18. JAXON
JAXON
Bumpy Ride
The partition between us and the driver is already up when I reach for her.
I tilt my head and close the final inch, my mouth finding hers with a desperate, pent-up intensity that blurs everything else into the background.
The kiss is everything this night has been—dark, quiet, and overwhelming. The exact opposite of a polite, staged peck between two people playing a role.
God.
This woman.
Her tongue meets mine with a hunger that matches my own, and the kiss turns messy, desperate, all teeth and heat.
A sudden bump in the road jolts us closer, her body pressing into mine, our teeth knocking together. But it only deepens the moment.
When I pull back, her eyes are half-lidded. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession.
I ease her back against the leather seat, guiding her shoulders down until she's reclining. The material sighs beneath her weight.
Her dress rides up as she settles, revealing the lacy tops of her stockings, the pale strip of skin above them.
"Fuck," I breathe. "You're killing me."
My fingers find the hem of her dress and push it higher. She lifts her hips to help me, and the fabric bunches around her waist.
Her panties are black and thin, a delicate strip of lace that barely covers her. I can already see the darker spot of wetness staining the fabric.
"Look at you." I drag a finger along that damp patch, and her hips jerk. "So fucking wet already. Did getting in this car do that? Knowing what I wanted to do to you?"
"Jaxon, please—" Her voice cracks.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull. She lifts again, and I slide the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, past her ankles.
I stuff the lace into my jacket pocket without breaking eye contact.
"Spread your legs for me."
She hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then her knees fall open, and I see her fully—glistening, swollen, desperate.
The scent of her arousal fills the confined space, mixing with the leather and the lingering traces of cologne.
I settle between her thighs, my shoulders pushing them wider.
My hands grip the soft flesh above her stockings, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg meets hip.
I can feel her trembling.
"Jax—"
"Shh." I blow a stream of cool air across her heated flesh, and she whimpers. "Let me."
The first taste of her floods my tongue—salt and musk and something uniquely Zara.
I drag my tongue in a broad stroke from her entrance to her clit, and her whole body arches off the seat. Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands.
"Oh god—"
I seal my lips around her clit and suck. Gently at first, then with increasing pressure.
Her thighs clamp around my head, and I feel the muscles in them jump and flex.
The car's motion adds an extra rhythm—a slow sway that shifts her beneath me, changes the angle, keeps her guessing.
She's vocal and I love that about her.
Every flick of my tongue draws a sound from her throat—gasps, moans, broken syllables that might be my name or might be pleas for more.
The windows fog around us, sealing us into this private world of heat and wet and want.
I alternate between long, slow licks and quick flicks against her sensitive bud.
My jaw aches from the effort, but I don't care. Her pleasure is the only thing that matters right now—chasing it, drawing it out, making her fall apart piece by piece.
"Jaxon—Jaxon, I'm—" Her hips buck against my face, grinding into my mouth. Her fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp stings. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"
I won't. I have no intention of stopping.
I slide two fingers inside her while my tongue works her clit.
She's tight, clenching around me, and I curl them to find that spot—the one that makes her cry out loud enough that I'm grateful for the partition and the soundproofing.
The car hits another bump, and the motion drives my fingers deeper. She screams, her back bowing off the seat.
"That's it," I murmur against her flesh, the vibrations making her shudder. "Come for me. Let go."
I feel her orgasm before I hear it—the rhythmic clenching around my fingers, the way her thighs shake against my ears.
Then the sound hits me, a broken wail that she tries to muffle with her own hand. I reach up and pull her fingers away, wanting to hear every note of her release.
Her juices coat my chin, my cheeks, my fingers. I work her through it, easing the pressure of my tongue but never quite stopping.
Her hips twitch with every aftershock, oversensitive and trembling.
When I finally lift my head, her eyes are closed. Her chest heaves. Her fingers have gone slack in my hair.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh—tender, almost reverent. Then another, higher up. Her eyes flutter open.
"Jaxon." My name comes out slurred, satisfied.
"Hey." I crawl up her body, bracing myself on my elbows above her. The leather sticks to my palms. "You okay?"
She lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “Actually… I’m more than okay.”
I grin. “I aim to please.”
I brush a strand of hair back from her face, slower now. Careful.
