The grid beneath me thrums with energy, fifty thousand horsepower waiting to be unleashed. I close my eyes, feeling the power inside me, Nick's power, flowing through every cell of my body.
Race day at Suzuka. The culmination of everything we've worked for. Everything I've taken from him.
I run my hand across my flat stomach, a small smile playing on my lips. Pregnant with victory. That's what I am right now. Nick's essence still warm inside me from our ritual five minutes ago, feeding the beast that drives me forward on the track. Some drivers meditate before races. Some listen to music. I fuck my boyfriend until his legs shake and then carry his life force into battle.
The Japanese sun beats down on the grid, making the purple livery of my Zenith machine gleam like royalty. Mechanics scurry around, making final adjustments, but I barely notice them. My focus has narrowed to a laser point, my body whistling with a strange calm that only comes from thoroughly claiming my other half.
I stretch my neck, feeling the pleasant ache of Nick's teeth marks hidden beneath my racing suit. My secret weapon, my talisman. The press would have a field day if they knew how literal my "performance enhancement" really was.
My eyes drift to P2, where Blair stands beside her identical purple car. Her posture is rigid, her movements jerky as she grips her helmet in white-knuckled hands. Even from here, I can see the tension radiating from her like heat waves.
She catches me watching and her silver eyes narrow with naked hatred. I can't help but smile. There's something delicious about watching her unravel, thread by thread, day by day. First I took her spotlight. Then I took her boyfriend. Soon, I'll take this race.
"Good luck, cuh," I call out, the casual slang rolling off my tongue with deliberate mockery.
Her nostrils flare as she jams her helmet over her electric blue hair, the movement so aggressive I'm surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash.
"I don't need luck," she snarls, her voice tight with fury.
I slide my own helmet on, savoring the familiar embrace of carbon fiber. The world narrows to what I can see through my visor, sounds muffling into that cocoon of focus I've perfected over years of competition.
"Let me know how my slipstream tastes after the race," I say, just loud enough for her to hear me before her crew closes her in.
The comment lands perfectly. I see her shoulders tense, her head jerking toward me before her race engineer steps between us, blocking my view.
*****
The five red lights extinguish, and Suzuka erupts into chaos.
My start is perfect, muscle memory and instinct taking over as I launch off the line like a purple missile. The car becomes an extension of my body, boundaries dissolving between machine and woman. I am no longer Ivy Hunt. I am pure velocity, a force of nature harnessing fifty thousand horsepower.
Every corner feels like destiny rather than decision. My hands don't end where flesh meets steering wheel, they continue through steering wheel, through suspension, through rubber meeting asphalt. I am the car. The car is me.
"Medium compound performing beautifully, Ivy," My engineer's voice cuts through my trance. "You're flying."
I grunt an acknowledgment, unwilling to break the perfect communion between myself and machine. By lap ten, I'm in a flow state so profound it borders on religious experience. My body thrums with Nick's soul.
"Maintaining gap at 1.8 seconds," My engineer informs me. "Perfect pace."
I should be dominating, pulling away with each sector like I did in China. With Nick's power flowing through me, I should be untouchable. Yet something feels off, a disturbance in the force.
My eyes flick to the mirrors.
I find Blair's purple machine, identical to mine, trailing in my wake. Not falling behind. Not struggling. Keeping pace.
Instead of frustration, a rush of euphoria floods my system. My lips curl into a feral grin behind my visor as I recognize what's happening.
"Well, well, well," I purr to myself, tightening my grip on the wheel. "Someone's found her fire."
It's been three long years since anyone truly challenged me, not since my Ex-girlfriend Enza walked away from Formula 1 with our toxic relationship still smoldering in her wake. I'd forgotten this feeling, the pure, animal joy of genuine competition.
And here is Blair keeping pace through raw, unadulterated hatred. Her rage for me is fueling something magnificent in her driving.
Delicious.
I tap deeper into the primordial ooze my lover gifted me, letting it flow through my veins and into my fingertips where they connect with the steering wheel.
"If you want to race, then let's race."
I throw the car into the corner with savage precision, feeling the backend step out just enough to make my engineer gasp in my ear. The dar responds like it's reading my thoughts, sliding to the absolute edge of control before biting into the asphalt with renewed fury.
By lap 19, Blair's shadow looms larger in my mirrors. She's close, too close, her front wing practically kissing my diffuser through the chicane.
"Fuck," I whisper as my engineer's voice crackles through the radio.
"Blair's boxing this lap. Early strategy change from their side."
I watch her purple machine peel away toward pit entry, the sudden absence of her pressure almost disorienting. My lips curl into a knowing smile. Clever girl. She's trying to undercut me, get the fresh rubber advantage and overtake when I pit next lap.
I push harder through the next sequence of corners, squeezing every millisecond from these aging mediums. My engineer confirms what I already know, I need to box next lap or risk hemorrhaging time.
The pit entry appears before me like the maw of some mechanical beast. I throw the car in, hitting my marks with acute precision as the Zenith crew swarms around me. Every heartbeat feels like an eternity as they swap my worn mediums for fresh hards.
"Clear, clear!" My race engineer shouts, and I launch back onto the track, the car surging forward with renewed energy.
But there she is, Blair, just ahead of me as we merge onto the racing line, the undercut strategy working to perfection. Those few seconds in the pit were enough for her to claim track position.
"Fuck," I growl, but there's no real anger in it. Instead, a wild joy bubbles up inside me, a primal exhilaration at having genuine competition. Both of us on hard compounds now, this is pure racing, skill against skill, nerve against nerve.
I feel Nick's love swirling in my womb.
In Nick I trust.
