"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.
Zoë 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, Zoë. 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 Zoë 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."
"Zoë," 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.
