Page 44 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

I hook my fingers into the waistband of her suit and yank it down past her hips.

She helps, shimmying her ass and stepping out of the legs with a practiced ease that tells me she’s done this before, probably a hundred times in the back of some van or a garage or a pit stop somewhere.

The only thing she’s wearing now is the tank top and a pair of dark purple lace panties that leave nothing to the imagination.

I step back and let myself look at her— really look .

Her legs are long and lean, muscles carved from years of training and violence and refusal to be less than.

Her ass is perfect, round and firm and begging to be bitten.

Her skin is golden and glowing, a thin sheen of sweat making her look like some forbidden idol.

She catches me staring and rolls her eyes.

“You gonna fuck me or write a sonnet about it?”

I grab her by the hips and lift her onto the ledge beneath the window, spreading her legs wide. The move catches her off guard, and for a split second, I see something like surprise flicker in her expression.

“Don’t tempt me,” I say, and I mean it. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

She laughs, but it’s a shaky, breathless sound.

“You say that like I don’t know it.”

I kneel between her legs and drag her panties down, slow enough to drive her insane. She watches every move, lips parted, eyes hungry.

“You’re going to ruin my lipstick,” she warns.

“That’s the idea,” I say, and bury my face in her cunt.

She cries out— sharp and unfiltered, no pretense left. I lap at her, letting her flavor coat my tongue, drowning in the taste of her. She’s grabbing at my hair, at my shoulders, at anything she can reach, her body rocking against me like she can’t decide if she wants to get away or force me deeper.

I hook her thighs over my shoulders, spreading her open and anchoring her to the window ledge with my hands gripping her ass, and drive my tongue against her clit, sucking hard and mercilessly.

The taste of her is so thick and potent it’s like breathing her in through every pore, that sweet-salt of sweat and pheromones and Omega ache that hits the back of my throat like a shot of tequila.

Auren convulses, the convulsion running the length of her body from her heels to the nape of her neck; her hips spasm against my mouth, grinding against my tongue so ferociously it feels like she’s trying to crawl inside my skull and set up permanent residence there.

She lets loose a raw, animal sound, claws at the glass behind her with one hand while the other fists in my hair, yanking so hard my scalp burns.

She shouts, “FUCK—oh, fuck, Wolf—,” her words dissolving into a string of curses and then ragged, involuntary laughter as I flick her again, then seal my lips around her clit just to hear her break a little more.

She’s wild, totally unfiltered, even while she’s trying to act like she’s not on the verge of coming apart. I knead her ass, spreading her wider, wanting more of her, needing to taste her at the source.

There’s a moment where I think she’ll try to fight me off—you can see it in the way her thigh tenses, the way her breath catches, the microsecond where she’s about to assert that she’s the one in control here.

But then I circle her clit with my tongue, slow and relentless, and she loses the battle, letting her head slam back against the glass with a moan so desperate it’s almost a sob.

She’s saying my name now, not the surname, but “Lachlan,” in a tone that’s half curse and half prayer.

My whole vision narrows to the sight of her, splayed out and dripping for me, skin flushed and shining, chest heaving with every shaky inhale.

I pull back just long enough to meet her eyes, lips and chin glazed with her slick, and she looks at me like she could tear my head off and kiss me to death at the same time.

I grin, and then slip my tongue lower, flattening it against her entrance, licking up everything she’s offering me.

She hitches a breath and rides my face, her thighs trembling, her hands guiding my head exactly where she wants me like she’s steering the car herself.

She tastes fucking divine—like honey and ozone and that wild citrus note that always spiked her scent right before she came apart for me.

I want to keep her like this, suspended on the edge forever, but the hungry, involuntary way she fucks herself on my face makes me so hard I can barely breathe, let alone control myself.

She looks down, eyes unfocused, mouth open.

“Are you—fuck—going to make me beg for it?”

I pull back, lips brushing her inner thigh.

“You already are.”

She huffs a laugh, and then bites her own hand, stifling a whimper as I suck her clit again, more gently this time, tracing the nerves with just the tip of my tongue.

“Sadist,” she accuses me, but there’s zero conviction behind it.

