Page 127 of Pucking Daddy

I pull back slowly, both of us hissing at the sensation. Zara looks up at me, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed.

She looks thoroughly fucked, and the sight is the biggest boost for my ego.

We clean up as best we can, stealing kisses between adjustments to clothing and attempts to look somewhat presentable.

On the way to my car, my phone buzzes with a message from my ex-wife.

Rachel:

Tomorrow, 9 AM. Don't be late.

A taunt dressed as a reminder.

I show Zara the message, watching her jaw set in that stubborn way that means she is preparing for battle.

"Tomorrow," she says firmly. "We face it together."

23

ZARA

Pacing

The morning light slips in through the curtains in soft, golden stripes, painting the bedroom in warmth that doesn’t quite reach the knot in my stomach.

I’ve been awake for a while.

Not fully up. Just… lying here. Staring at the ceiling. Listening.

There’s a rhythm to the apartment I’ve started to recognize over the past weeks. The low hum of the fridge. The distant city noise filtering in through the windows.

And this morning—

The faint, steady sound of footsteps downstairs.

Jaxon.

Pacing.

I close my eyes for a second, exhaling slowly, trying to calm the restless energy buzzing under my skin. It doesn’t really work. My thoughts keep circling back to the same point.

The hearing. It’s in four hours.

My gaze flicks to the clock on the nightstand.

Three hours and fifty-two minutes.

My chest tightens, but then my mind drifts back to last night.

My fingers curl into the sheets as the memory hits, sharp and vivid. The empty arena. The way he looked at me like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us. The way he kissed me…

Slow at first.

Then not slow at all.

A heat spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with nerves this time. My lips press together, a small, helpless smile slipping through despite everything.

God.