Page 75 of Speed Crush
I arch a brow.
He grins, unrepentant. “Good translator or not... my hand’s staying exactly where it is.”
Later, in a quiet alcove off the simulator lab, he presses me against the glass and kisses me like he’s starving.
It’s hot. Deep. Quick. A moment yanked straight out of chaos.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s been waiting all day. Like that hand on my ass wasn’t enough.
"Looks like my questions about aero data turned you on" I tease as I push him away.
But he pulls me back, possessively. “I’ll take you apart later. And I can't wait."
I lick my lips and answer him sultrily on purpose. "You're not doing a great job at being a professional."
He smirks, mouth brushing my ear. “That’s because I’m imagining you bent over the sim rig with nothing on but your boots.”
I gasp, heat slamming low. Then lean in and whisper back, “If you’re lucky, I’ll let you tighten the bolts while I’m moaning your name.”
Noah groans under his breath, then tips his forehead against mine. "You are absolute evil."
I grin, smug and flushed, already walking backward as he watches me like I just torched his ability to think.
I pause for half a second, debating if I should flash him—just a peek, just enough to make him squirm—but I decide to save it. For later. Instead, I give him a naughty look and pop open the top button of my shirt.
Noah is on me in an instant.
His hands catch my waist like he can’t help himself, and he buries his face in my neck with a growl that sounds entirely unprofessional. "You’re trying to kill me."
“Maybe,” I whisper, smiling against his cheek.
The moment we step outside, flashes go off like we’ve tripped a sensor. Paparazzi shift and swarm, cameras raised—clearly tipped off that Noah Verelli is testing a new build.
The cameras keep snapping as reporters toss out questions—most about the new chassis responsiveness and tire performance under cold-track conditions. Noah answers with clipped confidence and calm authority, his arm still looped around me like we’ve done this forever.
Then someone lobs a different kind of question.
“Is she your newest girlfriend?”
Noah doesn’t even blink. “Still waiting for her answer,” he says with a smile, squeezing my fingers just enough for me to feel it.
Another voice pipes up, this one more brazen. “She’s not your usual “model” type. You switching from straights to curves, or is she just a phase?”
A few chuckles from the crowd. It’s meant to be clever. F1 boys and their metaphors.
But Noah’s smile fades.
He steps in front of me.
“Say one more word about her,” he growls, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And we’re done here.”
There’s a unison sharp intake of breath, and then a hush—one reporter clears his throat and changes the subject with forced cheer. “Noah, can you comment about the wing handling under braking pressure?”
Another shuffles closer, asking about the steering responses.
The questions move on.
But I don’t.
