Elena squeals, actually squeals, and wanders off to make the call. Zoë turns back to me, arching a brow. "You were quiet."
"I was listening," I say, brushing a kiss against her jaw. "You're a fucking powerhouse, Mrs. Rossi."
"I know," she says, picking up her glass. "But keep saying it. I like the way it sounds."
The noise of the party finally recedes, fading into the background like static. I pull her closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. Her body is soft and solid against mine, grounding me.
"Look at us, Mrs. Rossi," I murmur against her temple.
She tilts her head, her eyes finding mine. The sharpness is still there, the intelligence, but the guard is down. "We're a mess, Gio."
"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, Zoë 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. Zoë and I bought it six months ago. We paid for every square foot of it with our own money. Thecontracts 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 Zoë 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. "Zoë, 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, Zoë," 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.
