Page 5

Chapter 5

Soaked eyebrow raised. “What does this mean?”

Another kid grins. “Winner gets a prize.”

My heart stops.

“Oh yeah,” someone else says. “Like a kiss! From the loser!”

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” they start chanting like the hormonal chaos gremlins they are.

I hold up my hands. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not kissing anyone,” I snap.

A beat.

“Or loser has to clean all the helmets!” Some wonderful soul offers me a way out.

“Clean Reid’s helmet? No thanks,” a girl groans. “That thing smells like feet and crushed dreams.”

After the laughs die down, another student chimes in. “Okay, fine. Then loser has to serve snacks tomorrow.”

“Already agreed to that,” Noah says. “But… I seriously prefer the kiss idea better.”

He’s looking right at me.

He’s not laughing. Not teasing. Just intent on me.

“So, did you enjoy the chase?” he asks languidly.

My cheeks flame and I pretend to ignore him.

“Tomorrow snacks it is,” I say, heading for the towel rack.

Then louder—boss-mode engaged—“Speaking of food, it’s lunchtime, isn’t it? Go! Eat! Report back here in an hour, guys!”

That gets them moving.

“Finally!”

“Did someone say pizza?!”

“Let’s go—I’m starving!”

They take off in a clamor of laughter and helmet hair, racing each other toward the cafeteria like this was the warm-up and lunch is the main event.

But even as their voices fade down the hallway, I can feel it.

Noah’s eyes.

Still on me.

And he’s the one chasing now.

I’m bent over the side of my kart, wiping down the steering column when his shadow hits the pavement beside me.

“You oversteered into Turn 3.”

I glance up.

Noah’s standing close. Too close. That cocky tilt to his mouth is back, but his eyes are sharper now. Like he’s replayed every second of our race in his head.

“I don’t oversteer,” I mutter, going back to my rag.

“You do,” he says smoothly. “It’s cute.”

I freeze mid-wipe. “Did you just call my cornering cute ?”

He shrugs, all faux innocence. “I’m just saying... if you want to shave half a second, you’ve got to let the kart do the work.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Want me to show you?”

I look up. His gaze is steady. A little challenge in it. A little something else.

“I’m serious,” he says. “One lap. I’ll ride with you. Just show you how I’d take the lines.”

I open my mouth to tell him no.

And the next second, I’m in the air.

“Hey—!”

He lifts me. Just picks me up like I’m nothing.

Strong arms under my thighs and back, my stomach pressed to his chest, my brain completely short-circuiting.

“Noah!”

I feel him grinning, striding across the garage like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Instructional lap,” he says. “I’ll show you how you can shave off some time.”

He carries me straight to the two-seater karts—the side-by-side kind, usually reserved for junior drivers or terrified parents. But right now? They feel like they’re waiting for trouble.

He sets me down like I’m fragile, and I hate how much I feel it—how strong he is. How easy that is for him. How his forearms are still flexing as he buckles me in.

He’s still riding the high from the race. All confidence, adrenaline, and heat.

Our shoulders bump as he settles in.

His thigh presses against mine—hot, solid, no space between us.

He reaches for the wheel, his arm brushing across my chest like it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing. Not when my body’s already buzzing from twelve hours of wanting.

And we haven’t even started the engine.

His hands settle over mine on the wheel—warm, steady, too much.

Then he speaks.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re holding on too tight.”

His breath grazes my ear. I feel it everywhere.

My nipples pebble under my shirt, already aching for his mouth.

My pussy throbs and clenches around nothing—wet, ready, pulsing— wanting only one thing, before we even move an inch.

Then the engine roars to life.

Sweet torture!

The vibrations shoot straight up through the seat—into my core, along my spine, blooming heat across my whole body.

I yelp on instinct, and Noah lets out a dark, amused breath.

“You feel that?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

His voice dips darker. “It hums differently under you. Like it wants to see what you can take.”

This man has no idea what’s he talking about! Or does he?

