Page 11

Chapter 11

Strategic Surrender

June

I avoid him.

For exactly one day.

Twenty-four hours of strategic silence. Not because I'm mad.

It's because I need time.

Because I know what will happen the next time I see him.

And I need to be ready.

I feel like I’m walking on clouds with lightning strikes. A restless energy I haven’t known until Noah. He’s etched himself under my skin, a brand of desire that tingles from my toes to the roots of my hair. Never have I craved a man like this, a hunger that claws at my insides, demanding to be fed – and Noah? He's a feast.

And after that whole 'simulator stimulation' make out session as he called it, I’m closer than ever to tossing caution out the window.

But I’m not naive. If I’m walking into a torrid fantasy with a walking international temptation wrapped in Italian leather and F1 fame, I'm going in with my eyes wide open—even if my legs, ahem , are already parted in my mind.

More importantly, my heart is on lockdown. I’ve got enough sense to know what I can give, and what I need to protect.

And speaking of protection... let’s be clear—we are not getting pregnant. That part’s non-negotiable.

I even took my pill that morning—and considered a double dose, but I Googled it just to be sure, and learned, one dose would do. Because responsible can still be sexy, especially when you’re plotting a full-body meltdown with a man who looks like sin.

I’ve been cautious about a lot of things, and being protected? That one’s carved in stone.

People say my birth parents were just a fling. No names, no details—just enough whispers to plant doubt. I never got the full story, only the part that said I was left behind.

Maybe that’s why I flinch at anything that feels temporary. Because when I was a child, I thought I was a mistake until my adoptive parents Mack and Vicky, bless their hearts, set me straight.

If I ever have a baby, they’ll never wonder if they were wanted. That’s a promise I made to myself a long time ago.

June, you got this. You’ve thought it through.

Is this reckless? Yeah. Is it fast? Absolutely.

Is it insane? Maybe. But this is me saying yes—on my terms.

Noah Verelli may be a cocky, charming hound dog with a Ferrari engine, but I’m not exactly innocent here. I’m no saint with a halo, because I want him just as bad. Probably worse, since he’s going to be my first!

I used to tell myself I didn’t want temporary. That I needed certainty. But I know wanting Noah isn’t some reckless whim.

There’s something disarming about the way he looks at me, a vulnerability flickering beneath the bravado. It’s confusing, this mix of alpha arrogance and… unexpected gentleness.

He told me he’d prove it—if I’m willing to trust him. So yeah, maybe I don’t know what this is yet—but I know what I want. Him. And I’m not walking into that without a little strategy.

I want to be responsible. I want to look back and know I didn’t just fall—I chose. Even if it’s reckless, it’s still mine. And if the only way to feel safe is to be over-prepared? Then I’ll take over-prepared every time.

Which is how I ended up spending my one-day Noah Verelli avoidance window at the most intimidating store in Cedar Falls.

Amour mouth already curved like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He doesn’t waste time. Just kisses me—hard, greedy, like I’m already his—and steers me backward until my back hits a door.

It creaks open to reveal a mostly empty supply closet—with a lock, a few desks, chairs, a shelf I can lean on, and enough space to get very, very unprofessional. Yes, this is the room.

He kicks the door closed with his foot, the sound of the latch catching sharp in the quiet. Then he turns the lock, slow and deliberate. It clicks like a countdown.

His eyes meet mine, and the teasing fades. What’s left is heat. Focus.

He moves closer, backing me toward the nearest shelf. His hands slide under my top—no preamble, no hesitation—until his palms meet bare skin. My stomach flutters. "You smell nice, June." He says, voice low and rough.

His fingers skim the hem of my top, and he takes his time pulling it up and over my head. His eyes darken as he drinks me in, the strappy navy blue and gold catching the low light.

He slowly peels off his own shirt—deliberate, reverent—revealing those sculpted abs I’ve briefly seen and touched before. My mouth dries.

When he steps closer, he doesn’t reach for the clasp yet. He lifts his hand and drags his fingers from the top of my collarbone down the slope of my chest to the center of my cleavage.

