Page 13

Chapter 13

So Deep It Stays

June

T he plane hums beneath us, a soft, steady vibration that matches the tension coiled low in my belly. We’re flying over Europe now—white peaks below.

Noah is beside me, smiling, his eyes closed. I slide my arm through his and rest my head gently on his shoulder. It’s casual, easy—like a boyfriend-girlfriend move that feels intimate for something we haven’t put a name to yet. But it fits.

His body shifts just enough to press into mine, and even with his eyes closed, I feel him respond. Not with words. Just with presence. It settles like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

Maybe I should close my eyes too, but there’s too much energy under my skin—tight, restless, eager, fluttering.

Maybe it’s the altitude, maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never been on a trip with a man, especially one like Noah before—I’m beyond excited and nervous just thinking about it.

I want to see the HQ he’s always talking about, where he works with Dante Fagioli—the owner—his engineers, and his team. They’d called him back to test a new development they’d been refining all winter.

For the next two days, they’ll be running closed-track sessions—long stints, qualifying simulations, and live feedback pulls on cornering, grip, and balance. They’re watching how the car holds at speed, how it responds to real pressure, how he reads it instinctively—before the telemetry even catches it. And I want to see how he commands all of it.

I almost let out a giggle. It’ll be the first time I’ll be standing on a real Formula 1 track, a stage for gods of speed. Just thinking about it makes my pulse race. The scale, the sound, the precision… everything about his world, amplified, promising a sensory assault mirroring the delicious chaos he has already unleashed within me.

And if I feel this keyed up, I can’t imagine what it does to him. I can't wait to see that version of him—the one who dials in, who stops joking and starts leading. Focused. Commanding. Electric. I want to watch him in his element—no spotlight, no swagger. Just him, fully locked in. Razor-sharp. Leading like it’s instinct.

I glance at him, kind of in awe—our knees brushing every time the plane shifts. He’s staring out the window now, eyes open, like he’s deep in his head. His hand is wrapped around mine, thumb moving slow across the back.

I smile at the unconscious gesture—soft, steady, protective. It makes something in my chest go warm and melty, my heart’s finally catching up to the way his body already knows how to hold me.

I’m still tucked into his side, soaking in the comfort of his body against mine, when he looks down at me tenderly, and says, “Mack and Vicky love you so much. You know that, right?”

I glance over, surprised. “Of course I do.”

Noah nods slowly, then he turns his head to look out of the window again. “You’re lucky.”

The words hang there, unexpected.

“They’re the kind of parents who… show up,” he says. “Even when it’s hard. Even when you try to push them away. I see it in the way they look at you. Like you’re their heart walking around outside their body.”

He smiles faintly. “You don’t know how rare that is.”

I do. But I also know what he’s really saying.

“You’re talking about your parents,” I murmur while I snuggle closer.

He exhales through his nose. “They live in California. Still technically married. Still technically interested in my career. But mostly they’re just… distant. They send me articles. Show up at fundraisers. I think they believe their job was done once I could dress myself and win races.”

I shift even closer toward him, folding my leg up on the seat. I rest my chin lightly on his shoulder, just for a second, before I say quietly, “That must be hard.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but I feel his body relaxes beside me.

“It must be nice to have parents like Mack and Vicky,” he says softly.

I turn toward him, letting the weight of his words settle. He’s not just being kind—he’s revealing something deeper. His longing from within.

I squeeze his hand. “I guess you don't know my story through the Cedar Falls grapevine.” My voice so quiet it nearly disappears into the cabin murmur.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

I run my thumb over the seam of the armrest. “Mack and Vicky... they’re not my biological parents."

His whole body stills.

"They’re my real parents, in every way that matters. But I was left at the Cedar Falls firehouse when I was a baby.”

Noah lets out a breath—a quiet, startled sound—and I feel him subtly brace beside me, like he’s holding himself still for whatever comes next.

“Just a bundle,” I whisper. “Swaddled in a blanket. No note. No name. Just a small handwritten tag tied around my ankle with my birth date.”

I look down at our joined hands, and my throat tightens. It’s not the kind of story you ever get used to saying out loud.

“I’ve known it my whole life. Mack and Vicky told me when I was old enough to understand—because they wanted me to hear it from them, their version. The one where love found me first. Before the world could turn it into something else.”

I pause. Breathe.

“They were volunteering at the firehouse that night. A fireman heard something by the door and found me there, swaddled and alone. From the tag, I was just a few days old.”

