37. 37
Questions – CJ Fam
“ Z oe,” Michael warns, his voice thick with lust and slight impatience. “Get up here before I make you.”
I blink up at the ceiling, heart stuttering, thighs trembling.
Holy hell. This is not how I expected to start race day.
Not in his bed. Not in his space. It’s my first time here—his granny flat tucked out the back of the Price property.
Two bedrooms. A kitchen that’s clearly seen more takeout than cooking.
Bare walls. A couch too small for someone his size, a TV that’s probably never turned on unless Joseph demands Bluey .
It’s… cute. But empty.
Like he’s been living here without ever truly living in it.
Like he’s never felt safe enough to make it his own.
And yet here I am, in his room, in nothing but my underwear.
Legs shaky, self-conscious as all fuck, because the man who just growled at me has insisted—no, demanded—that I sit on his face.
A groan slips past my lips as I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is apparently his pre-race ritual now.
And not just some flirty pre-race superstition he jokes about.
No. He means it.
In the lead-up to today, he practised twice. Two unofficial races. Both times, he needed me. Dragged me close and worshipped me like I was part of the engine that kept him running. Like I was his edge. His fuel. His fucking good luck charm.
But this?
This isn’t just him going down on me—he’s done that plenty, with such addictive, reverent devotion that I’ve started fantasising about it in traffic, at home whilst I’m doing literally anything—this is different.
This is submission.
Michael is flat on his back, sprawled out and waiting, arms folded behind his head like the cocky bastard he is.
His shirt’s somewhere on the floor, sculpted muscles on full display.
Sunlight pours through the curtains, bathing everything in gold.
The light hits the curve of his jaw, the edge of his shoulder, the thick lashes over eyes that are dark and burning only for me.
Am here I am, hovering above him, thighs spread, nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to run. He looks like sin in human form. And I feel like a fucking fraud in his bed.
We’ve had sex. He’s seen me naked more times than I can count now.
But this is different. Just me, about to straddle this man’s face, every inch of me bare with nowhere left to hide.
And yeah, of course I’m going to feel shy.
There’s something disarming about giving myself over like this, about being seen so openly by a man who looks at me like I’m something he’s starving for.
I shuffle closer, knees hitting the mattress on either side of his chest.
“Hands on the headboard, baby, and lift your hips for me,” he rasps, slapping my ass softly.
“What if I… suffocate you?” I counter, my cheeks burning.
His grin is slow and wicked. “You won’t, Freckles. But what a way to go.”
I snort, biting back the laugh that threatens to betray how nervous I actually am. Heat blooms beneath the surface, crawling up my throat and settling there. He sits up slightly, curls his fingers around my hip, like he’s grounding me. “Do you trust me?”
My chest aches. I nod.
His eyes hold mine. “Then let me have this,” he says. “Let me have you.”
And I do. God, I do. Just like every other time. I inch forward, letting myself settle above him, and his breath fans against my inner thigh, then my pussy, and I nearly gasp. Then, without warning, he pulls me down.
The first stroke of his tongue is devastating. A broken moan rips from me. My hands fly to the headboard, desperate for something to hold onto. My hips jerk forward on instinct, and his groan vibrates through me like a thunderclap.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, head falling back.
Michael doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause to tease or play. He devours me. His stubble scrapes my inner thighs. His tongue licks and sucks with unrelenting focus, like a man starved. Like he won’t stop until I’ve come undone across his mouth. Like he’s imprinting his name into my bones.
“Fuck, yes,” he rasps into me. “You taste like sin, baby. Like this cunt was made for me.”
My thighs quiver against his cheeks, his grip bruising at my hips as he grinds me down harder. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but feel . He tilts his head, eyes flicking up. His voice is raw when he speaks again.
“Eyes on me. Watch me while I ruin you.”
I do, and everything else falls away. Any doubt. Insecurity. Gone. All that remains is his mouth, the sharp scrape of stubble, the wet, obscene sound of his tongue dragging through my labia, and the hungry hum vibrating in his chest.
He sucks softly, then harder, until the pressure coils tight in my belly.
Each pull makes my spine arch, makes my fingers claw at the headboard.
Then he releases me with a filthy pop, the sound of suction breaking in the quiet room.
That familiar feeling of ecstasy builds and builds until I finally break.
And when I do—when I fall apart above him—he doesn’t stop.
Not until I’m wrung out and trembling, clinging to the headboard, hips twitching from overstimulation.
Eventually, he slows. Kisses the inside of my thigh once.
Twice. When I manage to climb off him, collapsing beside him in his bed, he drapes an arm across my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Now go get dressed,” he murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “You’ve already given me the win.”
