Chapter Twenty-One
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Jax
Jax’s birthday landed on qualifying day in Montreal, and the weekend already felt heavier than it should. He’d turned twenty-nine under a grey Canadian sky, the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve still damp from overnight rain, the paddock alive with the usual pre-race chaos.
His phone rang early that morning while he was still in the hotel room, coffee in hand. Nan’s name lit up the screen—right on time, like always.
“Happy birthday, my boy!” Her familiar voice burst through, bright and full of pride. “Twenty-nine already. Slow down or you’ll be older than me before I know it.”
Jax smiled, leaning against the window. “Thanks, Nan. Means a lot you called.”
“How’s my favourite driver feeling? Ready to show them how it’s done today?”
“Yeah, the car’s feeling good. Qualifying this afternoon.” He paused, then asked gently, “How’s your friend doing? The one from Bridge who was starting treatment?”
There was a beat of silence. “Friend?” Nan sounded genuinely confused for a second.
“The one you were taking to her appointments,” Jax reminded her. “Back in Melbourne weekend. You said she was nervous about going alone.”
“Oh! Yes, of course.” Her voice turned a touch flustered, the words coming a little too quickly. “She’s doing okay, love. Doctors think they always know best, don’t they? But she’s hanging in there.”
Jax’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright, Nan? You sound a bit off.”
“Of course, love. Everything’s fine.” She recovered smoothly, warmth flooding back in. “Now tell me—is that lovely girlfriend of yours coming out to spend your birthday with you? I keep seeing those photos. She seems like a keeper.”
Jax’s chest tightened. “No, she’s stuck in the studio. Tight recording schedule. But we’ll catch up in a few weeks.”
“Ah, well. You young ones and your busy lives.” Nan chuckled, the sound warm and teasing. “Just make sure you give her a proper kiss when you see her. And maybe don’t wait until you’re thirty to put a ring on it, eh? I want great-grandkids before I’m too old to spoil them rotten.”
Jax laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Message received, Nan. Loud and clear.”
“That’s my boy. Now go win that race for me. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up smiling, but the brief hesitation in her voice lingered. Something still felt off, yet he pushed it aside. Race weekend waited for no one.
Qualifying went clean: P2 on the grid. Solid.
The car felt alive—sharp turn-in, planted rear, enough downforce to carry speed through the final chicane.
He climbed out of the cockpit, helmet hair plastered, and scanned the garage anyway.
No oversized hoodie. No familiar smile waiting at the barriers.
Just engineers, mechanics, and the quiet hum of post-session debrief.
Race day dawned cold and bright. The grid hummed—engines revving, crowd roaring, the Wall of Champions looming like a warning.
Lights out. Clean start. He held P2 through Turn 1 and began hunting the leader lap by lap.
The car responded perfectly—balanced, responsive, every input translating exactly the way he wanted.
He took the lead on lap 18 with a clean pass into the hairpin, defended hard through two restarts, nursed the tires through the final stint, and crossed the line first. His maiden win of the season.
The Montreal crowd erupted. The team radio exploded with shouts, Marcus’s voice cracking with pride. He pulled into parc fermé, killed the engine, and sat there for a second—chest heaving, hands shaking on the wheel. Then he climbed out, ripped off the helmet, and let the roar wash over him.
On the podium he stood on the top step, spraying champagne wide, grinning for the cameras as the flag whipped in the wind. But when he looked down toward the garage, the usual spot where Aria stood clapping was empty. The win felt hollow.
He called her as soon as he could slip away from media—still in his race suit, tucked into a quiet corner of the paddock with his back against a stack of tires. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey, champ.”
He exhaled, long and shaky. “You watched?”
“Every lap.” Her voice was soft, warm, a little hoarse like she’d been shouting at the TV. “I’m so proud of you, Jax. You were incredible.”
He closed his eyes. “Wished you were here.”
A small pause. “I know. I’m sorry. Studio ran long. I couldn’t get out.”
He swallowed the ache. “It’s okay. You told me. I get it.”
Another pause—longer this time. “Happy birthday, by the way. A little late.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Best gift was the win. Second best would’ve been seeing you clap like a superfan from the garage.”
