Chapter 39 #2
I lean back, spreading my legs, trying to relieve the pressure in my groin. “I just won the fucking Frozen Four, Zoe. Excuse me for being alive.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t alive.” Her gaze drops, dragging down my chest to my lap, then back up to my eyes. “I said you were loud.”
My cock jerks against my zipper.
“Keep looking at me like that,” I warn, my voice rough, “and we’re not going to make it to the hotel.”
“Is that a threat?” She shifts in her seat, turning toward me, one leg crossing over the other. The toe of her boot taps against my shin. Hard. “Or a guarantee?”
I reach out and grab her ankle, stopping the movement. My hand slides up the leather of her boot, gripping her calf, the muscle tense and unyielding under my palm.
“I scored the goal,” I say, staring her down. “I held up my end.”
“I know.” She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans in, invading my space, her scent hitting me—vanilla and something sharp, like ozone. “I was watching.”
“You promised.”
“I always pay my debts.” She flicks a glance at the driver, then back at me, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But I don’t like being rushed.”
The car hits a pothole, jostling us. My hand slides higher up her thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin above her knee.
"We have ten minutes," I say.
"Then you better wait."
She places her hand over mine, stilling it, but she doesn't push me away. Her fingers squeeze. "Patience, Rossi. It makes the payout better."
I let out a breath, dragging my hand back, but I keep my eyes on her legs. On the boots. On the way her skirt rides up just enough to make me want to tear it off.
"Ten minutes," I repeat, leaning my head back against the seat. "I'm holding you to that."
The elevator ride is a blur of mirrored steel and bad lighting. We don't speak. The air between us is thick enough to choke on, charged with the kind of static that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears, a rhythmic thrum that drowns out the Muzak.
I watch the numbers climb. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.
Zoe stands beside me, arms crossed over her chest, but her eyes are on me.
With every floor we pass, she strips me down, assessing the damage, the sweat, the adrenaline.
I can smell her—that sharp, clean scent that cuts through the stale air of the hotel.
It's better than the ice. Better than the win.
The doors chime. The hallway is empty, carpeted in that generic plush that swallows sound.
I stride, fishing the key card out of my pocket with trembling fingers. I swipe it. The light turns green. The click of the lock is the loudest sound I've ever heard.
I shove the door open, grabbing her wrist, and yank her inside.
The door slams shut, and the world falls away. No reporters. No scouts. No fathers. Just the hum of the HVAC and the two of us.
I crowd her against the wall, planting a hand beside her head. She looks up at me, her chest heaving, her lips parted.
"Ten minutes," I say, my voice scraping like sandpaper. "You made me wait."
"I told you," she breathes, reaching up to grip the lapels of my jacket. "Patience."
"Fuck patience." I lean in, biting at the sensitive skin of her neck, right where her pulse hammers against my lips. "I won, Zoe. I won the fucking game."
"I know." Her hands slide down, grabbing my waist, pulling me flush against her. I'm hard, aching in my dress pants, and she grinds her hips against me, deliberate and slow. "I saw the goal. I saw the look on your face when you pointed that stick at me."
"That was for you."
“I saw.” She pushes me back, just enough to create space. Her eyes drop to my belt. "And this is for you."
Before I can process the movement, she drops.
The sight of her on her knees—the sharp, terrifying Zoe Barnes on her knees for me—hits me like a body check.
Her hands go to my belt, working the buckle with practiced efficiency. The leather slides through the loops with a hiss. She pops the button of my dress pants and drags the zipper down. My cock springs free, heavy and desperate.
I hiss at the rush of cool air, but her hand is there instantly, wrapping around the base, warm and firm.
"Look at you," she murmurs, stroking me from root to tip. Her thumb swipes over the head, smearing the pre-come. "All this tension."
"Zoe," I warn, my head falling back against the wall. "Don't tease me. Not tonight."
"I don't tease, Gio. I deliver."
She leans in and takes me into her mouth. The heat is shocking. Wet and tight and fucking perfect. I groan, my hips jerking forward instinctively.
She takes it, her hands gripping my thighs to hold me in place. She sucks me hard, her tongue flattening against the underside of my shaft, applying pressure that makes my toes curl in my shoes.