My voice goes soft, but steady.

“And when no one else stepped up, Mack and Vicky did. No hesitation. Just heart.”

I smile faintly, even as my eyes sting.

“They said, ‘We’ll take her.’”

“Mack and Vicky named me Juniper because the bushes outside the fire station were blooming that week,” I say softly. “Something alive. Something unexpected.”

My voice wavers. I try to breathe through it.

“They said I was a gift. But some days…” My throat tightens. “On the worst days growing up, I was reminded that I was a discard—something someone didn’t want or know how to keep.”

His throat moves as he swallows. And I feel his heart thumps faster as his fingers reach for mine.

“And even though no one ever came back for me, the town still called me the Miracle Baby. There were even stories papers, and a fundraiser."

“Mack and Vicky fostered me on the very day I was found” I say. “Eventually, when all the legal paperwork went though, they adopted me. They raised me. Loved me. Saved me.”

Silence stretches. Heavy.

Then he leans in. Just slightly. Just enough.

He reaches out—his fingers brushing my cheek, then curling around my hand like he needs the contact to breathe. His other arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me gently against his side.

“I’m so glad Mack and Vicky were there for you,” he says quietly. “I don’t even want to imagine what your life would’ve been like without them.”

His words settle into me like a warm blanket. Like sunlight soaking into cold skin. He's holding my hand, and my life story. Gently.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he rumbles. “About not wanting anyone temporary.”

His thumb moves slow across my knuckles.

“And it hit me,” he breathes, the words catching in his throat. “I’ve been temporary my whole life, June. Hotels. Contracts. Headlines. Everything I touch has an expiration date. And with my family, there’s never ever any emotional foothold.”

He pauses, and I swear the air inside the cabin stills with him.

After a few long moments, Noah speaks again. “Now, that I know what happened to you as a baby. I think I can finally understand—why you guard your heart like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. I get it now.”

He pulls my hand to his chest, presses it flat against the steady thrum of his heart.

“And I swear to you, June... watch me. Watch me love you unconditionally. With no finish line. No exit ramp. No end date.”

He exhales. "I want to be the reason you believe people can stay.”

His words crack something open in me.

I’ve spent my whole life pretending I was immune—like I didn’t care who stayed or who left, as long as I could stand on my own. But I do care. I care so much, it defines me. And the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters—it feels like freefall. Like the moment right before a crash.

I want to believe him. I ache to believe him.

But part of me still waits for the skid. The spin. The silence.

He leans closer, just enough that I feel the warmth of his breath.

“If I was yours,” he says, voice low and reverent, “you’d never have to wonder if I’d leave. I wouldn’t even know how.”

His words slammed into me, stealing the air from my lungs. My hand tightens in his, a tremor running through me.

It isn’t just the promise—it’s the raw vulnerability beneath it, the confession that he needs this as much as I do.

My heart hammers against my chest, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, terrifying hope flooding my veins.

The cabin feels warmer. Tighter. Like the air knows what’s shifting between us.

He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t reach for more.

He just looks at me like he sees all the way through.

And I’ve never wanted someone more.

I look past him, toward the window to focus on the clouds outside.

The lump in my throat has nothing to do with altitude.

Never has desire clawed so insistently, so deep.

Never has someone felt so achingly essential.

We land in Milan just before noon, but it’s colder than I expected but still much warmer than Cedar Falls. The two-hour drive from the airport is sleek and quiet, the roads winding around snow-dusted foothills. I catch my reflection in the window more than once, flushed and grinning. It’s the butterflies. And the fact that I’m still holding Noah’s hand.

Noah walks me through the Fagioli HQ lobby—carbon fiber finishes, framed championship photos, staff in branded gear nodding as we pass. People glance. Then do a double take. Some even whisper.

Because I’m not just anyone.

I’m the woman Noah Verelli is holding hands with.

And Noah? He’s not letting go.

We pass the simulator wing, the telemetry lab, and into the massive garage where the new season’s car gleams under floodlights.

This place has a very different kind of energy than my dad’s shop—sleek, silent power instead of roaring engines and classic rock. It’s intimidating, clinical almost. But watching Noah move through it, all easy command and sharp focus, completely at home in this high-tech space, I wonder what it would feel like to belong here.

“Dante’s not here?” Noah asks, scanning around. One of the senior engineers, a guy with silver at his temples and spotless hands, glances over.

"Boss just left for the States last evening," he replies. "Not sure when he'll be back but the rest of us are here for your sessions. Everything’s set up for chassis data and aero response testing."

