Epilogue #2
"We're a fucking disaster," I agree, rubbing my thumb over her bottom lip. "But we're standing."
She leans into the touch, her breath hitching slightly. "We made it."
"Yeah." I kiss her, slow and deep, tasting the scotch on her tongue and the victory in the air. "We did."
The car ride is a blur of neon lights passing through tinted windows, the city of Vegas blurring into a river of gold and purple.
I'm sitting in the backseat, Zoe pressed tight against my side, her head resting on my shoulder.
The silence inside the town car is heavy, a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the arena and the chaotic noise of the club.
My gaze drops to my hands. The tape is gone, the blood washed away, but the knuckles are still swollen.
I flex my fingers, feeling the ache in the joints.
It's a good ache. It's the feeling of a job finished.
I look out the window at the high-rises piercing the desert sky.
This city is built on risk, on people betting everything they have on a single roll of the dice.
Three years ago, I was a gamble. I was a liability with a toxic last name and a temper I couldn't control.
I look at the reflection of the penthouse in the distance.
The top floor of the Obsidian Tower. Zoe and I bought it six months ago.
We paid for every square foot of it with our own money.
The contracts I signed and the empire she built from scratch.
My father would hate it. He'd hate that I live in a glass box in the desert instead of a stone mansion in Rhode Island.
He'd hate that my wife wears pantsuits and runs a fashion empire.
The driver pulls up to the private entrance.
I tip him too much, just because I can, and usher Zoe into the elevator.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in the quiet mahogany and gold box.
The ascent is smooth, fast, lifting us away from the world.
I look at her. She's watching the numbers climb, her profile sharp and beautiful in the soft light.
She's still wearing my jacket over her dress, the black fabric swallowing her up.
The adrenaline is still humming in my veins, a live wire that doesn't know how to ground itself.
I step into her space, crowding her against the mirrored wall.
She just looks up at me, her eyes darkening.
"Gio," she warns, but it's weak.
I crash my mouth into hers. It's hungry, a desperate need to taste her, to consume her.
My hands roam under the jacket, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly how hard I am.
She gasps into my mouth, her hands tangling in my hair, tugging hard enough to sting.
I groan, biting her lower lip, soothing the sting with my tongue.
The scent of her—jasmine and expensive scotch—floods my senses.
The elevator chimes. The doors slide open. I break the kiss, breathing hard, resting my forehead against hers.
"Home."
"Home," she echoes.
We stumble into the foyer, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the Strip. I kick the door shut with my heel. I'm ready to take her right here against the glass, to fuck her until she forgets her own name, but she plants a hand in the center of my chest and pushes me back.
"Stop," she says, her voice firm.
I freeze, my chest heaving. "Zoe, I—"
"I have a surprise," she says, cutting me off. A smirk plays on her lips, dangerous and teasing. "If you want your victory lap, Rossi, you have to wait."
She shrugs out of my jacket, letting it drop to the floor.
Then she turns and walks toward the bathroom, her hips swaying with a deliberate, calculated grace.
The door clicks shut behind her. I stand there in the middle of the living room, heart hammering against my ribs, my cock aching.
I strip off my tie and unbutton the top few buttons of my shirt, trying to get some air.
The silence of the penthouse is heavy, broken only by the low hum of the HVAC and the distant, muffled sounds of the city below.
Minutes tick by. I pace the length of the rug.
I pour myself a glass of water from the bar and down it in one go just to give my hands something to do.
Then the bathroom door opens. She steps out into the low light of the bedroom.
The silk dress is gone. In its place is a reconstruction of my jersey.
Black mesh, sheer and delicate, stretches over her body.
Silver thread weaves through the lace, catching the ambient glow from the windows.
The number 98 is emblazoned across her chest in metallic foil, right over her tits.
*ROSSI* is spelled out across her ribs, the letters arching over her waist. The fabric is see-through.
I can see everything. The dark pink of her nipples, the curve of her hips, the strip of hair at the apex of her thighs.
She stands there, hands on her hips, letting me look. Letting me devour her with my eyes.
"Well?" she says, her voice dropping an octave. "What do you think?"
I stare at her, unable to form words. My cock kicks against my fly, throbbing with a need so violent it almost brings me to my knees.
"You wore my name," I say, my voice rough, scraping against my throat.
"I wear your ring," she says, lifting her left hand to display the diamond. "This is for you."
I crawl back up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her mouth.
She tastes like herself and me. We haven't used protection in two years.
We're building a life, not just fucking.
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me.
She straddles my hips, the mesh of the jersey stretching tight across her chest. Her eyes look down at me, wild, her hair a mess.
"Ride me, Zoe," I say, gripping her hips. "Take what's yours."
She rises up on her knees, reaching between us to line me up. She sinks down slowly, taking me inch by inch. The sight of my cock disappearing into her pussy is enough to make me lose my mind. I groan, my head falling back against the pillows.
"Fuck, Zoe. You feel so good."
"You're huge," she gasps, her nails digging into my abs as she takes all of me. She pauses, letting herself adjust to the stretch. Her pussy clenches around me, hot and tight and perfect.
"Move," I grit out, my hands sliding up her sides to cup her tits through the lace. "Ride me."
She starts to move. It's slow at first, a torturous rhythm that drags a guttural moan from my throat.
She rises up, the wet heat of her pussy sliding along my shaft, then slams back down, taking me to the root.
I watch her, mesmerized. The silver 98 on her chest glitters in the low light, jumping with every thrust. Her tits bounce in the mesh, her nipples hard points pressing against the fabric.
She's using me, chasing her own pleasure, and it's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen.
"Look at you," I say, my voice rough. "Wearing my name while you fuck me. So fucking dirty."
"Yours," she breathes, her head falling back. "All yours."
I sit up, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her flush against my chest. I bury my face in her neck, biting the sensitive skin there. She gasps, her rhythm faltering.
"Too slow," I growl against her skin.
I plant my feet on the mattress and take over. I thrust up into her, hard and deep. The control snaps. I'm done watching. I need to drive. She cries out, her arms wrapping around my shoulders, holding on for dear life.
"Gio!"
"Take it," I command, pistoning my hips. "Take this cock."
I fuck her like I won the Cup tonight—like I have something to prove. The bed creaks under us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. I reach between us, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles.
"Come for me, Zoe," I demand. "Squeeze me."
She lets out a broken sob, her body tightening like a bowstring. Her pussy clamps down on me, rippling around my dick, and she shatters. She screams my name, her whole body shaking as she comes. The sensation is too much. Her pulsing walls drag me over the edge with her.
"Fuck!" I roar, burying myself deep inside her.
I come hard, pouring myself into her, filling her up.
It's violent and intense, a release of three years of tension.
My vision whites out, my soul leaving my body.
I collapse back against the pillows, bringing her with me.
She collapses on my chest, boneless and spent.
We're both panting, our hearts racing in sync.
I stay inside her for a long time. Finally, I soften and slip out.
I watch my cum leak out of her, marking her, claiming her all over again.
My arms wrap around her, holding her tight against my chest. I trace the silver 98 on her lingerie with my thumb, the foil cool under my fingertips.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"Better than okay," she murmurs sleepily, her breath warm against my skin. "That was..."
"Yeah." I look up at the ceiling. The adrenaline is gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. I have the Cup. I have the legacy. I have the girl. The past is dead. The future is ours.
"We made it," I whisper.
She kisses my chest, right over my heart. "We did."
I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I'm just looking forward.