“Only with you,” I murmur, voice gravel. “You love it.”

She says nothing, but her body answers for her.

I let one hand slide up her stomach, palming her breast through the tank, thumb rolling her nipple until she arches off the ledge, offering herself up with an abandon that’s fucking feral.

Her scent is everywhere, curling around us, so heady I’m surprised we’re not both high off it.

She’s so wet, every time I slide my tongue inside her she clenches down, like she can’t stand the thought of letting go.

She’s getting close; I can feel it in the way her thighs shake and her hands tremble, the way her moans are getting higher-pitched and dangerously close to shattering the glass behind her.

I ease up, just to draw it out, then snake two fingers between her thighs, stroking her until she’s grinding herself down onto my hand, greedy and shameless and absolutely fucking beautiful.

Auren almost launches off the ledge when I press my fingers into her, her nails raking furrows into the nape of my neck as I curl them just right, and she lets out a sound that’s not even remotely human.

I lap at her as I fuck her with my fingers, going slow, then fast, then slow again, until she’s panting my name over and over like it’s the only word she’s ever known.

I want to make her come so hard she forgets every other man who’s ever touched her.

I want to erase every memory but this: her, open and writhing and wild, the city skyline reflected in the window behind her, the whole fucking world at our feet and nothing between us but sweat and need and the pulse of her clenching around my hand.

I slide two fingers into her and she clamps down around them, so tight and hot I almost come from the sensation alone.

“Fuck,” she moans, head lolling back against the glass. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t fucking stop.”

I don’t. I work her with my fingers and tongue, relentless, until she’s sobbing my name and shaking apart. When she comes, it’s not quiet or demure or restrained.

It’s a goddamn detonation, her whole body arching, voice breaking on my name like it’s a prayer and a curse at the same time.

I give her a few seconds to ride it out, then stand and kiss her—hard, filthy, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

She kisses back like she’s drowning, legs locking around my waist, grinding against the erection that’s been trying to break through my suit since the race ended.

She tugs at the zipper on my suit, fighting with the awkward angle until I help her, shoving the top half down and yanking my arms out of the sleeves.

My shirt is soaked through, stuck to my skin, but she doesn’t seem to care.

She claws at my chest, nails leaving angry red lines that sting in the best way.

She drags her mouth down my neck, biting and sucking, marking me as thoroughly as I marked her.

The possessiveness is mutual and absolute.

We’re both starved for this—starved for each other, for touch and sweat and the violence of being known so completely.

She rakes her nails down my abdomen, finds the waistband of my briefs, and pulls them down in one swift move.

My cock springs free, and she wraps her hand around it immediately, stroking slowly and deliberately.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, fighting for air.

She grins up at me, pupils blown and cheeks flushed.

“You always were easy to break, Wolf.”

“Only for you,” I admit, because it’s true.

She positions me at her entrance, legs spreading wider, the invitation unmistakable.

“You want this?” I ask, giving her one last out.

She looks me dead in the eyes.

“More than anything.”

I thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt.

The sensation is so intense, I see fucking stars.

We fuck against the glass, the whole world splayed out below, a thousand city lights flickering like cameras waiting for the perfect shot.

This high-rise suite is supposed to be a fortress—VIP, sealed, exclusive—but it might as well be a stage, and in that moment, I want them all to see.

I want the city, the paddock, every doubter and every bastard who ever said this wouldn’t work, to see exactly how desperately we fit.

The sun is bleeding out in the west, sky bruised and backlit, and the streets below are a golden artery, the heart of the city pumping fast as we move in perfect, fevered tandem.

Auren claws her way up my body, nails breaking the skin at my shoulders, and it hurts in all the ways that tell you you’re alive.

She’s wild. She’s fucking electric, muscles coiled with that relentless energy you only get from chasing death at two hundred miles an hour.

Her legs lock around me with a strength that borders on violence, and it’s all I can do to keep from collapsing under the weight of her need.

Every thrust is a challenge, a retaliation—her hips bucking, teeth scraping my neck, sweat slicking our bodies until the friction is almost too much to bear.

She takes everything, then demands more, meeting my every effort with a ferocity that leaves me lightheaded and shaking.