She laughed, soft and real. “Next time. Promise.”
They talked for a few more minutes—easy and quiet. When they hung up he felt lighter, but not whole.
The team party was in a small club near the track—music pulsing, champagne flowing, engineers and mechanics laughing too loud.
He stayed longer than he wanted to: smiled for photos, accepted back-slaps, bought a round when someone called for it.
But the high from the win was already fading, replaced by the quiet hollow where she should have been.
He slipped out early, headed back to the team hotel alone. The hotel bar was quiet—low lights, soft jazz, a handful of late-night drinkers. He ordered a beer and sat at the corner table, staring at the label without really seeing it.
That was when she approached. Mid-twenties, dark hair, tight dress, smile too bright. “Huge congrats on the win,” she said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “I watched every lap. You were unreal.”
He gave her the polite grin he reserved for fans and sponsors. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
She leaned closer. “Buy you a drink? Least I can do for the new championship leader.”
He laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m good, thanks. Just winding down.”
She didn’t take the hint. Kept talking—fast, flirty, hand brushing his arm, compliments growing bolder. He stayed friendly but short, trying not to offend her. Then she moved fast—cupped his face and kissed him. Hard. Wet. Uninvited.
A camera flash popped from the corner.
He froze for half a second, then pushed her back gently but firmly. “No,” he said, voice low and clear. “Not interested.”
She flushed—embarrassed, angry—muttered something and left.
He sat there, heart hammering, skin still crawling.
The old Jax might have shrugged it off. Not anymore.
The thought of anyone else touching him felt wrong.
Intrusive. Like a violation of something that had stopped being pretend a long time ago.
He paid his tab and headed straight to his room, needing to call Aria and warn her before the photo hit the internet.
He opened his hotel room door. And froze.
Aria was on the bed—black lace teddy, barely-there straps, legs crossed, propped on one elbow like she’d been waiting for him all night. Hair loose. Eyes dark. Smile slow and wicked.
“Happy birthday, champ.”
He couldn’t speak. She slid off the bed and walked toward him—slow, deliberate—hips swaying just enough to make his mouth go dry. She stopped in front of him, rose on her toes, and kissed him soft and teasing.
“Sit,” she whispered, guiding him to the armchair in the corner.
He sat—quickly, almost without thinking, legs giving way under the weight of her gaze.
She knelt between his thighs, hands steady as they worked his belt and zipper. A low groan escaped him when she eased him free—already hard, already wanting. She looked up through her lashes, lips parting in a slow, knowing smile, then leaned in and took him into her mouth.
Slow. Warm. Perfect.
Her tongue moved gently at first—soft, teasing strokes that made him sigh, head tipping back against the chair.
He slid his fingers into her hair—careful, reverent—as she took him deeper, lips closing around him with easy warmth.
She moved unhurriedly—rising and falling, cheeks hollowing just enough to draw another quiet sound from him, a soft hum vibrating through him in return.
“Aria…” he breathed, hips shifting once, helplessly.
She met his eyes again—dark, steady, faintly glistening—and sank further, holding him there for a long, still moment before easing back. Then forward once more—rhythm steady now, one hand joining to stroke in time with her mouth, gentle and sure.
He trembled beneath her—thighs tight, fingers curling in her hair, breath coming faster, ragged.
She didn’t falter—kept the same patient pace, the same focused attention, as if this moment belonged to both of them equally.
The warmth, the closeness, the way she watched him—it coiled tighter inside him, urgent and inevitable.
“Aria—I’m close—” he managed, voice rough.
She hummed softly—encouraging—and took him deeper still, staying with him as release hit—hard and shuddering, a low groan breaking from his throat, the world narrowing to just her.
She pulled back slowly, pressing a soft kiss to his thigh before rising, eyes bright with quiet triumph.
He was still catching his breath—chest rising and falling hard, body humming from the release—when she climbed into his lap, straddling him. The lace teddy was pushed aside; she settled against him, warm and ready, her weight a welcome anchor.
“You ready for more?” she whispered, lips grazing his ear, voice low and teasing.