Noah smiles broadly at him. “Good. Good.”

One of the mechanics spots us and mutters something in Italian. Another nudges him. They're trying to be discreet. They're failing.

“New build?” I ask, pointing at the car.

“Chassis is almost completed. We’re just running software tests and aero tweaks now.”

I crouch beside the front wing, tapping the carbon curve. “Will you be getting turbulence through corner exits?”

Noah grins as his lead engineer stares.

“You’re not wrong,” Noah says. “We’ve been debating a redesign on the front flap. Want to see the aero model?”

The team watches me differently now. Not like an interloper. Not like a tourist. Definitely not arm candy.

And I can feel Noah watching me, too. It’s more than pride. There's a hint of awe, and fascination. And I hope—maybe even a hint of hunger, like he’s already addicted.

And when I ask another question—this one about tire degradation under cold track conditions—someone behind us actually chokes.

One of the engineers raises an eyebrow and murmurs, “She asks the questions our junior data guys should’ve caught three days ago.”

Another mutters without looking up, “Bet she doesn’t ask for five runs of the same lap just to confirm the obvious.”

The lead engineer smirks, nodding toward me. “You looking for a job, Kennedy?”

Noah leans back and puffs up, “Told you she was brilliant.”

His pride is clearly visible now, to my delight.

A younger mechanic—gorgeous, all dimples and thick lashes—sidles up to me and says something flirtatious sounding in Italian. I smile at him, confused, and glance at Noah for a translation.

He quirks a smile that’s laced with something wicked. “He said he hopes you’ll stay to watch us test. And that your eyes gave him a tummy ache.”

The guy groans and shakes his head, clearly amused. “That’s not what I said,” he says in accented English, but he’s laughing as he says it.

A few team members nearby snort out loud. Someone mutters something that sets off another round of chuckles. The younger mechanic shoots Noah a look like, Seriously?

Noah just lifts a brow in mock innocence, then casually wraps his arm around my waist and lets his hand drop—low enough to cup my ass.

My breath hitches. Not because I mind. Because I really don’t.

He smiles at the junior mechanic. “She’s taken,” he clips in fluent Italian. “Move it.”

The guy chuckles, lifts both hands in surrender, and backs away.

I jab him in the side. “You’re a terrible translator.”

Noah shrugs. “More or less. It was the vibe.”

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.

Not fully.

Because even though he stood up for me, even though he said it loud enough for the world to hear—I still hear that one question echo.

Is she just a phase?

And the worst part? A tiny voice inside me wonders if they’re right.

Noah glances over at me. Just a second. Just enough to see the tightness in my jaw, the flicker of doubt I haven’t managed to hide.

He faces forward again—but raises his voice, even though no one’s asked.

“For the record,” he says clearly, his tone like steel wrapped in velvet, “she’s not a phase. She’s the realest thing I’ve got going.”

A few heads turn. More cameras click.

And then he squeezes my hand again before sliding his arm up around my shoulders, pulling me in against his side. Protective. Assured.

We walk away as one—shoulders brushing, steps synced. And he doesn't look back. Not once.

We don’t stop until we’re back into the building, the doors close behind us.

Later that afternoon, while Noah’s out on the test track and locked into real-time data feedback with the engineers, I take myself on a short tour of the nearby town.

A cup of macchiato and a warm slice of focaccia from a tiny corner café, a quick pass through the boutiques tucked under stone arches, and just enough time wandering narrow cobblestone streets to fall a little more in love with this part of Italy.

I pick up a small tin of Italian lavender candies for mom and a stitched leather keychain with a tiny, embossed racecar for dad. It feels good to carry a piece of this place home to them.

I was impressed watching Noah earlier. There’s nothing quite like seeing a man behind the wheel—focused, fast, utterly in control. The vibrations from the engine still echo in my body. I don’t know how he does it, staying composed with that much power thrumming under him.

Before I could embarrass myself by lingering longer at the track just to watch him, I told him I was going to explore a little. He’d smiled, nodded, and gave me a kiss, before shifting into driver mode.

By the time I return to the hotel, I’m still buzzing from Noah’s touch, the way he stood up for me in front of the cameras, and the low, vibrating thrill of watching him behind the wheel. A hot shower is the only thing that might settle me.

I peel off my jeans, take my time under the water, then wrap myself in a towel—still damp and air-drying—just in time to hear the soft click of the suite door.

