Page 27 of Speed Crush

I’m soaking through denim. Sensitive everywhere. And the worst part? I don’t want it to stop.

“This track’s tighter than you think,” he says, guiding the wheel with me. “Short distance, but brutal corners. Most people lose time hugging too close to the apex.”

We reach Turn 1 and he nudges my thigh, directing me to lean.

“You feel that?” he asks again.

I do. Not the go-kart. Him.

The way his hip presses harder into mine as we shift through the curve. The low rumble of the seat beneath us. The drag of his knuckles on my thigh as he adjusts my grip.

It’s all sensation.

All pressure.

And not a single bit of it is helping me focus.

We hit Turn 3, and his palm slides just above my knee.

“Brake late. Lean into me.”

I do.

Not because I want to improve my lap time.

Because I’m slipping.

Into his heat. Into his voice. Into the way his thigh tightens next to mine likehe’sfeeling this, too.

I can smell him—clean sweat, a trace of fuel, something darker that lodges between my ribs and rolls low in my belly.

And then—stupid brain—pictures form.

His body. Over me. In bed. Hands on my hips, that bed voice in my ear.

I’ve never pictured sex with someone before. Not like this. Not this vivid.

My thighs clench. My breath stutters.

“June.”

His voice cuts in—low, rough, close.

I jerk back to reality. We’re hitting the far curve. His hand catches the wheel, steadying it with mine.

“You’re distracted.”

Gee, I wonder why.

He laughs once—deep and smug—but it’s tight.

Too tight.

He shifts in his seat. Not casually.

And that’s when I realize he’s hard.

Thick. Pressed to his thigh and clearly unable to hide it.

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