"My heart almost burst the first time I saw you like this," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "Two days ago. In the sim room. When you let me taste you." He groans as he slides a finger between my breasts, slow and teasing. "June… the last 48 hours have been torture."

Now he reaches for the clasp. But his breathing goes shallow, uneven, like he’s barely holding himself together.

His blue eyes stay locked on mine, dark and heavy, overwhelmed by everything he’s seeing.

There’s no grin now—just a serious, reverent kind of smile that makes my whole body hum.

Then his hand spreads over my breast, fingers splayed wide, like he’s trying to see if he can even hold all of me. He squeezes gently, then deeper, groaning under his breath.

“Wow, June…” he murmurs, breathless. “You look so sexy with my hands barely covering you.”

He drags his fingers across the top again, circling around the softness with slow reverence. One finger dips into my cleavage. Then another.

And then he exhales, a shaky, reverent sound that curls around me. “I’ve thought about this every damn night.”

He finally finds the clasp, teasing it like it’s a puzzle he’s dying to solve. When it comes loose, he exhales again—this time louder, like it’s a victory he’s earned.

“Wow,” he whispers, eyes locked on my chest as the lace parts. “Your nipples…” His voice dips, breath ragged. “Your areolae are so soft, and your nipples—”

He moans, dragging his thumbs slowly across both peaks. “You’re sensitive, aren’t you?” he whispers, reverent. “I’ve seen them—pebbled under your hoodie, your shirts. You drive me crazy just imagining what they look like.”

I’m already throbbing, already pulsing. My whole body answers to that sound of his voice.

I can’t help it. My lips curve in a slow, wicked smile. “Now you don’t have to imagine. And if you keep touching me like that, I might forget how to stand.”

That heated look on his face, the way his eyes drag over my bare skin like it’s something holy—his chest rising fast, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip—it makes every inch of me ache.

And I want him to hurry.

I want him to take me now.

Before I change my mind.

I grip the edge of the shelf as he leans down and kisses me—soft first, then deeper, hungrier, like we’ve both been starving.

“You sure?” he murmurs against my mouth.

I nod. “Yes. No more waiting.”

He groans, sinking to his knees, hands sliding down my hips. First, he unbuttons my jeans—slowly, deliberately—then tugs them down my legs, inch by inch, until they pool at my ankles.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just lingers there, kneeling between my thighs.

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. Not yet.

His nose brushes the inside of my thigh as he lowers his head, breathing me in like I’m something decadent he’s waited too long to taste.

A low, guttural sound escapes him—half growl, half moan—as his hands tighten around my hips.

He lifts his gaze, eyes glassy, his breath hot against my skin.

"Wow," he breathes. "You’re bare."

I nod, biting my lip. "Do you like it?"

His hands flex on my thighs, eyes flicking up. "Yes. More than like it. You did this for me. You're so beautiful like this..."

And yet—he doesn’t rush. Every move he makes is slow. Like he’s holding back a storm behind those eyes. It’s unexpected, this restraint from a man so used to taking action, to living fast.

But maybe that’s the thing about Noah Verelli. He’s not just precision and speed. He’s dominance wrapped in patience—because he already knows I’m his.

Then he hooks his thumbs under the delicate navy panties and tears them down with a groan, like he’s done admiring and ready to claim.

And all I can do is stand there—bare, exposed, trembling—while my brain scrambles to process that this is real. That I’m letting a man—a man like him—see me. Taste me.

I’ve read the books. I’ve heard the jokes. But no one warned me about this. How intense it feels just to be watched like this.

The cold air nips at my bare skin, and my nipples tighten under it, sharp and aching.

My thighs twitch under the pressure of his gaze, and my pulse bangs in my ears. I can’t stop watching him—every shift of muscle, every subtle roll of his tongue against his teeth like he’s thinking about tasting me before he does.

Then he leans in—slow, deliberate—and brushes his nose along the inside of my thigh.

I stop breathing.

And I swear, I feel everything.

