Page 64 of Speed Crush

My body lifts to meet him instinctively, thighs spreading wider, pelvis tilting up to take more of him. Every muscle in my core tightens, adjusts, learns what it means to feel this full.

Each stroke draws a deeper sound from my throat—soft, raw, uncontrollable.

My body opens for him, stretches to welcome him, slick, hungry and pulsing. I hook my ankles behind his thighs, urging him deeper, needing more.

By now, my body is stretched to take him fully—no more burn, just an aching fullness that makes my toes curl. I adjust beneath him, tilting my hips and moaning as I feel him completely, all the way to the base.

And he gives it to me.

Deeper. Hotter. Better.

His hips roll harder now, thrusts smooth but urgent. I feel everything—the thick length of him dragging along every trembling nerve inside me. My walls clench around him, and he groans deep in his chest, like he’s barely holding on.

He shifts again, angling his hips, and suddenly he hits something inside me that makes me gasp—then moan.

“There,” I breathe. “Right there.”

He locks onto the rhythm, hitting that spot again and again, and my body starts to unravel. I can’t keep my legs still. My thighs tremble, opening wider, spreading further to take all of him.

“June,” he pants. “You feel so good. So damn good.”

My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in—harder than I realize. I’m holding on like I might fly apart without him, raking down his back with each thrust. He grunts, hips driving deeper, like the sting spurs him on. I arch into him, letting him take more, feel more.

His hand slips between us, finding my clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb while he drives into me, steady and deep.

I cry out—loud and unfiltered—as the sensation builds fast. It’s all too much. The stretch. The weight. His voice in my ear telling me how good I feel. How tight I am. How close he is.

My whole body winds up, pressure coiling tight, hot, frantic.

“Noah,” I gasp. “I’m—”

He kisses me hard, swallowing the sound of my climax as I shatter beneath him. My walls pulse, gripping him, wave after wave.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He moves through it, chasing his own release, every thrust tighter, deeper, his face buried in my neck.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Only mine.”

And then he shifts—bracing his hands beside my head, then sliding one arm beneath my leg. Gently, but without hesitation, he hoists it high up over his shoulder, adjusting his angle with aching precision.

The first plunge hits deeper. Sharper. Gut-wrenching in its fullness.

A gasp tore from my throat—half surprise, half desperate need—and wrap my arms tighter around him. “More,” I pant. “Harder. Faster.”

“Yes,” he groans, voice cracked and raw. “Yes, baby.”

His hips slam into mine, deeper with every stroke, his body driving into me like he’s locked into the rhythm of something primal and perfect. I can feel every ridge, every thick inch of him.

We’re not gentle anymore. We’re heat and sweat and breathless skin against skin. And when I come again, it’s with a cry I can’t bite back—a high, broken sound that rips from my chest as I tighten around him.

That’s what pushes him over.

He slams in one final time, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep. His entire body goes taut, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he spills into the condom, his release drawn out by the way I’m still pulsing around him.

It’s not rushed—it’s raw, full-bodied, and overwhelming, like he’s been holding back for hours instead of minutes.

We collapse together, breathless. Shaking. Twined.

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