He let out a rough laugh, head tipping back against the chair. “Give me… just a second, baby. You’ve got me spinning.”
His hands settled on her hips anyway—steady, needy—holding her close as she began to move, slow and gentle at first. She rocked against him, the slick heat of her gliding along his length, coaxing him back to life with every subtle shift.
He groaned softly—surprised, already stirring. “God, Aria… you’re impossible.”
She smiled against his neck, nipping lightly. “I'm not done with you yet.”
She kept the rhythm easy, deliberate—teasing him until he hardened again beneath her, quicker than he’d thought possible. The feel of her, the warmth, the way she fit against him—it pulled him under fast.
He gripped her hips a little tighter. “Now,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’m ready now.”
She lifted just enough, then sank down slowly, taking him in with a soft gasp. The connection was deep, perfect—her body welcoming him inch by inch until they were fully joined. She paused there a moment, forehead resting against his, both of them breathing the same air.
Then she started to move—slow rolls of her hips at first, circling, grinding in a rhythm that made them both sigh.
Her hands braced on his shoulders; his slid up her back, pulling her closer.
She sped up gradually—lifting and sinking with growing need, the soft sounds of their breathing and skin meeting filling the quiet room.
“Jax…” Her voice cracked, soft and breathless.
He leaned in, kissing along her collarbone, then found her mouth again—deep, hungry.
She came apart with a quiet cry—body tightening around him in waves, trembling as the pleasure rolled through her.
The feel of her pulsing, the way she clung to him, pulled him right to the edge with her.
He rocked up to meet her through the aftershocks, breath ragged, hands gripping her hips as the tension snapped again—hard and sudden—his own release hitting in deep, shuddering waves.
He buried his face against her neck, groaning low against her skin as they rode it out together, locked tight, hearts pounding in sync.
They stayed like that—still joined, her straddling him in the chair, his arms wrapped around her waist, foreheads touching as their breathing slowly evened.
He lifted her gently after a while, carried her to the bed, and pulled her close under the sheets.
She curled into him, head on his shoulder, leg thrown over his hip.
“Happy birthday,” she murmured again, sleepy, satisfied.
He kissed her forehead. “Best one yet.”
They fell asleep tangled together—limbs heavy, hearts steady.
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Aria
Sunlight slanted through the curtains—late, lazy, Montreal time. Aria woke first—warm, sore in the best way, Jax’s arm heavy across her waist, his breathing slow and even against her neck.
She smiled—small, private—stretched carefully so she didn’t wake him, reached for her phone on the nightstand.
The notification popped up immediately.
A photo—grainy, taken from the side—Jax in the hotel bar last night, a dark-haired woman pressed against him, lips on his.
Her stomach dropped.
She stared at it—heart hammering—until Jax stirred behind her, arm tightening.
“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
She turned the phone so he could see it over her shoulder.
He went still.
“Shit,” he breathed. “I was going to tell you last night. She was a fan—got flirty, wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I was trying to be polite, and bought her a drink to keep it civil.
Then she just… lunged. I pushed her off.
I did not kiss her back. There was a flash—I knew someone got it.
I came straight up here to call you and warn you. ”
He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I swear, Aria. Nothing happened.”
She looked at him—really looked. The worry in his eyes. The way his hand reached for hers like he was afraid she’d pull away.
She wanted to believe him.
But the doubt was there—small, sharp, stubborn. A tiny voice whispering: What if this is still just for show?
She swallowed it down.
“I believe you,” she said quietly.
He exhaled—relieved, shaky—pulled her into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her hair. “I should’ve shut it down faster. Should’ve left sooner.”
She nodded against his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll handle it. Statement or something. It’ll blow over.”
They stayed like that for a long minute—his hand stroking her back, her cheek against his heartbeat.
She didn’t tell him the rest.
That the photo stung more than it should have.
That part of her still wondered if this—whatever it was—was real for him, or just the easiest way to keep the sponsors happy.
She just held him tighter.
And hoped the doubt would fade.
Because right now, in this bed, with his arms around her and the Montreal sun spilling across the sheets, she didn’t want to let go.
Not yet.