I grunt in frustration.

We ease into the straightaway—slow at first. Controlled.

Then we shift gears.

The kart jolts forward with a thrust that punches straight into my center—hard, precise, like the machine knows exactly where I need it most.

Heat floods me. My thighs clench. I swear I feel it ripple inside me—each surge like a slow grind against nothing, every nerve tuned to the pitch of him beside me.

It’s obscene how good this feels.

I’m soaking through denim. Sensitive everywhere. And the worst part? I don’t want it to stop.

“This track’s tighter than you think,” he says, guiding the wheel with me. “Short distance, but brutal corners. Most people lose time hugging too close to the apex.”

We reach Turn 1 and he nudges my thigh, directing me to lean.

“You feel that?” he asks again.

I do. Not the go-kart. Him.

The way his hip presses harder into mine as we shift through the curve. The low rumble of the seat beneath us. The drag of his knuckles on my thigh as he adjusts my grip.

It’s all sensation.

All pressure.

And not a single bit of it is helping me focus.

We hit Turn 3, and his palm slides just above my knee.

“Brake late. Lean into me.”

I do.

Not because I want to improve my lap time.

Because I’m slipping.

Into his heat. Into his voice. Into the way his thigh tightens next to mine like he’s feeling this, too.

I can smell him—clean sweat, a trace of fuel, something darker that lodges between my ribs and rolls low in my belly.

And then—stupid brain— pictures form.

His body. Over me. In bed. Hands on my hips, that bed voice in my ear.

I’ve never pictured sex with someone before. Not like this. Not this vivid.

My thighs clench. My breath stutters.

“June.”

His voice cuts in—low, rough, close.

I jerk back to reality. We’re hitting the far curve. His hand catches the wheel, steadying it with mine.

“You’re distracted.”

Gee, I wonder why.

He laughs once—deep and smug—but it’s tight.

Too tight.

He shifts in his seat. Not casually.

And that’s when I realize he’s hard.

Thick. Pressed to his thigh and clearly unable to hide it.

A flush spreads over my chest. I look straight ahead.

Don’t say anything. Don’t breathe too hard.

Just drive.

We take the last curve, then roll into the pit.

The engine cuts.

Silence.

Except for our breathing.

Not heavy.

Just… intimate .

I’m soaked. Flushed. And hyper-aware of every breath he takes.

He doesn’t move. I don’t either.

My body feels undone. Like I’ve been touched everywhere even though he never did.

And when I finally climb out of the kart, my legs wobble like I’ve just come down from something I never quite reached.

Noah stands beside me. Quiet. Watching. His gaze dips once—quick, unreadable—then slides away.

But when he adjusts the front of his suit, it’s not subtle.

Our eyes meet.

And it’s clear—we both felt every second of that lap.

Even if we didn’t touch.

“Dude, I told you it was under the seat!”

Voices echo from down the hallway. Sneakers squeak. Laughter gets closer.

Noah straightens instantly. I jump away from the kart like it’s on fire, trying to look normal.

I slap both hands over my chest—like that’s going to hide the hard peaks showing through my T-shirt—then cross my arms fast, like I’m just cold and totally unbothered.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Noah adjusting himself.

He presses down on the front of his suit—firm, deliberate—like he’s trying to will something away. Then, realizing just how obvious that move is, he casually folds both hands in front like he’s posing for a school photo.

Our eyes lock for half a second.

His look says: Yup. You too?

I don’t want to wait around for conversation or worse, interrogation, so once again—I bolt.

“I’m just—I’m gonna check something,” I mutter, already halfway out the track.

One of the teens watches me go, blinking. “You better hurry, Ms. June, if you still want lunch in the cafeteria! Pizzas wait for no man!”

I don’t respond, don’t look back.

But the heat? Still burning under my skin.

Maybe I’ll call in sick for the rest of the day.

Because I’ve clearly contracted some go-kart-mounted, orgasm-adjacent emotional damage.

And that? Is definitely not in the curriculum.