Page 95 of Speed Crush

One more.

I dive through Turn 23 and let the throttle sing, full power down the straight. My car howls across the tarmac as I cross the line. Second place. P2.

The roar in my headset is instant. Applause. My team cheering. Raf yelling “Hell yeah, that’s a podium opener!”

I coast into cooldown, chest tight and throat raw. I rip the helmet off and the floodlights blind me—but I’m already looking.

She’s there.

Leaning over the barrier, team headset around her neck, face lit up brighter than any podium lights. Hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

She’s laughing. Clapping. And then—her hand flies up, fingers pressed to her lips like she’s catching a breath she forgot to take.

I swing the car into park, barely remembering protocol. A crew member grabs me and gives me a sweaty hug. Cameras flash. My name gets shouted. But none of it matters.

I climb the barrier. I don’t wait.

She meets me halfway.

I kiss her right there—hard, public, and perfect. Flashbulbs explode around us. The crowd goes wild.

But all I hear is her. All I feel is this.

Her fingers in my hair. Her lips against mine. The way she breathes me in like she’s waited her whole life to.

And I realize—I’ve never been more proud of second place. Because she’s my first. My always.

And tonight, the whole world knows it.

Later that night, after the podium spray, media rounds, and one too many handshakes, we finally made it to the suite high above the city at Marina Bay Sands.

I press June’s body to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, the lights of the circuit still glowing below us like a second sky.

My pulse is still riding the high from the race—adrenaline buzzing just under my skin, the ghost of the final lap humming through my veins.

All night, even while debriefing, I’d been half-distracted. Because ever since I checked into this suite, I’ve imagined this exact moment: June, bare and gorgeous, spread out in front of this window, while I take her from behind with the city watching.

We’re so high up, there’s no way anyone could see us—not really. But that doesn’t matter. The fantasy’s always been about the thrill. The possession. The knowing that she’s mine and I’m buried so deep inside her no one else could ever come close.

I push her gently forward until her palms brace against the cool glass, our reflections catching in the window—her flushed cheeks, her eyes blown wide, lips parted like she’s on the edge of worship.

And me—jaw tight, muscles flexed, every line of my body taut with need as I watch myself slide into her, again and again, like I can’t get deep enough. Like I’m trying to mark the moment into both our skins.

With one hand gripping her hip while the other trails up to her chest, I cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, watching it pebble under my touch.

"These—" I murmur into her neck, voice rough, "have been driving me crazy all night. Bouncing in that paddock tee like they knew what they were doing."

She moans, arching into my hand. "Does it excite you enough to drive faster back to me?" she pants. "Cause maybe I’ll go braless for the next race. Might shave off a tenth just thinking about it."

I groan, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “Is that your fantasy, June? Me shaving seconds off just to get back to your perfect, braless tease? Because I swear, I’ll floor it every damn lap if it means seeing you like this at the end of it.”

I roll my hips forward again, firmer this time, grinding her into the glass just enough to make her whimper.

I rumble low right against her ear. "All of Singapore could be watching and I still wouldn't stop. Because this—" I thrust again, deeper, harder—"is mine. Every inch of you belongs to me."

June grunts into my thrusts and then surprises me—pushing me back a step while we are still joined.

Then she bends lower than before, until her back curves beyond ninety degrees, hips tipped just right. Her thighs spread, her ass arched, her clit grinding perfectly against the base of my cock, offering everything, and I can’t look away.

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