Noah, done with training, just getting in. His voice floats in from the other room—low, serious, but gentle. Meant for someone else.

“No, the money’s already in. You just focus on the training.” he says. “And tell him not to worry about gear. He’s covered.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I don’t care about credit. Just get him on the track.”

I freeze, towel clutched at my chest.

“This isn’t a publicity stunt,” he says, quieter now. “Just make sure he gets the shot. The world doesn’t need to know my name’s on it.”

He ends the call.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Because something inside me is shifting. Melting. Breaking apart in the most dangerous way.

Sounds like Noah is sponsoring another driver quietly. Without asking for anything in return.

I step closer to the bedroom door just as he appears in the hallway, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

His hair is damp—he must’ve showered at HQ—and his fitted team shirt hugs his chest and shoulders like it was tailored to him an hour ago.

He stops short when he sees me.

Then that smile spreads slow across his face. The one that makes me feel like he’s not just looking at me—he’s landing.

“How was your tour?”

I lean against the doorway, towel tucked tight. "Charming. Overpriced. A little too easy to fall for."

He laughs softly, steps closer.

“I missed you.”

I raise a brow. “I was gone for three hours.”

“I know,” he murmurs, stopping right in front of me. “That’s three hours too long.”

His eyes sweep over me—slow, deliberate, full of heat. He reaches for the towel, running one fingertip along the edge of where it meets my collarbone.

I tip my head slightly and ask—soft, but pointed, “I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But who was that on the phone?”

He blinks, surprised by the question, but recovers quickly. His shoulders roll in a shrug, eyes flicking away. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re sponsoring a kid. Aren’t you?”

He lifts one hand to rub the back of his neck. “Just someone who needed help.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I ask as he walks over to the bar for a bottle of water.

“Because it’s not about me.” He smiles.

There’s no boast in his voice. Just quiet conviction. Like doing something good is normal. Like it doesn’t need a headline.

My chest tightens. “You always surprise me,” I whisper.

“You always see me,” he answers.

I glance at him—still across the room, sipping from the bottle like he hadn’t just melted me with those four words. My chest pulls tight. He's done something incredible, and acted like it meant nothing. That kind of humility shouldn't be this hot.

A wild thought flickers through me: all good deeds deserve a reward.

And if he thinks I see him? Well… wait until he sees me.

I let the towel fall.

And then I start walking toward him. Slow. Barefoot. Damp. Bouncing with every step and loving the way his eyes lock on me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted.

His breathing changes—deeper, sharper. Controlled, but just barely.

And he doesn’t move.

He watches.

“Noah?” I say softly.

He blinks. “What are you—”

I step right up to him, purring. “Come with me.”

He follows without hesitation. I take his hand, lead him toward the bedroom without saying another word, and when we step over the threshold, I finally stop and turn.

“Sit,” I command, voice low.

I pass the bed, pause at the side table, and pull open the drawer. I don’t look at him when I grab the condom. I can feel his eyes locked on me, tracking every movement, like even the air between us is electric.

I place the foil packet on the edge of the bed, right where he can see it, then turn and face him.

Noah blinks but obeys, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

I press a hand to his chest and push him gently down. He lets me. His back hits the lush bed, eyes locked on mine, lips parted. Ready for what’s coming.

Then I climb on top, and straddle his lap—slow, deliberate—my knees on either side, my palms sliding under the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t want the credit,” I say, breath brushing his lips. “So let me show you how much I appreciate you.”

I peel his shirt up and over his head. Let my hands roam his chest. His muscles twitch under my fingers. His eyes darken.

He grins, low and wicked. “I think I like your reward,” he murmurs. “Very sexy."

Instead of answering, I grind against him. Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His breath catches. His hands grip my thighs.

“I love your generosity,” I purr, eyes locked on his. I pull him up just enough to brush my lips along his jaw. “Now let me show you how generous I can be too.”

I lean in, heat thick between us. “Take off your pants, Noah.”

He rises slowly, eyes never leaving mine, then reaches for the button at his waistband. The zipper lowers with a soft rasp, and he pushes the tailored trousers down his hips, letting them fall to the floor. His erection strains against black boxer briefs—his breathing deeper now, chest rising fast.

He peels them off, eyes dark and hungry, baring himself completely.

Then I slide down between his knees.

Hard. Thick. Beautiful.

I stroke him once, twice, then lean in and take him deep into my mouth.

Noah lets out a hoarse groan.