The contrast of his stubble. The heat of his breath. The ache building between my legs. It’s unbearable. And electric. And confusing in all the best, worst ways.

Then he looks up at me—his mouth inches away from the most intimate part of me—and murmurs like he’s whispering a spell, “Hold on to my shoulders.”

I do.

Because I need to. Because I’m about to fall. Because he hasn’t even touched me yet, not really—and I’m already unraveling.

Then his mouth touches me. And everything in me fractures.

It's not even a kiss—not really. Just a press of warm lips, a tentative brush of tongue. But it hits like lightning.

My hips jolt. My breath vanishes. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

I clutch his shoulders like a lifeline, fingers digging into the firm curve of his delts, trying to anchor myself. But I’m floating. Spiraling. Falling.

He groans low—like I taste better than he imagined—and the sound sinks straight into my bones. My knees wobble. My stomach clenches. My core throbs.

I’ve never felt anything like this. Ever.

And maybe that’s what undoes me—the realization that I’m letting this man have the first of everything . First taste. First kiss down there . First unraveling.

And he’s so calm. So controlled.

While I am shaking.

Burning. Completely undone.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in. He licks—slow and deliberate, one long drag that makes my toes curl—and then sucks gently, teasing the sensitive spot I didn’t even know was there until he found it.

A breathy, high sound escapes me—a whimper I don’t recognize. My thighs clamp tighter around him, not to push him away but to keep him there. To beg for more.

He strokes his thumbs along the outside of my hips, grounding me.

Then his mouth moves again—slower, deeper—like he’s trying to memorize every part of me with his tongue.

And maybe he is.

Because I am. Memorizing him.

The way his shoulders flex beneath my grip. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way he hums against me like this is something sacred. The way he worships me without a single word.

This is happening.

I am being touched , kissed , devoured . And for the first time, I’m not scared.

I’m just… his.

He groans, low and guttural, like I’m the one unraveling him, and strokes his thumbs along the outside of my hips like he’s holding back the full force of what he wants to do to me.

“Noah—”

He kisses me slower now, deliberately, tasting me like he has all night and nothing else to do.

Then, he rises just enough to guide me over to the couch—his hands under my thighs, my body barely catching up to the rush of heat pooling inside me.

He lays me back gently, spreading my legs with a reverent kind of hunger. The cool leather hits my bare skin, and I hiss—it’s cold, but I’m already so warm, so wet, I half-wonder if this couch will survive.

He kneels again between my thighs and pulls me closer, one hand under my knee, the other dragging up the inside of my thigh until his fingers brush against the slick heat waiting for him.

“Look at you,” he groans, breath shaking. “You’re soaked.”

I nod, breathless, aching. I don’t even try to be coy. “I’ve been thinking about this.”

Noah smirks. “So have I, June.”

Then he kisses me again, open and hot, tongue slow as it licks a long path between my folds. I cry out—soft, sharp—hips jerking up into him.

He groans into me, hands gripping my thighs tighter. “You taste so good.”

My head falls back, eyes fluttering. “Keep going, Noah... please.”

He does. Licking. Sucking. Moaning against me every time I twitch. His fingers slip between my folds, opening me gently, exposing every trembling inch of me to the warmth of his tongue.

And then he does it—he licks me in slow, deliberate circles, lips sealing around my clit with a low growl that vibrates through me.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “How swollen you are? This is what I do to you. This is what you wanted.”

I nod, panting. “Yes—yes, just like that.”

Then it slips out, quiet and breathless. “Noah... I’m still a virgin.”

"Oh baby." He pauses and looks up at me with something fierce and tender blazing in his eyes.

"We're not going to rush. I want to worship you first." He says softly. "Let me give you this."

He kisses me lower, then higher again, teasing, worshipping.

My thighs tremble around his shoulders. My whole body tightens like a string pulled taut.

“You're pulsing for me, baby. So responsive. So greedy.” He kisses the inside of my thigh again, then looks up at me with heat simmering in his eyes. “Squeeze your breasts for me, June. Let me see what I’m doing to you.”

I can’t form words now—just gasps, broken moans.

