Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 99
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 99 - Arielle Hawthorne lives for illegal street racing. Fast cars, high stakes, no attachments. Nate Carter races the same streets with reckless swagger and infuriating charm. Rivals by choice and partners by necessity, they’re forced together as rival crews and the police close in. Their chemistry is dangerous, their trust fragile, and falling for each other may be the riskiest move of all.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Humor Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Body Modification Violence
The One With A Detonation
(Of Hypersonic Proportions)
E Z R A
I’ve been sick.
Well, sick is an understatement.
I haven’t been able to keep any food down for weeks now—it either shoots out of me through the southern region or projectiles out of my mouth. I’ve been weak. To the point where some days I require a cane, or even wheelchair. Headaches have been keeping me bedridden sometimes. I also feel as though I’m losing part of my sight, and suffering numbness in my fingers and toes. Add to that, a massive rash on my chest and back, it’s safe to say, I’ve been agonizing with more than discomfort.
I’ve had extensive medical testing done. Anything and everything possible that I could manage. With money, it’s amazing how quickly this shit can be manifested. However, the doctors haven’t been able to find anything and it’s only been getting worse.
I fear that I’m dying.
Perhaps cancer or some rabid disease from years of not taking proper care of my body.
I’ve thought long and hard about how I’d die. In this line of work, it’s sort of a given that I’d die by an enemy that decided to take me out. It’s all about power, and taking me out would grant somebody else potency that would do them wonders.
Going out like this, is hell. Each day is a struggle and being known as the type of guy that can fix any problem, it’s more than frustrating that I can’t seem to fix this one—arguably the most important issue I’ll ever face in my life.
Sitting at my office desk, I touch my fingers along the wooden surface. I’m unable to feel the ridges and knots within it. Even when I try my best to focus on the feeling, it brings about nothing.
I get so lost in concentrating that when my phone rings, I jump in surprise. The sudden action causes my muscles to ache in their weakened state. I pick up the call without bothering to glance at who it is, snapping, “Yeah?”
“Is this Ezra Sullivan?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?” Leaning back in my chair, I brush my forefinger and thumb together on my free hand—the one that isn’t holding the phone up to my ear.
“It’s your doctor. I have some news for you.”
“Well, get on with it then.” I have no patience for anything anymore. Which is saying a lot, because I never had patience for shit before I fell ill. Ever since I’ve been sick, I’m way more irritable than normal. Irritable and impulsive.
“Are you sitting down? This is some rather difficult news.”
“I’m sitting. Now, out with it.”
I can’t begin to describe the anger that surges through me at the words I hear through the receiver on the telephone.
“We found evidence of cyanide poisoning, Mr. Sullivan.”
“What?” My ears are fucking ringing, making it impossible to hear the doctor as he speaks. “Are you sure?”
“I had the lab run the tests three times. There’s no doubt.”
Shaking my head, the words repeat over and over in my head as the anger only turns to rage. How in the fuck did this happen?
“Your dosage is enough to kill you three times over. I honestly don’t know how you’re still alive. At the minimum, we’re looking at long term, irreparable damage and chronic problems.”
“What the fuck do you mean long term, irreparable damage and chronic problems?”
“You must find the source of the poison to stop any further damage. However, it’s likely that what’s already been done to your body won’t be able to be entirely reversed. I’ll set you up with an antidote kit, but with your symptoms falling on the severe side, it’ll probably only help alleviate some of your more mild symptoms.”
“That’s not good enough,” I snarl.
“Mr. Sullivan, there isn’t much you can do about poison. It not only massively harms your organs and tissues, but can do irreparable damage to cells and DNA. I’m sorry, I—”
I hang up the phone. For a man as once-connected and as wealthy as I am, I’ve never done well with taking no for an answer. It’s fucking bullshit.
Who in the fuck could be trying to kill me? It would have to be someone who sees me every day. Somebody who could slip it into something I’m in close contact with constantly. It couldn’t possibly be the chef I used to employ—they switched out every two days and I no longer have a personal chef.
Is it possible to be injected through shit like shampoo? I really can’t be sure.
Medication is possible. Vivien gives me my pills each morning with my breakfast.
A lightbulb goes off somewhere in my brain.
It couldn’t be, could it?
I do my best to think back on when I first initially got sick—roughly two months ago—but it takes me a minute. Since beginning these symptoms, my memory has been hazy in certain areas.
I faintly recall an evening when Vivien stayed elsewhere overnight. I remember thinking it was odd at the time. She didn’t like sleeping anywhere but her own bed.
Even more so, she’s been oddly attentive to me in the last few weeks. Insistent that I take my medication—which she’d directly hand to me—more than usual.
One morning, I didn’t immediately take them with my coffee and she bothered me thrice about it. I didn’t think anything of it then, but now it seems to be a visible red flag that went wildly unnoticed.
As if on cue, Vivien walks into my office, looking perfect—as always—I plaster a smile on my face, even though the poisoned blood inside me feels like fucking lava. In complete honesty, I want to wrap my calloused hands around her delicate throat.
“What is wrong, honey?”
“The doctor phoned. The results are in.”
She pulls one of the chairs opposite my desk closer, leaning across to grab my hand in one of her perfectly manicured ones. Her thumb rubs soothing circles against my skin as she inquires, “What did he say?”
I make sure to lift my chin to watch her expression as I utter the words, “I’m being poisoned.”