My fingers wrap around his base. I suck slow, then fast. Hollow my cheeks. Flick my tongue over the head. Taste him. Feel him twitch.

“Look at you,” he groans, voice ragged. “On your knees for me. So generous. Especially with that mouth.”

He grips my hair and tugs gently. “You gonna swallow every drop if I let go in that pretty mouth?”

“You don’t ask for praise,” I murmur, lips brushing his tip. “But I’m giving it anyway.”

I swirl my tongue around him before taking him in again, slower this time—letting him feel every inch of my mouth. My lips slide down his shaft, my throat tightening around him as I take him deeper. He groans, his hips jerking, one hand fisting in my hair.

“Your mouth is made for this,” he pants. “Sweet, filthy little mouth. You love tasting me, don’t you?”

I hum around him, the vibration making him shudder. I pull back just enough to whisper, “I saw this once on a porn channel. You know, during my research.”

His breath hitches hard.

“Tell me,” I purr, licking the tip slowly, “am I a very good student?”

Then I lick him again—long, deliberate, messy—and take him back down, this time until my nose brushes the base.

His voice is wrecked. “Just like that, baby. Don’t stop. That mouth—yeah. It was made for me. Don’t you dare stop.”

The way he watches me, jaw slack, eyes dark and wide, makes something pulse low in my belly. He's trying to keep his control, but I can see it slipping. And I love it.

He starts to thrust gently into my mouth, hips rocking with restraint, and the sensation only winds me tighter. The stretch of him, the push and glide, the wet sounds and his ragged breathing—it’s all too much. I’m soaked just watching it, feeling it. Just knowing I'm the one doing this to him.

Heat blooms through my thighs, hot, slick, and unbearable. I can’t stop. I don’t want to. Because right now, he’s mine to undo.

Then, his hands grip my shoulders, then slide down my arms like he needs to feel every inch of me. He reaches for the condom packet I left on the bed, rips it open with a flick of his wrist, and rolls it on with a hiss of breath through his teeth.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he mutters, voice thick.

Then he stands, tall and imposing, and pulls me up with him. I’m breathless as he turns me, pressing his chest to my back, one hand guiding me forward until I’m braced against the bed.

His voice drops behind me—rough, reverent.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs. “Hands on the bed. I want to feel every inch of you as I take my time.”

And I know what’s about to happen, but I still gasp when his hand slides down my back. This is new. My first time like this—taken from behind, bent over for him. It feels raw and exposing in a way I didn’t expect, and hotter than anything I’ve imagined.

His palm flattens at the small of my back, steadying me. My breath catches. I feel stretched already and he hasn’t even moved.

I’m wet—so wet I can feel it sliding down my thighs. The cold air brushing my skin only makes it more intense. I grip the edge of the bed, trying to ground myself, but it’s useless. He’s in control now.

And the way he fills me from behind—so deep, so sure—makes my knees go weak.

A moan slips from my throat, unrestrained.

I’ve never felt so… vulnerable. Or this powerful.

Because he’s the one who’s groaning now, cursing under his breath as he thrusts deeper. Like he’s the one being undone.

His hands grip my hips, spreading me wider, his voice a low growl behind me. “You have no idea how perfect you feel like this. Your ass—baby, the way it moves when I’m deep inside you.”

He fists a hand gently in my hair, guiding my head down. “This view? Burned into my brain forever.”

Another thrust—deeper, firmer—and I cry out, the friction sparking down my spine.

“You're dripping for me,” he pants. “So wet, so ready. This pussy was made to be taken like this.”

My body clenches, tight around him, and the moan that rips from my throat is nothing short of desperate. Every word, every stroke, pushes me closer to the edge.

Noa's thrusts are deep. Full. Devastating. Wet and wild. The sound of him moving inside me is filthy—slick, rhythmic, obscene. The slap of skin, the squelch of my arousal, the sharp smack of his hips against mine—it echoes in the air like a pulse. My arousal coats his length, sticky and hot, dripping down the insides of my thighs with every powerful stroke.

His fingers grip harder, spreading me open as he drives in again, and I swear I can feel him all the way up my spine. I whimper, helpless against the pleasure, and he leans over me, breath hot on my neck.

“Can you feel how soaked you are?” he growls. “Every time I push in, your pussy pulls me deeper—like you never want to let me go.”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. All I can do is feel. The heat, the stretch, the pounding need building with every thrust.

My body trembles. My fingers claw at the sheets, desperate to hold on to something—anything—as he takes me exactly the way I never knew I needed.

