He crossed the carpet in long strides, took her hand, and brushed a deliberate kiss across her knuckles. Cameras flashed wildly.
“Evening, superstar.”
“Evening, race car driver.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, palm settling low on her back as they faced the lenses together. She leaned into him naturally, her free hand resting lightly on his chest for the main shots. The questions came fast and teasing, and they answered in the easy rhythm they’d perfected—joking abouthis terrible shower singing, her pretending to fear speed while secretly loving being a passenger in his road car.
Inside the venue, golden lights glowed over the sleek new Ashworth car on its raised platform. Lucas and Mia were already waiting. Mia pulled Aria into a warm hug, eyes sparkling. “That dress is still lethal. And I finally have a night off—girls’ night in Melbourne is officially happening. No boys allowed.”
“Count me in,” Aria said, tension visibly easing from her shoulders.
At their table, Jax’s hand found her knee under the cloth, thumb tracing slow circles that made her thighs press together. When he was called to speak, he thanked the team, then paused, looking straight at her.
“And to the person who’s been keeping me sane through all the late nights… thanks for flying across the world to be here. Means more than you know.”
The room softened with a collective aww. Aria mouthed idiot at him with a grin. He just smiled back, private and warm.
The night slipped away in music and quiet conversation. On the edge of the dance floor he pulled her close, swaying more than dancing, his hand warm at the small of her back. They left just after midnight, slipping into the waiting car and then the hotel suite.
They slipped away just after midnight—security clearing the path to the waiting car.
Back at the hotel the suite was dark except for the city lights spilling through the windows, painting faint gold stripes across the carpet.
Jax kicked the door shut, hands already on her waist, spinning her gently until her back met the wall with a soft thud.
“Been thinking about getting you out of this dress since the second you stepped onto that carpet,” he rasped, fingers finding the zipper at her side.
She tipped her head back against the cool plaster, pulse racing. “Then stop thinking.”
He kissed her—slow, deep, tasting of champagne and restraint finally snapping. The zipper slid down in one smooth pull; emerald silk whispered to the floor in a cool puddle. She stepped out of it in nothing but black lace panties and heels, hands already working his bow tie loose, shirt buttons following with impatient tugs until she could push the fabric off his shoulders and feel the heat of his skin under her palms.
They made it to the bed in a trail of discarded clothes—his tux jacket slung over a chair, her diamonds scattered on the nightstand like forgotten stars, his trousers kicked aside.
She pushed him down first this time—palms flat on his chest, straddling his hips before he could take control. The city lights painted faint stripes across her skin as she leaned over him, hair tumbling loose from its pins, brushing his shoulders. She kissed him harder, hungrier, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that dragged her lace-covered centre along the thick length of him. He groaned low in his throat, hands gripping her thighs hard enough to leave faint marks, but he let her set the pace.
“Fuck, Aria…” His voice was wrecked already. “You’re killing me.”
She smiled against his mouth, reached down between them, and freed him from his boxers—hot, hard, pulsing in her hand. She stroked him once, twice, slow and teasing, watching his jaw clench and his eyes darken.
Then she guided him to her entrance, pushed the lace aside, and sank down—slow at first, inch by thick inch, until he wasburied deep. A shared breath escaped them both—hers shaky, his ragged.
She paused there, feeling every inch of him stretch her open, fill her completely. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, then cupping them fully, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she shivered and rocked forward.
She moved above him—rhythmic, unhurried—head tipped back, lips parted on soft gasps every time she took him fully. He watched her like she was the only thing in the world: the arch of her neck, the way her breasts rose and fell with each roll, the faint sheen of sweat catching the city glow. His hands roamed—gripping her ass, guiding her down harder, then sliding up to tangle in her hair and pull her mouth back to his.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growled against her lips. “Ride me just like that—take what you need.”
She did. Faster now—small circles turning into deeper drops, thighs trembling, breath hitching every time he hit that perfect spot inside her. He surged up suddenly—arms wrapping around her waist, flipping them so she was beneath him without breaking the connection. He hooked one of her legs over his hip, the angle deeper now, every thrust long and deliberate, dragging against every sensitive place.
Their eyes locked—his dark, intense, hers wide and unguarded. No words, just the sound of their breathing, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the mattress beneath them.
Her nails dug into his shoulders; his mouth found hers again, swallowing her moans. She tightened around him—breath hitching, body trembling on the edge—then shattered with a quiet, broken cry, walls pulsing in slow, rolling waves that milked him deep. The feel of her coming around him draggedhim right to the brink, but he held on—slowing, grinding, letting her ride every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive.
Then he moved again—deeper, harder—chasing his own release. A few more powerful thrusts—his rhythm faltering, breath harsh against her ear.
“Gonna come inside you,” he rasped, hips locking tight. “Fuck—Aria.”
He buried himself deep one last time. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he pulsed inside her, hips pressing forward, holding himself there until the last tremor faded.
