33. 33
back to friends – sombr
“ O kay, ladies. Kids are officially asleep, according to Grace. So, it’s show time!” Isla calls out, tossing her phone onto the couch.
“God, who even agreed to watching this show?” I mutter, curling deeper into the throw blanket on her couch.
We’re watching last season’s Bachelor, of all things .
“I swear, if one more guy cries on this show, I’m throwing the TV off the deck.
” Isla doesn’t even blink. “That’s the third time he’s cried tonight. He’s emotionally in touch.”
“He’s emotionally unhinged.”
Imogen tops up her glass of Moscato. “You hate this show.”
“I do.”
“And yet you’re still here.” Isla smirks.
I lift my wine. “Because the company’s tolerable.
” Dinner had been demolished earlier, after Isla’s girls made their appearance.
I’d officially met them for the first time before she dropped them off at Xavier’s mum’s place.
Callie, her eldest, gave me a solid forty minutes of stubborn silence before breaking into a barrage of toddler-level interrogation.
Isla had looked so damn proud. Her littlest, Gracie, with her soft curls and sticky fingers, had been quieter, clinging to her mum most of the evening.
Imogen’s two are staying with their grandmother tonight as well.
She’d joked about how lucky the grandmothers were, saying she missed them already, even though she also relished the peace.
Her face softened when she spoke about Joseph and Hope—especially Joseph, who she admitted was glued to Michael more than anyone.
I didn’t comment, just sipped my wine and nodded, but the thought stuck with me. The image of Michael—all brooding, unreadable, but way too cocky for his own good—being someone’s safe place. Someone’s favourite. Yeah, it’s ingrained in my head.
Imogen’s phone starts to ring. She sets her glass down with a frown. “It’s Xavier,” she says.
Isla leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Weird. Why is he calling you?”
Imogen answers. “Hey. What’s going on?” A long pause stalls the moment before her brows pull together. “Wait. What?”
Isla sits up straighter. “What do you mean what ?”
Imogen’s face is unreadable. Then she sighs. “Michael’s blind drunk. They tried to get an Uber home with him, but he’s refusing.”
She listens again.
“Oh,” she says, brows lifting. “He wants… Zoe?”
My stomach dips. “What the fuck?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.
Isla is grinning. Beaming, actually. Imogen looks at me when she says, “Yeah, we’ll come pick him up.”
Isla nudges her arm. “Put him on speaker.”
Imogen taps the screen. “Wait. We?” Xavier’s voice filters through, low and scratchy.
“Yeah. Me, Isla, and Zoe.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise you were together.”
“You don’t have to know everything we do,” Imogen says without missing a beat.
Xavier’s laugh rumbles through the speaker. “Isla, you there, baby?”
“Yep. How’s it going?”
“Well, apart from Michael about to have a breakdown, we’re having a good time.”
“Hopefully not too much of a good time.”
“Not without you, princess.”
I roll my eyes. What is in the water in this town? Are all men the same? Someone calls out in the background. The voice I know unmistakably is Harrison’s.
“Are they coming or what?”
“Yeah, we’re coming,” Imogen confirms, already on her feet.
“Thanks, mama,” Harrison says. “Xav said to take his Tacoma.”
Isla grabs the keys from the bowl by the door and ends the call.
Imogen grabs her bag. “You ready?”
I hesitate, only slightly. “God, help me. He’s already a pain to deal with in general. I can’t imagine him drunk.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Exactly.”
I was right. Normal Michael is moody, sarcastic, and impossible to read.
Drunk Michael?
Holy fuck. He’s affectionate.
When we pull up outside Vinette, he’s leaning against the wall outside the bar, arms crossed, head down. As soon as he sees me, his whole face changes—eyes lighting up, shoulders relaxing. That smug, uneven smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Bradley is standing off to the side, arms folded. I offer him a small wave and an even smaller, awkward smile.
Xavier’s already walking over. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. He hasn’t shut up about you all night.”
Harrison throws an arm around me and pulls me in for a quick hug. “It’s actually disgusting. Couldn’t shut him up. Everything’s Zoe this, Zoe that.”
I flush, heat crawling up my neck. Michael takes a slow step forward.
“Freckles! You came.”
I shrug, keeping my voice light. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”
He grins. “I don’t do subtle. Not when it comes to you.”
My chest tightens, and I hate how much it does. Because this? This man, drunk and leaning too heavily into the soft parts of himself. He’s dangerous in a way I never expected.
Getting him into the car is a full team effort. Harrison tries his hardest to pick him up and physically put him in the ute. That doesn’t work. Eventually, Michael agrees, but only when he sees me grab the door handle.
“You’re leaving me?” he asks, eyes wide, like I’m about to board a ship and disappear forever.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
Big mistake. Because now he’s glued to my side in the back seat of Xavier’s Tacoma, head heavy on my shoulder, his palm splayed low on my thigh. We said goodbye to the others. Xavier and Harrison promised they’d be home soon. Imogen climbed into the front passenger seat. Isla’s driving. And me?
I’m currently regretting everything.
