"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, Zoë.”
“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.