I arrive at my parents’ place in a daze. Still reeling from the morning—my legs unsteady, my thighs sore in the best goddamn way. I’d kissed Michael goodbye with shaking lips, gone home to change, and paced my living room for almost an hour before deciding to bite the bullet.
To come here. To face this.
Sunlight floods the living room, spilling through the sheer curtains as if the world outside isn’t shifting beneath my feet. My pulse thuds behind my ears, a rhythmic reminder of everything that’s changed since the last time I stood in this doorway. They’re both in the living room.
Mum’s curled up in her usual spot, cardigan sleeves rolled to the elbows, knitting in her lap. Dad’s nursing a mug of tea he probably reheated twice.
“Zoe.” Dad’s voice is cautious. Measured. “How are you, love?”
I force a breath. “Fine.”
A lie. But there’s too much here to unpack. I flick my gaze to my mother, and that fire in my belly rises. “Why would you talk to Liam?”
She sets her knitting down slowly. “Zoe…”
“No. I need an answer. Why would you tell him where I fucking live?” My voice cracks, rising despite my best efforts. “I can’t fucking believe you gave him that information. After everything.”
Her shoulders droop. “He said he wanted to make amends. That he was sorry. He told me he didn’t want conflict anymore. He seemed—”
“Genuine? Actually sorry?” A hollow laugh breaks in my throat. I shake my head, stunned. “And you believed him? After everything I told you?”
She doesn’t answer.
“What if he did something? What if he’d shown up angry or worse? You’re lucky I wasn’t alone.” I feel the heat burning behind my eyes. “You’re lucky I had my friends with me.”
I don’t mention what actually happened. The tension. Michael throwing the first punch. The venom Liam literally spat at me, his smugness. The rage I barely choked down. I leave it all unspoken.
Her voice softens. “Zoe, I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.” I pause, swallowing the lump clawing at my throat. “You told him to never contact you again. That’s what you told me, right?” My tone comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.
Her lips tighten. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve handled it differently.” There’s a sliver of silence before her expression shifts, eyes narrowing slightly.
“But Zoe,” she says, “why didn’t you tell me about going to Sydney? Why didn’t you say you were going to face him again?”
Dad’s eyes narrow as he speaks. “And you went alone? Jesus, Zoe. The least you could’ve done was tell us where you were.”
“I don’t need to tell you everything I do.”
Mum opens her mouth, but I don’t stop. “I warned you about what happened. I trusted you with that. And you still gave him a way back in because you thought he could suddenly be genuine? That he wanted to make peace?” I scoff, shaking my head.
“Cheaters are never sorry, mother. Abusers don’t ever change.
They manipulate, twist, make you question everything until you’re the one apologising for bleeding. ”
She looks like she wants to say something, but I barrel forward, adding, “And I didn’t go alone . I had a friend with me.”
The word hits my tongue wrong. Friend. That’s not what he is. Not anymore. Whatever this thing between me and Michael is, it’s past that. It’s deeper. Scarier.
Dad raises his brow. “And this friend of yours? That wouldn’t happen to be that boy? The mechanic?”
My stomach tightens. “Why does it matter?”
His jaw flexes. “Because he’s a boy. A little too young for you to be prancing around with.”
My breath hitches. “Why does it bother you who I spend time with?”
“I don’t think you should be hanging around him.”
I let out a low, humourless laugh. “Last time I checked, Dad, I’m not a child.”
“Exactly!” he snaps, his voice louder now. “So start acting like an adult.”
The words slice straight through me. Mum flinches, turning to him. “Hank—”
But I can’t look at either of them. Not now. My chest aches. My hands are fists at my sides. “I came here trying to do the right thing. To talk, to fucking show up,” I say, breath trembling. “You think that’s easy for me?”
“Zoe…” Mum’s voice breaks. I blink quickly, but the tears come anyway.
I look at Dad, and the betrayal curls deep in my chest. “You were the last person I expected judgement from. Mum, maybe. But not you. Never you.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I check the time, and my stomach drops. Fuck. I’m late. The race has already started.
“I have to go.”
Mum steps forward. “Zoe, just stay.”
“For what?” I ask. “So we can pretend this conversation didn’t happen? So I can shrink myself back down to make you comfortable?”
I sling my bag over my shoulder, my movements stiff.
“If you won’t try to understand, then don’t expect to see much of me.
” I turn to the door. My voice steadies as I look over my shoulder.
“But just know, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying.
Right here. In this small town. And if this doesn’t get resolved, if you can’t accept who I am now?
Then the ghost of your daughter is all you’ll ever get. ”
I leave before they can answer. The screen door bangs shut behind me. But I keep walking. Down the driveway. Into the sunlight. Toward something—someone—that feels a hell of a lot more like home than this ever has.