Page 52 of Speed Crush

Her eyes follow my movement, tracking every inch, while she stays rooted. I let out a slow roll of breath as I wipe sweat off the back of my neck. Then I drag my headset off before turning it off.

I smirk.

“Didn’t know I had a fan club this early in the morning.”

Her jaw works like she’s searching for something witty to throw back, but all that comes out is a rushed breath.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just…” She lifts the folder an inch. “I’m just dropping off my camp report. And suggestions for the program manager.”

She’s not looking at the folder. She’s still looking at me. Her gaze drags down my torso where my hand towel has been.

“Right.” I glance at the folder clutched in her hands. “Let me guess. Constructive feedback. Areas of improvement. Zero mention of how impressive I looked rescuing a crashed influencer.”

She narrows her eyes, cheeks blooming red. “You’re not that impressive.”

I start walking toward her. Not fast. Just… steadily.

“Two hours. Full Grand Prix sim,” I say as I get closer, letting her hear the edge still in my voice, in my breath. “I’ve got telemetry in my inbox that says otherwise.”

June swallows. Her knuckles whiten around the folder when I stop in front of her.

She's flushed. Her focus drops to my chest, my jaw, and the sweat still clinging to my collarbone.

Is she done avoiding me? Or is she here this early hoping to avoid me?

Or... did she walk past the simulation room hoping to run into me?

“What do you want, June?” I ask softly, hoping.

“I told you,” she says, lifting the folder. “It’s for the program manager. I start back at the school in two weeks. So, I just want to get the report to the city because I’ll be helping less around the track.”

I lift a brow. “At 5:30 a.m.?”

“Early bird gets the feedback form.”

“Or maybe,” I murmur, “early bird gets caught staring.”

Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again.

“I wasn’t—”

“Sure you were.” I grin. “It’s okay. I’m a lot to take in. Especially stripped down and freshly simulated… and stimulated.”

“Stimulated?” she echoes, voice strangled.

I lean in. Close enough for her to feel the heat still rolling off me and smell the faint trace of soap and sweat and something dirtier beneath it all—like the promise of exactly what I want to do to her if she keeps staring like that.

“Full lap accuracy. Laser-mapped track. Every bump, every drift point, every ounce of chassis flex. And I nailed it.”

She’s breathing harder now. I can see the pulse at her throat. Her eyes flick to my mouth like she’s imagining what else it can do.

So, she likes this kind of dirty talk.

“Good for you,” she says. It’s almost a whisper.

“No,” I say. “Bad for you.”

I reach for the folder and set it aside on the counter behind her without breaking eye contact. Then I step into her space, my bare chest almost brushing her hoodie.

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