Her thumb stops its movements. My suspicions immediately go on red alert. When she avoids my gaze and shakes off her nerves, I sense she knows something. She’s a good liar to people who don’t know her well, but I’ve lived alongside her for twenty years. I know her like the back of my hand—the same one that she’s gone back to tracing lazily as if she didn’t just freeze up.
“Poisoned? Is he sure?” She still refuses to meet my eyes.
“Yes, darling.” As I retract my hand from hers, she tenses up. “But I don’t need to tell you this, do I? You already knew.”
She leans back in her chair, fixing her skirt as she does so. “I do not know what you are talking about, Ezra. You must be confused.” When she finally lifts her head and meets my sight, I notice the faintest nervous tic—she forces a swallow.
I tent my hands together beneath my chin. “Viv, you can’t lie to me.”
She avoids my comment. “Did he say what it is? Or how it got in your system?”
“You tell me.”
She scoffs, seeming uncomfortable. Suddenly, she stands, smoothing her front hem. “If you are going to accuse me of such maliciousness, then I do not want to hear it. I will pray for you, dear, but you must talk to your physician about these paranoia symptoms.” She turns and begins to exit my office, but with a call of her name, she stops dead in her tracks.
I push my chair back, sauntering around my desk. “Tell me why. Why is it that you decided to poison your loving and devoted husband of twenty plus years?”
She steels her spine, spinning on her heels to face me. With her hands folded in front of her, she’s the epitome of perfection—with insides that are black and rotting.
“You cheated on me, Ezra.” She keeps her head high, as if the thought of me sticking my dick in a woman half her age doesn’t offend her. I know it does. “You were caught on camera. Is she even legal?”
“Yes,” I snarl, my lip curling. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a fucking pedophile.
“After everything we have gone through? Even after everything that happened with Arielle’s father? I thought we were in this for life.”
“Are you asking if I regret killing that man? ‘Cause I don’t for a second. The moment he laid his hands on you, is the moment I knew he would die by my hands.”
“Do you remember what you said to me? About how you would stand by me until death? We took vows, promised to one another. Ezra, we have a son together. How could you go and have an affair? With someone that is your son’s age yet.”
“What do you expect, Viv? We haven’t fucked in months.”
She winces at my crass language, fixing a ring on her finger. “So the affair has only been going on for a few months? She is the first?”
I make eye contact with her, staying emotionless as I lie, “Yes.”
She laughs humorlessly and I quickly realize that she knows more than she’s letting on. How in the fuck did she find this out? I made sure to cover everything. I’ve always been careful with my affairs. Paid for gifts in cash. Used a second phone. Met only in dark, secluded areas.
I must’ve fucked up somewhere.
However, with the poisoning, I find that my memory has begun to deteriorate, as has the rest of my body. I notice that I’m forgetting shit more quickly. I worry that she may have destroyed my short term memory.
Maybe I’d had too much to drink that night. Maybe I was just desperate and horny and didn’t make sure it was clear. Maybe I simply got too comfortable. I can’t be certain.
Natalie and I were having an affair for well over a year. We’d met through her father at one of the many events I go to every year. She was there, looking gorgeous in her short dress, hanging all over her boyfriend at the time. I can’t recall his name, but he did security or something.
When we’d made eye contact, there was just this intense connection. Turned out she was looking for someone to take care of her. I just wanted her—at whatever cost that would be.
We’d meet probably once a week, sometimes once every two weeks. I’d bring her something—flowers, jewelry, lingerie, perfumes, etcetera. It was fun while it lasted.
“You are such a liar, Ezra. A pedophile and a liar. A cheat. A murderer.”
As she begins talking, I take a step closer to her with each name she labels me.
“A drug dealer. A fraud. An egomaniac.”
By the time she designates me as the last one, I’m only maybe two steps away from her where I tower over her small, thin frame. She’s tiny in comparison to me. Always has been. But I’m over six foot three and she’s maybe five foot five.
“And what is the woman who stays with that man and turns a blind eye to the shit she claims he does and is?” My tone is low, threatening.
Vivien and I don’t fight often. In the many years we’ve spent alongside one another, we’ve always gotten along very well. I’ve been the dark one and she’s been the perfect woman for me. The one who knew of my darkness, yet accepted me in spite of it. In fact, I believe she’s even gotten off on it in a few circumstances.
She doesn’t answer me, but she doesn’t have to. She knows it, but I still utter to her, “I’d say she’s just as bad as him. You knew who the fuck I was when you married me, Viv. When you begged me to impregnate you and save you from your marriage, you knew what you were getting into. I never hid shit from you. Never forced your hand. Never coerced you into my life.”
“Yet you still could not be faithful. After everything I have ever done for you?”
A smirk etches across my mouth. “One woman makes you fuckin’ crazy enough to poison and attempt to kill the supposed love of your life? You’re just as crazy as I am. If not, worse.”
“I am nothing like you.”
“You’re everything like me, darling. You lie, scheme, manipulate—you’re me, with a pussy.”
She shakes off the crude language. I only say it to get under her skin. If there’s one thing Vivien hates, it’s anything that hinders her appearance that everything’s perfect. Foul and crass words are included in that.
She’s always hated Arielle’s penchant for swearing.
“Ezra, I will be going to the police and telling them of all your crimes.”
I cock my head to the side, amused. “And what do you think will happen when I tell them you’ve been poisoning me?”
She stands up straighter, a smile breaking out on her mouth. “Do you have proof?”
I shut my mouth. I don’t. The only things I know is that she’s admitted it to me here—along with my suspicions that I know are fact—but I no longer have this room wired for sound. I once did, but since I’ve lost all of my staff, it was too difficult to keep up with.
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