Page 51 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

“Good girl,” I murmured again, but this time, it came out like a vow. Like worship. “You did so good.” She didn’t even know it yet, but I was already hers .

I wanted to growl that she was made to be fucked like this—that I’d be the only one who ever would. But I didn’t, not yet. I couldn’t say something that real out loud without losing my goddamn mind.

She was mine, and I was so fucking gone for her.

I slowly pulled out, hating the loss of her warmth immediately.

Her body twitched beneath me—sensitive, spent, still trembling.

I dragged my gaze down her back, taking in the flushed pink of her skin, the arch of her spine, the way her hair spilled across the pillow in a golden tangle, the sexy-as-fuck tattoo.

Her thighs glistened. Her ass was raised perfectly, soft and round and kissed with bruises from my grip.

Mine. I did that.

I ran a hand down my face and let out a slow, satisfied breath. Holy fuck. That was something else. I felt lighter. Like something in me had cracked open and poured out. Maybe I had needed this more than I realized.

Aurélie didn’t speak or move. Just let out a long, soft breath as I leaned down and pressed a kiss right to the center of her spine.

I didn’t rush her or demand anything else, I simply eased her down gently, guiding her onto her side next to me, brushing a damp strand of hair from her jaw.

My fingers lingered, stroking across her cheek.

“I meant what I said,” I murmured. “You wrecked me.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a heartbeat, I thought she might curl into me. That she might stay and let herself want me out loud.

But then… she gulped, and everything changed. She blinked rapidly, like she'd just remembered where we were and what we’d done. Her gaze darted across the room and the color drained from her face.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Shit, shit, shit?—”

She bolted upright, clutching the edge of the sheet like it might somehow fix this. The panic was instant, her dazed expression shifting into something sharper—panic. Horror. Regret?

She blinked again. “No.”

I arched a brow. “No?”

Her breath caught. “No, no, no—” Her fingers tangled in her hair, a wild, frenzied energy radiating off her.

She launched off the bed, racing across the room.

She yanked the bathroom door open, steam billowing out, and disappeared inside.

Her bare feet slapped the tile floor, then came the squeak of the faucet and the abrupt stop of the running shower.

She'd left it on, because she hadn't meant for this to happen. I'd just shown up here, and.. fuck.

My money was betting that she was already regretting this, even though it was everything I'd ever wanted and more.

Aurélie reemerged moments later in a pair of lace panties, moving like a woman possessed as she hastily grabbed her robe from the bed and tugged it on with jerky movements.

I sighed, still fully in the nude and sated, and climbed to my feet, grabbing the used condom off the ground and peeling the other one off to dispose of both.

"Auri."

She didn't answer, just continued pacing. She kicked aside her discarded heels, whispering something vicious and unintelligible in French under her breath.

I ran a hand through my damp hair and watched her unravel, suddenly nervous. "You good, love?"

She spun on me, her hazel eyes wide with despair. "Do I look good to you?"

Actually, yes. Even like this—panicked and flustered and mumbling in her native tongue—she was the most gorgeous fucking thing I'd ever seen. "You look freshly fucked," I said honestly, smirking as I stretched as if I had nowhere else to be but here. "And, in case you forgot, that was your idea."

" Mine ?"

I gestured lazily to the bed. "You kissed me first. Then round two, I was under you. I wasn't complaining about any of it."

She snarled, bending to pick my shirt up and threw it at me. "Get. Out."

I caught it with one hand, amused. This was the Aurélie I knew: sharp-tongued, short-tempered, and stubborn to her core.

I started pulling on my boxers slowly, as if I had all night. "Damn, Auri, you're not even gonna let me bask in the afterglow? "

"There is no afterglow!" she shouted. "You got what you came for. Happy?"

“Got what I came for? You mean you ?” I laughed, dry and sharp, and sarcastically added, “Yeah, real fucking happy.” I grinned, and she muttered a string of curses, her French so crisp it could slice through my car on the track.

She turned away, her hands knotting the robe tighter, her shoulders tense.

My cock twitched. I couldn't help it; she looked too good when she was furious, like she was about to kill me and fuck me again in the same breath.

I wanted her to do both.

"Keep talking like that, love," I drawled, zipping up my jeans with obnoxious leisure. "It's sexy when you swear at me in French."

She threw a shoe this time—a fucking heel. I dodged it, chuckling.

"We shouldn't have done this."

"Why? We're two consenting adults."

"I don't expect you to understand," she snapped.

I stepped toward her cautiously, because I was already treading on thin ice with her right now. "You can't seriously tell me that wasn't the best sex of your life and that you regret it."

Her nostrils flared. "You're so fucking full of yourself! Get out !"

I held my hands up defensively. "I meant it was for me, too, Aurélie."

"I don't care what you meant!"

Wanton need and desire coursed through me once again.

I loved seeing her so riled up and passionate, loved the redness on her face, the mess of her makeup, the marks on her skin, knowing it was all from me.

If she regretted it, she had a funny way of showing it.

No, she was scared, and she was running, and I'd let her…

for now. But she couldn't run from me—from us—forever.

“Can’t wait to do it again, love.”

That was when she stormed toward me, fists to my chest, pushing me toward the door. I barely had time to grab my jacket. “ Get out! ”

I let her push me. Let her feel like she was winning, even though she wasn’t. I’d already won. I’d been inside her. I had her claw marks all over my skin, her taste still on my tongue. The scent of her, of us , thick in the room was proof that this wasn’t a drunken dream .

She knew it. She’d be thinking about it all night. All week. She’d replay every second, every thrust, every word, just like I would. This wouldn't be a one-night thing no matter how many times she said it or tried to convince herself otherwise.

I didn’t even bother pulling my jacket on. Just held it in one hand, the other braced against the doorframe as she all but shoved me into the hallway.

I caught her wrist before she could slam it in my face. Her eyes met mine, all wide, dark, and blazing. I leaned in just slightly. “Sweet dreams, baby,” I murmured with a wink. “Though I know they’ ll be of us.”

And before she could throw something else—her other heel, maybe—I turned and walked away, still grinning and one-hundred percent hers.