29. ZARA
ZARA
Pickup
“Jax?” I whisper, my voice barely steady.
He looks at me, something deep and certain in his eyes. “We got it.”
The words hit me all at once. Like something unlocking inside my chest. Like everything that’s been tight and heavy and waiting finally… letting go.
And then I’m moving. I don’t even think about it—I just cross the space between us in two quick steps and throw my arms around him.
He catches me instantly, like he was already bracing for it, his arms wrapping around me just as tightly.
“We did it,” I say into his chest, my voice breaking a little despite myself.
“We did,” he murmurs.
His hand slides up my back, steady, grounding, holding me there like he’s not letting go anytime soon.
We won.
I pull back just enough to look at him, my heart still racing, my eyes burning a little.
He reaches for the wine, pressing my glass back into my hand before lifting his own.
“To us,” he says.
Something in my chest swells so big it almost hurts.
My fingers brush his as I lift my glass, still smiling like I’ve completely lost control of my face.
“To us,” I echo.
We clink glasses.
I take a sip, the wine warm and unfamiliar on my tongue, and then I let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, shaking my head.
“I think… I think this is the best day of my life,” I admit.
He watches me, smiling just as wide.
“Let me see if I can make it even better,” he says, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs into his bedroom.
We’ve kissed so often now, but each one has been different. This one feels like everything that stood between us—doubt, pressure, fear—is finally gone.
There’s nothing in our way anymore.
His hands tremble slightly as he pulls me closer, and I feel that tremor all the way through my chest.
This man—this steady, unshakeable coach who commands respect from a whole locker room of athletes—is shaking.
“Zara,” he breathes against my mouth. “I don’t know how I deserve this much happiness.”
I answer by pressing up on my toes, slanting my lips over his again, deeper this time.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste the wine he had earlier—just a sip, enough to warm him—and underneath that, something purely Jaxon.
Something I haven’t stopped craving since our first night together.
His fingers find the hem of my sweater, and he stills.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. Dark. Hungry. But waiting.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, a smile threading through my voice.
That's all he needs.
The sweater comes over my head in one smooth motion, and then his hands are everywhere.
Skimming up my ribs. Tracing the edge of my bra. His calloused palms catch slightly on the lace, and the friction sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I arch into his touch, and he groans—a low, rough sound that I feel more than hear.
"You have no idea," he says, his voice thick as his mouth trails down my neck, "what you do to me."
"Tell me." I'm working at the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. "Tell me what I do to you."
“Since the first fucking day.” He nips at my collarbone, and I gasp. “I’ve wanted you. I still do.”
He presses his hard length against me. “This is what you do to me. All. The. Fucking. Time.”
I get the last button undone and push the shirt off his shoulders.
Once again I marvel over his broad shoulders.
There’s a dusting of light hair that trails down his stomach, disappearing beneath the denim.
My hands map him—over his shoulders, across his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palm.
“I love you, Jaxon,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you so much.”
He turns us then, walking me backward until my knees hit the edge of the mattress.
I sit down hard, looking up at him through my lashes, and his expression shifts—something darker taking over. He cups my face in both hands, tilting my head back.
“I love you too, Zara,” he says, low and intense.
Then he kisses me again, following me down onto the bed, his weight settling over me as I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer.
The hard ridge of his cock presses against my core through too many layers of fabric, and I rock against him instinctively.
"Fuck, Zara." His voice breaks on my name.
His hand slides between us, working at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help him, and he peels them down my thighs, taking my underwear with them.
The cool air hits my heated skin, and then his fingers are there—sliding through my wetness, exploring.
"God, Zara." He growls my name, his mouth hot against my neck. "You have such a perfect little pussy. Always so wet and ready for me."
"Only for you," I manage, the confession coming out breathless.
He finds my clit with his thumb, circling with just the right pressure, and I cry out.
My hands fist in the comforter, twisting the fabric as pleasure builds in waves. One finger slides inside me, then two, curling to find that spot that makes my vision blur.