He slides one finger inside, slow and careful.

I gasp. My eyes widen. My body clutches him tight as he puts another finger in me, slow and stretching.

“Okay?” he murmurs, glancing up, voice full of heat but edged with concern.

I nod. “More than okay.”

Then it’s not soft. Not slow.His mouth returns with purpose—firm, hungry circles over my clit as his fingers begin to thrust, curling just right inside me.

His mouth never leaves me. He works me open with aching precision.

And suddenly, I feel everything. Too much. Perfect. Hot. Wild.

I’m not thinking anymore. I’m panting. Whimpering. Gripping the leather beneath me like it might keep me from flying apart.

Noah’s pace quickens—his tongue firmer, more relentless, stroking me in tighter, hungrier circles while his fingers thrust deeper, curling hard and just right inside me.

The pressure builds sharp and hot, and I’m gasping now, too full of sensation to think. He licks me faster, harder, until my whole body shakes.

And then it hits. My climax slams into me like a shockwave. My hips jerk and my thighs lock around him as a burst of wetness floods out of me.

“Noah—” I cry out his name as I come—hard. I swear—I squirt. I feel it. The couch definitely feels it.

My thighs lock around his head, my body clenching down on his fingers. My orgasm crashes through me and leaves me gasping.

He moans against me like I’m the one unraveling him , and I swear the sound alone pushes me closer. The pressure builds—deeper, sharper—with every stroke. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let me breathe. He pins me to the edge of pleasure and keeps me there.

He groans into me, drinking me in like he’s starving for it. “That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Give it to me. Every drop.”

And I do. My second orgasm rips through me, hips bucking, body clenching around his fingers. I swear the couch shakes beneath me.

I don’t just cry out his name this time. I scream it.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He licks me through it, groaning like he needs every drop of what I’m giving him.

When I collapse back, boneless and shaking, he kisses the inside of my thigh and looks up at me, eyes full of heat and something devastatingly tender.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs.

And neither am I.

I’m still trembling, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and raw need. My body feels flushed, slick, and utterly spent—but I’m not done. Not even close.

Because now, all I can think about is him inside me.

I want to know how it feels. The stretch. The fullness. The weight of his body pressing into mine. I want to feel every slow inch, every shuddering thrust. I want to know what it's like when it's Noah—only Noah.

I lift my head and find him watching me like he already knows.

"Come here," I whisper.

His expression shifts—heat, something quiet and awestruck—before he crawls up against me, like he can’t stay away any longer.

He pulls me up towards him and kiss me. "You were amazing, June."

I glance down at the jeans still clinging to his hips and raise an eyebrow. “Strip down, F1 champ.”

He huffs a laugh, one brow arching in amusement, but before he can say anything, I’m already reaching into my bag, pulling out not one, but multiple boxes like a flustered little overachiever.

“I brought options,” I say, spreading them out across the desk like I’m about to pitch him a product line. "Ribbed, ultra-thin, temperature-sensitive, textured, extra-lubricated."

Noah’s eyes flick down, then back up—gleaming with amusement, his laughter low and wicked in his chest. “Planning a full test drive?”

He shakes his head, grinning. “You’re making me feel like I should be double-bagging.”

I giggle at the thought. “Try one first. If it doesn’t hold, I’ve got backups.”

Then I pause. Let my voice drop.

“But first, let me see you.”

His eyes flash at my curiosity. “Yes, ma’am.”

He pulls down his jeans in one smooth move, and my breath catches at the sight of him—hard, thick, flushed, and visibly pulsing with anticipation. My mouth goes dry all over again.

Noah grins. “I brought my own stash, but now I’m curious... which one are we trying first?”

I hand him the ultra-thin one, but just as he tears the foil open, I place a hand on his wrist.

"Wait," I say, breathless. "I’m not done… I mean, I want to see you. All of you. I want to… take you in first."

His eyes flare with something between heat and surprise, but he pauses, lowering the condom for a beat.

Then he steps closer, and oh. My breath catches.

He’s huge.

