up,” I say sharply. “Use your mouth for something else.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hands slide up the back of my thighs, gripping my ass, pulling me forward.
I step into his space, widening my stance to give him room.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties and drags them down, the lace dragging over my skin until they pool around my ankles.
I step out of them, kicking them aside.
Gio stares at my cunt like it’s a holy site. He leans in and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my mound, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin just above my clit. It’s a reverent touch, worshipful, but it’s not enough.
I grip his hair again, tighter this time, and pull his face into me.
“Eat,” I command.
A groan vibrates through my pelvic bone as his face buries itself between my legs, his tongue licking a long, slow stripe from my opening to my clit.
The way he goes at it is sloppy, messy and eager, like a man dying of thirst who’s just found water.
His tongue flattens as he laps at me, tasting every inch, spreading my wetness around.
There’s no restraint in it—just a desperate attempt to consume me.
My clit disappears into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves just enough to make me gasp, my head falling back against the doorframe.
“Fuck,” I breathe, my fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to me.
A pleased hum spills out of him, and the effort redoubles immediately—his tongue working my clit in tight, rapid circles while one of his hands leaves my ass to slide between my legs. One finger teases my entrance, circling the rim, gathering wetness.
“More,” I demand, my voice breathless. “Put them in.”
He obeys instantly. He slides two fingers inside me, his palm cupping my pubic bone, and curls them upward, finding that spot that makes my vision white out.
“Oh, god,” I gasp, my knees buckling slightly.
He holds me up, his arm locking around my thigh, anchoring me to him. He fucks me with his fingers, hard and deep, while his mouth works my clit. The rhythm is relentless, a piston-like drive that pushes me higher and higher.
He’s talking dirty against my skin, muttering filth between licks and sucks. “Taste like fucking heaven. Missed this cunt so much. Dreamed about it every night. Could come just from this, just from tasting you.”
The words are filthy, degrading, and they make me hotter.
I look down at him—at the flex of his shoulders, the way his dark head is buried between my legs, the way his hand is moving as he finger-fucks me. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. Gio Rossi, the untouchable, on his knees, worshipping me like I’m his religion.
“Good boy,” I moan, the praise slipping out before I can stop it.
He shudders violently at the words. A ragged groan tears out of him as he sucks my clit harder, his fingers pumping faster. Being told he’s good does something to him. Being owned does even more.
I grind down against his face, taking my pleasure, using his mouth to get myself off. I ride his tongue, chasing the friction, chasing the heat. The coil in my belly is tightening, winding up so tight it hurts.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Right there. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He doesn’t. The effort doubles immediately. A third finger joins the others, stretching me, filling me up, crooking just right. His tongue presses flat against my clit and vibrates there, a low hum rolling out of his throat.
The sensation is too much.
It’s a white-hot explosion behind my eyes. My back arches, a cry tearing from my throat as I come. My cunt clenches around his fingers, rippling and spasming, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me.
There’s no pulling away. He stays with me, lapping up my release, drinking me down like I’m fine wine. A groan breaks out of him as I come, the sound muffled by my flesh, his grip on my thigh bruisingly tight.
I ride it out, my hips jerking against his face until the spasms subside and I’m left gasping for air, my legs trembling.
Slowly, I release my grip on his hair. I slump back against the doorframe, trying to catch my breath.
Gio pulls back slowly. His face is wet—slick with my arousal, his chin glistening. His lips are swollen and red. When he looks up at me, his eyes are heavy-lidded and dazed, completely wrecked.
He leans forward and rests his forehead against my stomach, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my skirt. The way he holds me says he’s afraid I’m going to disappear.
I stand there, my heart hammering in my chest, and look down at him. My anger is gone, burned away by the heat of his mouth. In its place is something else—something heavy and terrifyingly intimate.
I lift a hand and stroke his hair, my fingers combing through the dark strands. A ragged, exhausted sigh leaves him as he presses closer.
“Good boy,” I whisper again.
He laughs, a hoarse, broken sound. He presses a kiss to my stomach, through the fabric of my shirt.
“I’m yours,” he murmurs, his voice muffled. “I’m fucking yours, Zoe. Never again. I swear.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “Stand up.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, a clear reluctance to leave the sanctuary of my hips, but obedience wins. His long body unfolds, knees popping slightly as he stands.
Towering over me again, the dynamic has shifted. He’s just present.
When he looks down at me, his hand comes up to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lip, wiping away a smear of moisture I didn’t know was there. His eyes search my face—looking for forgiveness, looking for absolution. I let him look. I let him see me—see that I’m still here.
“Are we okay?” he asks, his voice rough.
“We’re working on it,” I say, which is the truth.
He nods, accepting it. He leans down and presses his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine. For a second, we just breathe together, suspended in the quiet aftermath.
Then, a loud cheer erupts from the living room, followed by the sound of glass clinking. The guys are toasting. The moment breaks, the reality of the outside world rushing back in.
Gio pulls back, a crooked smile touching his lips. He looks disheveled—his hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and his face still smells like my cunt. He looks happy.
“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand to me. “Let’s go celebrate.”
I look at his hand—calloused, strong, the hand that just held me down while he made me come apart. I reach out and take it.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He interlaces our fingers, squeezing tight, and leads me out of the hallway, back toward the noise, back toward the war room. We walk out together, and this time, he doesn’t let go.