Chapter 38
Gio
The smell of pepperoni and stale beer is the best thing I've smelled in months. We're sitting on the floor of my dorm room, the empty pizza box between us, leaning back against the side of the bed.
The adrenaline that was fueling me an hour ago—the rage, the triumph, the desperate need to mark territory—has burned off, leaving something heavier and warmer in its wake. Peace.
I take a slice of pizza, folding it in half, and watch her.
Zoe is picking at a piece of crust, her legs tucked underneath her.
She's wearing one of my t-shirts while her clothes dry in the dryer down the hall.
It's too big for her, the collar slipping off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone.
She looks different like this. Soft. Unguarded.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Just thinking," I say, washing down the pizza with a swig of lukewarm water. "About?"
"About how I'm officially poor."
Zoe snorts, a small, ungraceful sound that makes my chest tight. "You have a full ride to Briarcliff, Gio. You're hardly destitute."
"The trust is gone," I correct her. "The apartment in the city. The car. The allowance."
"Boohoo," she says deadpan. "You still have your legs. And your shot. You'll be fine."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You have no sympathy."
"I have plenty of sympathy," she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Just not for rich boys who finally have to live like the rest of us."
Zoe stands up, stretching her arms over her head. The shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her hip. My eyes track the movement automatically.
"I need to get my clothes," she says. "Be right back."
“Check my closet,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Top shelf. There’s a game jersey in there. The white one.”
Zoe raises an eyebrow. "You want me to wear a hockey jersey?"
"I want you to wear my jersey."
Zoe stares at me for a second, then shrugs. "Okay."
She disappears into the bathroom. I hear the hangers rattling, the rustle of fabric.
When she comes back out, I stop breathing. It's the away jersey. White mesh with black and gold trim. The number 22 is stretched across her chest in bold block letters, and ROSSI is spelled out across her shoulders. It hits her mid-thigh, long enough to be decent, short enough to be torture.
She stands in the doorway, fidgeting with the hem.
"It's huge."
"Yeah," I manage. "It is."
She looks like a fucking wet dream. Like she belongs to me.
"Well?" she asks, tilting her head. "Do I pass inspection?"
I push myself off the floor and walk over to her. The scent of soap on her skin fills the air—my soap, sandalwood and cheap detergent. It mixes with her scent, floral and sharp, and it's better than anything money could ever buy.
I reach out, gripping the fabric over her hips.
"You look good wearing my name."
A slow smile spreads across her face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I pull her close, sealing my mouth over hers. This is slow. Deep. Lazy. I take my time, tasting her, savoring the feel of her soft body against mine. Her hands slide up my arms, resting on my shoulders, her fingers digging in gently.
I walk her backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. Her knees hit the mattress, and she sits down. I follow her down, crawling over her, settling between her thighs. The jersey bunches up around her waist. I run my hands up her sides, my thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.
She sighs into my mouth, arching her back, pushing herself into my hands.
“Gio,” she whispers.
“Shh,” I murmur against her lips. “I’ve got you.”
I push the jersey up higher, exposing her tits. They’re perfect, pale and soft, her nipples tightening in the cool air.
Dipping my head, I take one into my mouth. She gasps, her hand flying to my hair, holding me there. I suck and tease, using my teeth just enough to make her squirm. My mouth worships her—tracing the curve of her breast, the line of her ribs. I want to memorize every inch of her.
My hand slides down, between her legs. Already wet. Hot and slick and ready for me.
“Look at this,” I murmur, pulling back to look at her. “So fucking ready for me.”
“It’s the jersey,” she says, her voice breathless. “It does it for me.”
I laugh softly, nuzzling her neck. “Yeah? You like wearing my colors?”
“I like wearing you.”
A groan tears out of me as I bury my face in her neck. She kills me.
Reaching for the nightstand, I fumble for a condom, tearing it open with my teeth and rolling it on without breaking eye contact. Her gaze stays locked on me—dark, heavy—biting her lower lip.
Settling back between her legs, I line myself up and push in slow, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge, every inch of me. We both groan when I bottom out. She feels incredible. Tight and hot and perfect.
The pace stays slow and deep as I start to move. Gripping the fabric of the jersey at her shoulders, I use it as leverage to pull her onto me. Every thrust stretches the name ROSSI across her back. It’s a brand. A claim.
“You feel so good,” I rasp, staring down at her. “So fucking good, Zoe.”
“Harder,” she whispers.
“Slow,” I say, shaking my head. “I want to feel everything.”
Keeping it agonizingly controlled, I grind my hips against hers—circling, hitting that deep spot that makes her toes curl. Her moans turn constant now, a low, sweet sound that goes straight to my heart.
“Look at me,” I command.
Zoe opens her eyes, locking them with mine. The connection is electric. Everything she’s feeling is right there—trust, desire, love.
“I love you,” I tell her, the words coming easy now. “I love you so much.”
“I know,” she gasps as I hit a particularly deep spot. “I love you too.”
Reaching between us, I find her clit and rub slow, deliberate circles, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. Her breath hitches as her inner muscles clamp down on me.
“Come for me, baby,” I urge. “Let me feel it.”
She does. Her back arches, head falling back, a cry tearing from her throat. I feel her pussy ripple around me—milking my cock, dragging me right to the edge with her.
“Fuck,” I grit out, my rhythm faltering. “Zoe.”
“Let go,” she says, cupping my face. “Come for me, Gio.”
Burying my face in her neck, I let go—one last deep thrust as I empty myself into the condom. The pleasure is blinding, white-hot, wiping everything else away.
We lie there afterward, hearts pounding in sync, the only sound our ragged breathing.
Eventually, I roll off her and deal with the condom, then pull her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin. Zoe curls into me, her hand settling over my heart. The jersey is still on. She’s still wearing my name.
“Comfortable?” I ask, tracing the letters on her shoulder.
“Very,” she murmurs sleepily. “It’s soft.”
“It’s expensive mesh,” I say. “It should be.”
Her laughter vibrates against my chest. “You’re such a snob.”
“I’m a Rossi,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “It’s in the blood.”
“You’re just Gio now,” she says—teasing, but serious.
“Yeah,” I murmur, tightening my arm around her. “Just Gio.”
Looking around the room—the empty pizza box, the discarded clothes, the locked door—the world feels distant. I lost millions today. I lost a legacy. I lost the weight of a dynasty. But lying here with Zoe warm and solid in my arms, wearing my number and my name, I know I won.
“Go to sleep, Zoe,” I whisper.
“Night, Gio,” she breathes.
She drifts off almost instantly, her breathing evening out. I stay awake a little longer, listening to her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against mine.
For the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.