"Fuck," I gasp, my hand tangling in her hair. "Your mouth. Jesus Christ."
She hums around me, the vibration traveling straight up my spine. She pulls back until just the tip is between her lips, swirling her tongue, then slams her head down, taking me deep. I feel the back of her throat, the resistance, and then she relaxes, letting me in.
I look down, watching her. Her eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning against her cheeks, but there is a look of utter concentration on her face. She's worshipping me. She's claiming her prize.
"Take it," I grit out, my fingers tightening in her hair, guiding her rhythm. "That's it. Take every inch."
She moans, the sound muffled by my cock, and the vibration sends a shockwave of pleasure through my groin. She picks up the pace, bobbing her head, her hand stroking what her mouth can't reach.
It's messy. It's filthy. It's the best fucking thing I've ever felt.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine, tight and hot. The adrenaline from the game is mixing with this, creating a cocktail of pure sensation. I can feel the orgasm rushing toward me, inevitable and unstoppable.
"Zoe," I warn, my breath hitching. "I'm close. You need to stop if you don't want—"
She doubles down. She sucks harder, her hand gripping my balls, rolling them in her palm.
"Fuck!" I shout, my hips bucking off the wall. "I'm gonna come!"
She hollows her cheeks and takes me deep, and I explode. I come hard, shouting her name, my vision whiting out. I pour myself down her throat, pulse after pulse, my whole body shaking with the force of it.
She swallows it all, her throat working, milking me for everything I have.
When I finally stop, my legs are trembling so bad I can barely stand. I slump back against the wall, gasping for air, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
She pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks up at me, her eyes dark, her lips swollen and red.
"A deal is a deal," she says, her voice husky.
I reach down, grabbing her hands, and haul her up. I crush my mouth to hers, tasting myself on her tongue, kissing her like I'm starving. She melts into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body soft and pliant against mine.
Walking her backward, I steer her toward the bed without breaking the kiss. The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she falls back, bouncing slightly.
I crawl over her, stripping off my jacket and tossing it aside. I undo the buttons of my shirt, yanking it off, needing to feel her skin against mine.
"Your turn," I growl, reaching for the hem of her shirt.
She lifts her arms, letting me pull it over her head. She's wearing a black lace bra—thin, barely there. I reach behind her, unhooking it with a flick of my wrist, and toss it to the floor. Her breasts spill out, pale and perfect, her nipples already hard.
I lower my head, taking one into my mouth, sucking hard. She gasps, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Gio," she breathes.
I bite down gently, tugging with my teeth, then soothe the sting with my tongue. I move to the other one, giving it the same attention, worshiping her with my mouth.
Her heart is racing under my palm, her skin flushing with heat.
I trail kisses down her stomach, over the ridges of her ribs, dipping my tongue into her navel. I reach the waistband of her skirt and hook my fingers into it, dragging it down her legs. She lifts her hips to help me, kicking it away. She's wearing matching lace panties. Fucking soaked.
I look up at her, meeting her gaze.
"You're wet, Zoe."
“I watched you play,” she says, her voice unsteady. “I watched you win. It’s a turn-on.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth as I lean down and press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Good.”
My fingers hook into the lace, tugging it down and exposing her to me. She’s bare, smooth, glistening. The scent of her hits—musky and sweet—and my mouth waters.
Lowering myself between her legs, I run my tongue through her folds, from her entrance to her clit. She cries out, her hips bucking off the bed. I grip her thighs, holding her open, and do it again. Long, slow strokes.
Every inch of her gets explored, tasted, learned. She’s fucking delicious.
All my focus narrows to her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. She moans, her hands flying to my hair, holding me in place.
"God, Gio," she gasps. "Don't stop."
I slide a finger inside her, curling it upward, searching for that spot. She tightens around me, her muscles clamping down.
"Right there," she breathes.
I add a second finger, stretching her, pumping them in and out while I continue to torture her clit with my tongue. I can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning ragged, her thighs trembling against my cheeks.
"Come for me, Zoe," I murmur against her skin. "Let go."
Hard suction on her clit makes her break. She cries out, her back bowing, her pussy clamping down on my fingers as she comes.
The pleasure gets ridden out slowly, my mouth lapping up her juices, drawing it out until she’s pushing me away, oversensitive.