Page 59 of Speed Crush

I grip the edge of the shelf as he leans down and kisses me—soft first, then deeper, hungrier, like we’ve both been starving.

“You sure?” he murmurs against my mouth.

I nod. “Yes. No more waiting.”

He groans, sinking to his knees, hands sliding down my hips. First, he unbuttons my jeans—slowly, deliberately—then tugs them down my legs, inch by inch, until they pool at my ankles.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just lingers there, kneeling between my thighs.

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. Not yet.

His nose brushes the inside of my thigh as he lowers his head, breathing me in like I’m something decadent he’s waited too long to taste.

A low, guttural sound escapes him—half growl, half moan—as his hands tighten around my hips.

He lifts his gaze, eyes glassy, his breath hot against my skin.

"Wow," he breathes. "You’re bare."

I nod, biting my lip. "Do you like it?"

His hands flex on my thighs, eyes flicking up. "Yes. More than like it. You did this for me. You're so beautiful like this..."

And yet—he doesn’t rush. Every move he makes is slow. Like he’s holding back a storm behind those eyes. It’s unexpected, this restraint from a man so used to taking action, to living fast.

But maybe that’s the thing about Noah Verelli. He’s not just precision and speed. He’s dominance wrapped in patience—because he already knows I’m his.

Then he hooks his thumbs under the delicate navy panties and tears them down with a groan, like he’s done admiring and ready to claim.

And all I can do is stand there—bare, exposed, trembling—while my brain scrambles to process that this is real. That I’m letting a man—a man like him—see me. Taste me.

I’ve read the books. I’ve heard the jokes. But no one warned me about this. How intense it feels just to be watched like this.

The cold air nips at my bare skin, and my nipples tighten under it, sharp and aching.

My thighs twitch under the pressure of his gaze, and my pulse bangs in my ears. I can’t stop watching him—every shift of muscle, every subtle roll of his tongue against his teeth like he’s thinking about tasting me before he does.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and brushes his nose along the inside of my thigh.

I stop breathing.

And I swear, I feel everything.

The contrast of his stubble. The heat of his breath. The ache building between my legs. It’s unbearable. And electric. And confusing in all the best, worst ways.

Then he looks up at me—his mouth inches away from the most intimate part of me—and murmurs like he’s whispering a spell, “Hold on to my shoulders.”

I do.

Because I need to. Because I’m about to fall. Because he hasn’t even touched me yet, not really—and I’m already unraveling.

Then his mouth touches me. And everything in me fractures.

It's not even a kiss—not really. Just a press of warm lips, a tentative brush of tongue. But it hits like lightning.

My hips jolt. My breath vanishes. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

I clutch his shoulders like a lifeline, fingers digging into the firm curve of his delts, trying to anchor myself. But I’m floating. Spiraling. Falling.

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