Thick and flushed, the tip already glistening. Veins ripple along the shaft, prominent and pulsing, and my hands move before I can stop. I wrap my fingers around the base—slowly, carefully—and feel the heat of him.

He’s hot. Like literally. And I wasn’t expecting that.

And he’s hard, yes—but not rigid. I test it, curiosity winning out. My fingers press a little, trying to bend him—just to see.

He groans, head tipping back, and I immediately let go like it’s a hot potato. “Did I hurt you?”

He laughs, low and rough. Catches my wrists and brings my hands back to him, guiding them over the length with slow, deliberate control. I am mesmerized.

“Go ahead, Songbird,” his voice dips playfully. “Explore. Chart the uncharted. Map the terrain. Discover your own personal Mount Everest.”

My voice is barely a whisper. “You’re even bigger than I imagined.”

His gaze returns to mine, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint.

“We can stop,” he says, voice rough but tender.

I shake my head, breathless and overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.

“Nah. I should’ve worn hiking boots. Didn’t know we were scaling Everest tonight.”

His grin returns. “Don’t worry, Songbird. I’ll carry you to the summit.”

And then he kisses me.

I hand the condom back to him.

Then I nod… and pause. “Wait,” I murmur, breathless. “Can we do it… not on the couch? It might be too small.”

His brows lift slightly, but there’s nothing but understanding in his eyes. He takes my hand and pulls me down onto the new carpet gently. My back hits the floor, and I feel grounded. Ready.

I stretch out for him, bare and open.

Noah rolls on the condom and lowers himself above me, his eyes scanning my face like he’s memorizing it—every curve, every flicker of emotion. He leans down and brushes a kiss across my cheek, then the corner of my mouth.

“I need you to know,” he murmurs, voice thick, “this isn’t just sex for me. Having your first time… June, that’s an honor I don’t take lightly.”

My chest tightens. Something warm and sweet unfurls inside me.

He kisses my neck slowly, trailing down my collarbone as his body hovers over mine. “If I go too fast—if you want to stop—just say the word.”

I nod, whispering, “I trust you.”

His breath catches. For a moment, he just looks at me, something intense flickering behind those blue eyes. Then he reaches down, positions himself, and rubs the tip of his cock through my slick folds, teasing us both.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groans, voice rough. “So warm. So perfect.”

Then, with one slow, careful push, he begins to slide inside.

His hands are everywhere—cradling my hip, brushing my jaw, grounding me. One arm tightens around my back, the other finds my hand, threading our fingers together.

I gasp, my breath catching at the stretch. It burns. Not sharply, but with pressure, full and slow.

Noah pauses, his lips near my temple, breath warm against my skin. “Breathe for me,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good.”

I exhale through parted lips. “Don’t stop.”

He moves again, easing deeper. I feel him trembling—not just with restraint, but with emotion, with care. His thumb rubs soft circles over the back of my hand.

“You feel like heaven,” he groans. “Tight. Wet. Like you were made for me.”

My eyes blur. My body pulses around him, and for the first time, I understand what it means to be filled.

“More,” I whisper. “Please, Noah. I want all of you.”

He groans, jaw clenched like he’s fighting every instinct not to give in too fast. His gaze is fixed on mine, his movements controlled but hungry.

“You’re literally testing my limits,” he rasps. “Is it okay if I go deeper? Faster?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Please, yes.”

He shifts his hips, hands bracketing mine against the floor as he starts to move—slow at first, then with growing rhythm.

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.

Noah leans in and kisses my face—gentle, like a vow.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, then rests his forehead lightly to mine. His eyes find mine—steady, searching, like he’s making sure I really see him.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says, voice low and warm. “I know how much it took for you to come to me. I don’t take that lightly.”

He doesn’t make it sound fragile. He makes it sound sacred. Like he sees my courage, not my fear.

“You’re still you, June. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

And just like that, I stop bracing for the fall.

Because I’ve already landed. Not in fear. Not in doubt. But in him.

And for the first time, I believe this could be more than a fling.

I feel chosen. Wanted. Steady in a way I didn’t know I could—until now.