“Hey,” I say again, quieter this time. “We’re here.”
It takes her a second to process that. I see it in the way her gaze sharpens, the way reality settles back in.
“Already?” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us sounds particularly happy about it.
I help her sit up, my hands lingering at her waist a fraction longer than necessary. She smooths her dress, fingers slightly unsteady, and I force myself to lean back, to give her space.
To get my head back on straight.
I step out first, then offer her my hand. She takes it.
The elevator ride up is… quiet. My thumb brushes over her knuckles once, absent, instinctive. She doesn’t pull away.
The doors slide open into the private vestibule.
We step out, the space hushed and secluded, and for a second, neither of us moves.
Then I reach for the front door, unlock it, and push it open.
We step inside the penthouse—and then just… stop.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Her gaze lifts to mine. “Goodnight, Jaxon.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“Goodnight,” I echo.
I lean in slowly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.
Then we part ways, each heading to our own bedroom.
***
When I get up the next morning, I expect a normal day at the rink. Practice. Routine. Control.
But the relentless buzzing of my phone tells me otherwise.
Three missed calls from Simone. Two texts from Nate.
“Media’s picked it up. Big time.” Simone’s voice from the voicemail echoes in my head.
The plan had been to build a quiet narrative. Something controlled. Credible.
This? This is anything but.
Our appearance at the gala last night has clearly set something off.
By the time I step into the kitchen, Zara is already there, coffee in hand, scrolling through her phone. One look at her expression tells me everything I need to know.
“Bad?” I ask.
She exhales softly. “It’s… a lot.”
Yeah.
“Right,” I mutter.
Silence stretches for a beat.
Then—
“What do you need from me today?” she asks.
I look at her. God, she’s incredible.
“I think we have to lean into it now,” I say finally. “Meet the media storm head-on.”
“Okay. If you think that’s best, I trust you.”
“Then come with me to practice. They’ll be there. Reporters. Cameras. If we show up together—solid, united—it helps.”
She nods immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Stay close,” I add. “Let me handle most of it.”
A small smile touches her mouth. “I can handle myself, Jaxon.”
“I know,” I say. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to step in.”
Her eyes flick to mine for half a second longer than necessary.
Then she nods. “Got it.”
An hour later, we’re pulling up to the practice facility.
The cold hits me first. Then the cameras.
I step out of the SUV and into a wall of flashing lights, the morning air biting through my jacket like it has something to prove.
Security has cleared a path from the parking structure to the practice facility, but the media has multiplied overnight. Yesterday there were a handful of photographers. Today looks like a goddamn premiere.
"Coach Halberg! Is it true your engagement is a sham?"
"Jaxon! Did you pay Zara Winslow to—"
I keep walking.
Zara's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through with a steadiness that should not surprise me anymore but still does.
She matches my pace without hesitation, chin lifted, shoulders squared. Not hiding. Not cowering.
The woman has spine.
"Did you hire your fiancée for the PR?" The question comes from a guy in a wrinkled blazer who has wedged himself past the security line, recorder thrust toward us like a weapon.
I stop.
Zara's grip tightens on my hand.
Behind us, I hear Jake's low whistle and Nate's muttered curse. Simone is somewhere in the chaos, probably already drafting damage control statements in her head.
The reporter's smirk falters when I turn to face him fully.
"Zara's here for family—not headlines." I keep my voice flat, cold. The same tone I use when a player thinks they can coast through practice. "Next question better be about hockey, or we're done here."
Silence. The kind that presses against eardrums.
Zara steps forward before I can move us along.
"I can speak for myself, thanks." She looks directly at the reporter, and something in her expression makes him take a half-step back.
"But he's not wrong. I'm here because I choose to be.
Because this family matters. Any other questions about my motivations can go through legal. "
She turns and walks toward the facility entrance without looking back.
I follow, catching Jake's eye as we pass.
He gives me a slight nod—approval, maybe, or just acknowledgment that the situation is handled. Talia stands beside him, her expression unreadable but her posture protective as she watches Zara disappear through the doors.
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Zara slows once we are out of camera range, and I catch up to her near the hallway leading to the family viewing area.
"Thank you for backing me up." Her voice is quiet but steady. "But I had it."
"I know you did."
"Then why—"