My moans break open—sharp, breathless, unstoppable—as his hands slide up, cupping my breasts from behind. The instant he touches me there, my breaths come faster, uneven. The way he palms and squeezes, rolling my nipples between his fingers, makes me arch instinctively.

I’m braced on my elbows, thighs shaking, every thrust pushing me closer to the edge. Then I push up onto my hands, giving him more. Needing more.

Now I’m on all fours, the new angle making every thrust hit harder. Deeper. My whole body burns with it.

“Harder,” I gasp, my voice ragged. “Please… I want it rough.”

Noah stills for half a beat, maybe a little shocked at my asking—but the sound that comes next is a dark, delicious groan.

“You want it rough?” he breathes, fingers digging into my hips. “My naughty girl.”

The next thrust is harder. Sharper. A spank lands across my ass, sudden and stinging, and I cry out—not from pain, but from how fast it unravels me.

“You love that, don’t you?” he growls, spanking me again. “Your first time like this, and you’re begging me to ruin you.”

“Yes,” I pant, thrusting myself back into him, desperate. “Please, Noah… more. Take me like you mean it.”

Another spank. Another brutal, perfect thrust. I’m gasping now, rocking into every slap, every stretch, every filthy sound echoing off the hotel walls.

And I know—this isn’t just sex anymore. It’s both of us giving everything. No holding back. No pretending we’re not completely gone for each other.

It’s surrender—to the way we fit each other fully. To the heat and trust and need that’s been building since the moment we met.

Noah leans closer, his mouth hot at my ear. “You feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am? How I’m not stopping until you forget your own name?”

I can only nod, whimpering.

“This isn’t just sex,” he growls. “This is me inside the only woman I want—pushing so deep, I’ll never find my way out.”

He slams into me again, rougher, greedier, and I cry out as my body quakes around him. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. Doesn’t give me a second to breathe.

He drives into me again—faster now. Hard. Sharp. Relentless. Like he’s chasing something that can only be caught if we both fall at the same time.

My body jerks forward with every thrust, hands scrambling against the sheets for leverage I can’t find. He pounds into me again and again, so fast I can barely keep up. So deep I swear I feel it in my throat.

Every stroke is brutal and beautiful. A wild rhythm. A lit fuse. A storm I begged for.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “That’s how bad I need you to come for me.”

I cry out, half-shocked, half-starving. Noah’s thrusts are a demand. A promise. A possession.

“You were made for this,” he pants. “For me.”

I’m right there—teetering, pulsing, desperate to fall.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

Every stroke is savage and perfect, like he’s trying to etch his name inside me. He’s not just taking me—he’s branding me. Unmaking me.

“Come with me,” he rasps, voice ragged. “Now, baby. I want to feel you give in. I want to lose it with you.”

His hand slides between my legs, fingers finding my clit, circling with pressure that unravels me instantly.

I try to hold it. Try to hang on for one more second. But I can’t. I don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into me—hot, electric, unstoppable. My back arches as I cry out, the intense pleasure crashing through me.

Wave after wave, it tears me apart. I shatter around him, muscles seizing tight, nerves sparking like live wire.

A gush pours out of me, wet and uncontrollable, as my body pulses around him, trembling, undone.

Noah groans, low and guttural, and drives into me one last time—then again—then he lets go, hips snapping forward as he loses himself completely.

He groans my name like a prayer, spilling into the condom with a sound that’s pure worship.

We collapse together, skin slick, breath tangled, still shaking. And for one long, aching moment, nothing else exists but this.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

Noah’s breath is still ragged as he holds me from behind, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other brushing damp hair from my cheek. He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then another—slower this time, tender.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod, still trying to catch my breath. “More than okay.”

He exhales against my skin, nuzzling closer. “That was…”

I laugh softly, twisting around to look at him. “Yeah. That was.”

We stay there like that—quiet, tangled, wrapped in something that’s no longer just physical. Something real. Something we don’t need to name just yet.

Eventually, he shifts and gently lays me down on the bed, covering us both with the blanket. His arms wrap around me from behind, one palm smoothing over my hip, warm and grounding.

It's soothing hearing Noah breathe in and out. Then, it slips out without warning but I catch it.

“I’ve fallen deeply in love with you, Juniper Kennedy,” he whispers against my hair.

My breath catches.

But I don’t move. I don’t answer.

I just close my eyes and let the weight of it wrap around me like the safest thing I’ve ever known.