Michael’s long legs take up too much room. He smells like alcohol and something spicy, something distinctly him , and I’m trying really hard to ignore the way my pulse is hammering against my skin. He leans forward suddenly and taps Isla on the shoulder. “You’re very pretty, y’know that?”
Isla snorts. “Oh my God. He’s so shit-faced.”
Michael turns to Imogen. “You’re scary, but also pretty.”
Imogen laughs. “Thanks, Mikey. I work hard at both.”
He turns to me, gaze locking with mine in the dark, his voice low, like a whisper, but not nearly quiet enough. “I missed you.” Oh, no. His fingers flex slightly against my thigh. “You look really fucking pretty tonight. Always so sexy.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Michael.”
“I wanna kiss you.”
“Oh my God ,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.
Isla bites back a laugh. “I mean, you kind of have to let him now. He’s too far gone to reason with.”
Imogen nods, turning with a huge grin. “Yeah, just let him have his little moment. He’s unwell.”
“Unwell?” I hiss. “He’s feral.”
Michael doesn’t stop. His hand drags higher along my thigh, warm and slow. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”
“Nope.”
“Your thighs.”
“Michael,” I warn.
He leans in, breath hot against my ear. “Around my face.”
I jump, swatting at his arm. “ Oh my God . Michael, we are not alone. Shut your mouth!”
Isla is full-on laughing now, and Imogen’s face is turned to the window. Her shoulders are shaking from how hard she’s trying to hold it in.
Michael is relentless. “Zoe, please ,” he whispers, voice all husky and low and way too dangerous for the back of a moving vehicle. “I need you. Been wanting you all night.”
My stomach flips. “Michael, stop.”
His mouth grazes my neck before I can pull away, lips warm against my skin, his teeth dragging along the base of my throat. Holy shit. I should push him off. I should tell him to stop. But I’m frozen. And I’d be lying if his words didn’t go straight to my core.
I’m not just turned on. I’m painfully turned on.
“Need to have my mouth on you,” he mumbles, lips trailing along my jaw. “Wanna taste you again, wanna put my cock in your—”
I slap a hand over his mouth, eyes snapping to Isla’s in the rearview mirror.
“My, my. Shall I pull over?” she asks sweetly, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Absolutely the fuck not.” As I grit that out, Michael licks the inside of my palm. “ Oh my God ,” I yelp, yanking my hand away and smacking his chest.
Imogen’s cackling in the front seat now, with actual tears. Isla’s face is red, but she’s somehow managing to keep the car on the road. I’m mortified. So mortified.
Because they’ve heard everything. Every filthy, possessive, slurred declaration. And the worst part? The very worst part? I like it.
I’m so far gone, it’s embarrassing. And I don’t even care. Because this drunk, messy, way-too-honest version of Michael? He might be the first man who’s ever made me feel truly wanted—loudly, shamelessly, and without hesitation. And something about that feels dangerously good.
His hand is still on my thigh. Not just resting now, stroking . Squeezing. His fingertips skim the inside, just above my knee, before trailing higher, grazing over the seam of my shorts.
Isla clears her throat. “I’m not looking, just so we’re clear. So, you kids have fun.”
“Don’t encourage him!” The words barely leave my mouth before Michael takes them as permission. He grabs my jaw with one hand, fingers warm against my cheek, and turns my face toward him. His lips crash into mine, and I gasp, caught completely off guard.
He tastes like scotch, mint, and trouble.
The kiss is messy. Sloppy. Hot . His tongue sweeps against mine with zero finesse and even less patience. It’s needy and possessive, and I should absolutely push him off. But I don’t.
I can’t .
I kiss him back. Hard.
His piercing catches against my tongue, and my whole body reacts.
I’d almost forgotten about it. Until now.
The first time I felt it, I remember thinking it was different.
Unexpected. A little wild. Now? It feels like trouble.
Delicious, magnetic trouble. And don’t even get me started on what it feels like when he’s eating me out with it. I might combust just thinking about it.
His hand tightens on my thigh, and I moan into his mouth before I can stop it. Yeah, I’m in so much trouble. My fingers grip his shirt. His hand is still on my leg, pulling me closer like he’d crawl inside my skin if I let him. I eventually pull away, all breathless and stunned.
“Well,” Imogen says, breaking the silence. “ That went quiet for a moment.”
I rub the back of my hand across my mouth. “Don’t act like you didn’t hear it coming.”
Isla grins into the rearview mirror. “We’re almost home. Then you can have all the fun you want.”
Michael groans, head falling back against the seat. “I’m gonna eat her out until she forgets her own name.”
“ Jesus Christ! ” I slap his arm. “Michael!”
He leans in again, nuzzling his nose against my neck. “What? I missed you.”
Imogen is howling in the front seat. Isla’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. I glare out the window, cheeks flaming. I should be mortified. No. I am. We have established this.
But I’m also now clenching my thighs so hard I might snap in half.
Because despite everything—his filthy mouth, his slurred words, his absolute lack of shame—he’s not just saying it. He means it.
And God help me… I want to hear every word.