Through turn 8, I close the gap, my front wing slicing through the disturbed air of her wake. The car squirms beneath me, fighting the dirty air, but I wrestle it into submission. Turn 9 comes and goes, another opportunity missed as Blair defends with unexpected precision.
At the hairpin, I dive to the inside, braking impossibly late. For a breathless moment, I think I've got her, but this sneaky bitch slides her car across the apex with perfect timing, maintaining her position by mere centimeters.
"She's defending well," my engineer notes unnecessarily.
"I can see that," I snarl back through a fierce grin. This is what I've been missing, a worthy opponent, someone who forces me to dig deeper, to find reserves of skill I'd forgotten I possessed.
The dance continues for laps. I stalk her through the Spoon Curve, waiting, calculating, feeling the machine respond to my every thought.
By lap 31, I see my opening. Blair defends the inside line, but I've baited her perfectly. I swing wide, catching the slipstream before pulling alongside. The speedometer climbs past 300 km/h as we hurtle side by side toward the braking zone. For one perfect moment, we're parallel.
I break a heartbeat later than is sane, the g-forces crushing my body as I claim the inside line. My tires scream in protest but hold just enough grip for me to slide past her, claiming the position with millimeters to spare.
"Position secured," my engineer confirms unnecessarily. I can feel Blair's rage radiating from behind me, can almost taste her fury through the carbon fiber separating us.
The victory is short-lived. Four laps later, she returns the favor with ruthless precision. I defend the inside line through Degner, but she hooks her front wheel into a gap I didn't even know existed, slithering past me with audacious skill that forces an appreciative laugh from my throat.
We trade positions twice more in the following laps, wheel-to-wheel through corners where most drivers wouldn't dare attempt a pass. Each exchange is more daring than the last, a dangerous ballet at the absolute limit of adhesion. My heart pounds with exhilaration, not fear.
This is pure racing, no team orders, no fuel saving, no tire management. Just two alpha predators battling for supremacy on one of the most demanding circuits in the world.
The realization hits me as we scream through the S-curves in perfect tandem. I'm having fun. Not just the satisfaction of domination, but genuine joy in the battle itself.
The only thing that's brought me more pleasure than this has been my time with Nick.
"Three laps remaining," my engineer informs me. "Gap to P3 is ten seconds."
I tuck in behind Blair's car, feeling the turbulent air buffeting my machine as I line up the perfect overtaking opportunity. Turn fifteen approaches, my playground, my domain. I've mastered this sweeping turn in ways few drivers can comprehend. With Nick's cum still humming through my blood-vessels, I know I can take this flat out while staying tight to the racing line.
My lips curl into a predatory smile behind my visor as I prepare to pounce. Blair's car twitches slightly on entry, a microscopic mistake that will cost her dearly.
This is it. My moment.
Then, yellow flashes across my peripheral vision. Bright, intrusive, unmistakable.
"FUCK!" I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the impact reverberating through my gloves. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
My engineer's voice crackles through the radio. "Yellow flag sector two, Ivy. Maintain position. No passing on yellow."
"I can see the fucking flag!" I snarl, rage boiling through me like molten steel.
It's not the prospect of losing that infuriates me. It's the sheer cosmic injustice of having this sublime battle cut short by some fucking backmarker's mistake. This perfect duel ruined by yellow cloth waving in the Japanese breeze.
I ease off the throttle as required, watching Blair pull away slightly. Through my helmet, I catch a glimpse of her glancing back, silver visor reflecting sunlight as if she's checking whether I'll respect the flags.
"Norris in the gravel," my engineer updates. "Safety car deployed. Race will finish under yellow."
The words land like a death sentence. Three laps remaining, and we'll parade to the finish line like dutiful soldiers instead of the gladiators we are.
As the safety car leads us we approach turn nine, I spot Norris's car half-buried in the gravel trap, front wing shattered like expensive confetti across the track. Behind the wheel, she sits motionless, blonde hair visible through her visor as she wipes furiously at her eyes.
"Crying again," I mutter to myself, shaking my head as we crawl past her wreckage. "First Australia where she torpedoed me, now this. Second fastest car on the grid and she can't keep it on the asphalt."
"Pathetic," I hiss, the word lost in the confined space of my helmet.
The final two laps unfold in excruciating slow motion, the safety car's flashing lights mocking what could have been the most exhilarating finish of the season. Instead, we process like funeral cars to the checkered flag, positions frozen by regulation rather than determined by skill.
P2. Second place. The first loser.
I guide my machine into the parc fermé, killing the engine with perhaps more aggression than necessary. The post-race ritual unfolds around me, mechanics rushing to secure the cars, officials checking weights and measurements, cameras hovering like mechanical vultures.
When I finally extract myself from the cockpit, Blair is already standing beside her car, helmet off, that electric blue hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her face is a perfect study in barely-concealed success, silver eyes gleaming with self-satisfaction as she accepts congratulations from her engineers.
She stands, radiating condescension like it's designer perfume.
I approach her with measured steps, swallowing my frustration and forcing my features into a mask of professional courtesy. The cameras track our every movement, hungry for any sign of teammate animosity they can splash across tomorrow's headlines.
"Congratulations," I say, extending my hand with a sincerity that surprises even me. Whatever universal unfairness robbed me of my rightful fight, Blair drove brilliantly today. She pushed me harder than anyone has, perhaps ever.
Her silver eyes narrow slightly, searching my face for sarcasm or hidden malice. Finding none, she takes my hand, her grip firm as we shake for the cameras.
"Thanks," she replies, her voice carefully neutral. "Good race."
The words are correct, the tone professional, but her eyes tell a different story. This isn't just about today's victory. This is about Nick, about dominance, about proving she's better than me in every way that matters.
Little does she know, I've already won the war that matters most. Nick's splooge still buzzes inside me, a secret power source she can never access again.
"See you on the podium."