Built for Speed — Bonus Chapter
An exclusive bonus scene by Aurora North
This bonus scene takes place two weeks after the epilogue of Built for Speed. Vesper and Astrid are engaged, living together in Milan, and have just completed the restoration of Enzo Moretti’s vintage racing car. Contains spoilers and explicit content intended for readers 18+.
Two-Tenths
The car was finished.
Not almost finished. Not ninety-percent finished with a punch list of minor adjustments that Astrid would fuss over for another three weekends while I handed her tools and stole glances at the way her forearms flexed when she torqued a bolt. Finished. Complete. Every piston seated, every bearing shimmed, every surface painted and polished to a shine that would have made my father weep.
Astrid stood beside the vintage racer with her hands on her hips and a smear of grease across her left cheekbone and the expression of a woman who had just completed a project to her own exacting standards.
“Lock the door,” she said.
She caught my waist and lifted me onto the edge of the cockpit. The bodywork was cold against my bare thighs. She pulled me forward so my legs wrapped around her waist, extracted a soft cotton rope from beneath the seat, and looped it around my wrists. She hooked my bound hands over the roll bar above the cockpit and stepped back to look at me — naked, stretched open, suspended on the rim of my father’s car with the Italian afternoon light falling through the high windows.
She took her glasses off. That meant she’d decided what was going to happen next.
She undressed. Knelt on the concrete floor between my spread thighs. And put her mouth on me with the focused, devastating precision of a woman who had spent a year learning exactly how to take me apart.
She started with broad strokes — her tongue parting me fully, tasting everything. Then she narrowed. Found the spot. Circled it in tight passes while she slid two fingers inside me and curled them forward. She added the vibrator alongside her tongue and the triple stimulation — fingers deep inside, tongue circling, vibrator humming against my clit — collapsed whatever remained of my ability to think.
I came screaming. She didn’t stop. Turned the vibrator up, added a third finger, and fucked me harder while her mouth held its rhythm. The second orgasm hit before the first had finished — sharper, deeper, my body clenching around her fingers in waves I could feel in my spine. Then a third, rolling through me like something geological until I was shaking and crying and the birds in the garden had gone silent.
She caught me when the knot released. Held me against her chest until I could speak.
Then I strapped the harness on and took her against the workbench. Steady and deep, the engagement ring pressing into her hip with every thrust, both of us slick with sweat and workshop dust. I praised her the way she’d taught me — specifically, honestly, without scarcity — and she came with my name broken across two syllables and her body arching against the bench and a sound so raw it echoed off the stone walls.
Afterward, on the workshop floor: “Marry me.” “You’ve already asked.” “I’m asking again. Every day.”
“Two-tenths, Moretti. There’s always something to improve.”
The vintage car cooled above us. The ring caught the light. The workshop held us steady, solid, built to last.
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