He looks at me, his gaze wild, feral. He thrusts harder, deeper, grinding his pelvis against my clit. The friction is electric.
“Are you going to come for me?” I ask, my voice breathless, challenging him. “Are you going to fill me up right here while they’re right outside?”
His eyes narrow. He bares his teeth, a snarl ripping from his throat. “Fucking make me.”
That’s it. That’s the spark.
My inner muscles tighten, squeezing him as hard as I can. His thrusts meet mine as I roll my hips, taking him as deepas he can go. The high takes over—the adrenaline, the sheer, overwhelming sensation of being possessed by him.
The voices get louder. They’re just outside the door now.
“Fuck,” Gio hisses, his rhythm turning erratic. “Zoë.”
“Come on,” I goad him, my nails scraping down his back. “Give it to me.”
He slams into me one last time, hard enough to bruise, and stills. His whole body goes rigid, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face in my neck to muffle the sound. I feel him pulse inside me, the heat of his release filling the condom, triggering my own orgasm.
I shatter, my back arching off the lockers, my pussy clenching around him in rhythmic waves. It’s a silent scream, a violent implosion that leaves me gasping for air, my limbs trembling.
We stay like that for a long moment, pinned together, the only sound in the room our ragged breathing. The cold metal seeps into my back, but I only feel him.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers me to the ground. My legs are shaky, barely holding me up. He pulls out, dealing with the condom with quick, efficient movements, and then pulls his pants up. My leggings come next, dragged back into place with fumbling fingers.
Wrecked is the only word for how I feel. Powerful, too.
Gio turns back to me, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s a gentle gesture, incongruous with the violence of what we just did. He looks at me, his eyes softening, the predator retreating back into the human.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone.
“You love it,” I say, smoothing down my shirt.
“Yeah,” he admits, a crooked smile touching his lips. “I do.”
The door to the ice bursts open, and the noise of the team floods the room—shouting, laughter, the thud of equipment bagshitting the floor. Gio steps in front of me, blocking their view, giving me a second to compose myself. He grabs his jersey from the bench, turning to face his teammates.
“Good practice, Rossi!” someone shouts.
“Fuck yeah,” Gio says, his voice steady, calm. “We killed it.”
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Chapter 37
Gio
The late afternoon sun is weak, filtering through the skeletal branches of the oak trees that line the quad. It’s cold, the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones and promises a harsh winter to come. But walking next to Zoë, I don’t feel it.
She’s a furnace in her leather jacket, her hand tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, a proprietary claim that feels more real than any contract my father ever signed. We’re not talking. The silence between us is comfortable, filled with the unspoken victory of the last twenty-four hours. My disinheritance. Her internship. The locker room. It’s a new foundation, built on rubble and sex and something terrifyingly close to peace.
I’m turning us toward the path that leads back to my dorm when I see him. Rylan. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak, one booted foot propped against the bark, tryingfor a casual, indifferent pose. A tight, coiled rage radiates off him. White knuckles clamp around the strap of his backpack. Those eyes are locked on us—more specifically, on Zoë’s hand in my pocket.
My entire body goes rigid. Every instinct I have screams at me to push Zoë behind me, to close the distance, to wipe that smug, entitled look off his face with my fists. I stop walking, planting my feet. Zoë’s hand tenses in my pocket, but she doesn’t pull away. She just turns with me, a solid, silent presence at my side.
Rylan pushes off the tree, moving to block our path. He’s looking directly at Zoë, a venomous smirk twisting his lips.
“Zoë,” he says, his voice deceptively light. “Slumming it, I see. Or is this just… charity work? Making sure the poor little rich boy doesn’t starve now that Daddy’s cut him off?”
His insult lands weak, a child’s taunt. I feel the old fire lick at my ribs, but I shove it down. I stand there, a wall of muscle and indifference.