"Jaxon—"
"I've got you." His mouth replaces his thumb, his tongue dragging over my clit while his fingers continue their steady rhythm.
My back arches off the bed.
The scruff on his jaw scratches against my inner thighs, and the slight pain mixes with the pleasure until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
I'm close—so close—my thighs trembling on either side of his head.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, his hot breath vibrating against me. “So wet. So perfect.”
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me in pulsing waves, and I'm saying his name, over and over, like it's the only word I know.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my hips, my stomach, the curve of my breast still trapped in my bra.
When I open my eyes, he's watching me.
His lips are swollen and glistening, his eyes nearly black with desire. He reaches behind me to unclasp my bra, tossing it aside, and then he just... looks.
"You're beautiful." The words are rough, reverent. "Every fucking inch of you."
I reach for his belt, needing him bare, needing to feel all of him against all of me. He helps me, shoving his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion.
His cock springs free, thick and hard. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, twice, and his head falls back with a low, guttural groan.
“Zara.” My name is a warning and a plea. “I need—”
“I know.” I reach for the nightstand, my fingers trembling as I find a foil packet.
He watches me, his breath hitching as I tear it open.
I place the latex against his head and roll it down, my knuckles brushing against his heat.
He’s pulsing beneath my touch, straining with a restraint that looks like physical pain.
“Me too,” I whisper, discarding the wrapper and guiding him to my entrance.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch.
The stretch is exquisite—fullness and friction and the overwhelming rightness of having him inside me.
When he's fully seated, he stills, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
“Can you take this?”
“You know I can.”
“Such a good girl,” he praises, and God, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
I open my eyes. His gaze holds mine as he pulls back, then slides home again.
The pace he sets is slow, deliberate—each thrust deep and measured, like he wants me to feel every inch of him, every moment of this connection.
"From now on," he rasps, his voice breaking. "It’s the two of us. You’re my fucking wife."
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, dragging him down. "I know. I am."
His rhythm increases slightly, his hips snapping against mine with more urgency.
I meet him thrust for thrust, my body rising to his, and the room fills with the sounds of the creak of the mattress beneath us.
"Harder," I whisper against his ear. "I won't break."
A sound tears from his chest—something between a growl and a moan—and he obeys.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm.
I'm building again, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
"Come with me," I gasp. "Jaxon, please—"
"Fuck, yes." His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and that's all it takes.
We fall together.
My orgasm crashes through me at the same moment I feel him pulse inside, hot and thick.
He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name, and I hold him through it—through the tremors that shake us both, through the slow return to earth.
When our breathing finally steadies, he doesn't pull out. Instead, he shifts us onto our sides, tucking me against his chest, his still-semi-hard cock nestled inside me.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.
"I love you," he murmurs into my hair.
I tilt my head up to look at him. In the dim light, I see the vulnerability in his expression—the same raw, terrifying, wonderful vulnerability I feel in my own chest.
“I love you, too,” I tell him.
***
The next day, I’m a little early to pick Lily up from school.
She’ll be happy about that. She likes it when I’m already waiting when the bell rings. Says it makes her feel like she’s the first kid in the world someone came for.
The thought pulls a smile from me.
The spring air is cool enough that I’m glad for the light sweater I threw on before leaving the apartment.
I quickly type a message to Danny.
Me:
We got it!
Danny:
Woohoo! Congratulations! I couldn’t be happier for you!
Danny:
How’s your husband?
I ignore the eggplant emoji he sent.
Me:
Over the moon and in love.
Danny:
Ugh. You two are sickening.
Me:
Love you too.
I tuck my phone away and head toward the front entrance, passing a row of cheerful chalk drawings fading on the sidewalk—flowers, suns, a lopsided rainbow. Someone’s attempt at a dog that looks more like a potato with legs.
Lily had insisted this morning that she was going to draw me a dragon this afternoon if she got free art time.
I told her I would frame it.
She’d narrowed her eyes at me over her cereal. “You better not be lying.”