I pull back, resting my forehead against hers.
“Done?” she murmurs.
“Done.”
I lace my fingers through hers, and we walk toward the locker room exit, leaving the chaos behind us. Flashes strobe against the walls, lighting our way into the dark.
Behind us, the heavy steel security door swings shut, cutting off the roar of the arena and the shriek of the reporters. Silence in the back alley is instant and sharp, ringing in my ears.
I don’t let go of her hand. My grip is tight, sweaty, and desperate.
“Car,” I say, spotting the black SUV idling at the curb.
I open the door for her, watching as she slides in. Leather creaks as she settles, and I catch a flash of thigh when she swings her legs inside. She’s wearing those boots—the heavy, heeledones from the gala. The ones that make her legs look like fucking weaponry.
I get in after her, slamming the door. The driver hits the gas before we even have our seatbelts on.
Adrenaline is still humming in my veins, a high-voltage current that won’t shut off. My heart is hammering against my ribs.
The quiet in the back of the car is heavy. Thick.
I look over at her. Zoë is staring out the window, watching the city lights blur, but I can see the pulse in her neck, hammering just as fast as mine.
“You’re loud,” she says, her voice low.
“What?”
“Your breathing.” She turns her head, eyes cutting through the dark interior, pinning me. “You’re panting, Gio.”
I lean back, spreading my legs, trying to relieve the pressure in my groin. “I just won the fucking Frozen Four, Zoë. 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.
