Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 2
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 2 - 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 Where He Buys Her A Drink
ARIELLE
When I pull up to The Lounge, my throat instantly dries and my stomach twists in knots. I was nervous to see Nate. I knew what this drink meant.
It meant Nate was probably going to attempt a move on me, and I was probably going to allow him to do so. It didn’t just mean a harmless drink shared among racers. It didn’t mean that he was buying me a shot of liquor because we were comrades on the streets.
No, it meant that this was his shot to get with me. I imagine this entire encounter will be filled with attempts at trying to get in my pants, and I’d been thinking about it for the last twenty minutes.
I didn’t just like him. There was more to it. I feel so attracted to him that it physically hurt me. It caused my heart to race whenever I saw him, and it wasn’t healthy. It couldn’t be. Physically, I can’t resist him.
So, when I enter the bar, I anxiously search around for him. I spot the raven–haired man sitting at one of the far booths, glass full of hard liquor set between his fingers. He rakes a hand through his hair, bobbing his head slightly to the slow beat of an R&B song playing through the speakers.
I imagine that he probably likes R&B. He seems like the type to enjoy music with a heavy bass. Music that you’d fuck to. That, and probably the odd rap or reggae song. He looks like the type to buy some choice weed, smoke it, and just enjoy the music. Or again, fuck crazily to it.
A cool breeze washes over my body from the air conditioning. I adjust the jacket on my shoulders, suddenly feel iffy about my choice of deciding not to wear a bra this morning since when I checked the weather it said it was hot today. I’m positive my nipples are hard and will definitely be showing through the thin material of my top.
I take a moment to breath before approaching him. He doesn’t notice me until I’m almost right in front of him and I hate that even just by lifting his head up to gaze at me he looks hot as hell.
How does he do it?
An amused smirk dances across his lips and he greets me with, “I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”
For the first time since seeing him today, I take in his appearance. He still has the same earrings in as three days ago, and of course, the same hair cut. It’s longer, but not too long with shaved sides that make him look young. Except for the stubble that covers his face, which makes him appear older. He’s wearing black jeans and a patterned shirt which has a few buttons undone on the top, exposing that tattoo of his that I love so much—wings with a lipstick print between them.
God, his tattoos are so fucking hot.
I sit down across from him, placing my handbag on the seat beside me. I take note that he’s already ordered me a drink that appears to be hard liquor. When I lift it to smell it, I assume it’s whiskey from the wood–like aroma to it. It reminds me of other things and so I put the glass back down, ice clinking as I do so.
“What made you think that?”
He looks up at the clock on the wall. “You’re late.” I notice that I’m about five minutes later than I said I’d be, but that’s probably because I got caught up talking to that man.
Hayes. He seemed nice. He really liked my car, drove a sick bike and he was hot. As much as I’d like to see him around again, there are so many races going on around the city at any given time that who knows if I’ll see him again. Or if I do, will it be anytime soon? Because it’s possible that I won’t run into him for another six months and who’s to say he’ll still recognize me then?
“Someone’s impatient.” I reply, waving down a bartender who comes to take my order. “Can I just get a beer, please?” I tell him, before turning back to Nate. I push Nate ‘s whiskey he ordered for me back towards him, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Not one for hard liquor, babygirl?” He runs a tattooed hand along his stubble, wetting his lips as his eyes dart down to my torso then back up to my eyes. I take the time to admire his bare arms—toning and all—as my eyes scan over the various tattoos.
The checkered flag is probably the first one that catches my eye, and it reminds me of the sight of him behind the wheel. I also notice the Mandala on his hand, the lotus, the tiger, the bandana, the skulls, another set of lips—these ones smoking—inked onto his right hand, and various other ones. It makes me wonder what he’d look like without his shirt on. How many other tattoos are hidden underneath the clothes he’s wearing?
“Not one for unattended drinks.” I answer.
“Afraid I’m trying to drug you?”
I shrug, “Maybe.” Although I know he’d never attempt that. “Also, not one for hard liquor.”
A few moments of silence fall between us where all Nate does is stare at me. “You’re intriguing, Arielle.” I flush wildly under his gaze, not used to someone being so forward with me. I mean, usually I’d get the odd guy who stared at me, but once you made eye contact, they’d fuck off and leave you be. Nate, on the other hand...
The bartender brings me a beer and Nate tips him, as I ask Nate, “How so?”
“Well for starters, the first time we met, you slapped me.”
My mind flashes back to that moment, and I grip my beer bottle tightly. I still can’t believe he talked to me in that manner. Assuming that the only way I ended up racing was because I fucked another racer. That was the furthest thing from the truth. I fought hard to get where I am. I’ve faced an incredible amount of adversity and sexism due to the fact that most men believe a girl is no good behind the wheel.
I’ll show those pricks.
I sip from my beer, setting it down on the table to begin picking at the label. “That’s because you said the only reason I am where I am is because I couldn’t keep my legs closed.” My heart aches at the reminder, still pissed off that even happened. Especially in such a massive crowd who was probably off spreading that rumour now.
Fucking people.
He chuckles dryly, staring down at his glass. “I take that back.” His eyes find mine as he says, “I apologize. You’ve proven that you can drive.” He says it with the utmost sincerity in his voice. Either that, or he’s really good at lying.
“Thank you,” I mutter, feeling a little like I’m being put on the spot.
“It’s incredibly sexy,” he drawls. “You’re incredibly sexy.”
I flush, diverting my eyes back down to where I’ve managed to peel off about a quarter of my bottle label. That seemed like such a girl thing to do. I’ve never met a man who sits and picks at his bottle label. But then again, I shouldn’t assume.
“Y’know, you never answered my question from earlier...”
I look at him, confused.
“Have you been fucked by a man, Arielle?” He asks seriously, adjusting a ring on his middle finger. It makes me glance down at his hands and wetness instantly pools in my panties. He has larger hands, the backs covered in tattoos with slender fingers that look so sinful that I cross my legs under the table. Shit.
The things he could probably do with those fingers of his.
I try to play it cool, placing my arm on the table so that my hand rests in my palm. “I have, but I’ve also been fucked by a woman.” I say it coolly, all the while knowing it’ll excite him to hear those words come from my lips. It was the truth, although he’ll probably think I’m telling a fib.
His eyes widen and he tries to play it off, but I can see it immediately. It’s like his chest tightens because he leans back in his seat, giving me a look that screams both bewilderment and arousal. “You have?” He asks, features amused.
“What? Can’t handle it?”
“No, God no. It’s just—you fascinate me.” He utters, eyeing me up as if he’s trying to decipher my entire life story. “You’re not like most girls I see around the meet ups.”
Again, I tell him to, “Elaborate.”
He shrugs. “You’re just ... Fuck, I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ve never wanted to fuck someone as badly as I want you.”
Classy, I know, but God does it turn me on when he talks like that.
I swallow hard, breath catching at his words. So, obviously he feels the same attraction I do. I mean, that much was obvious what with the constant flirting and whatnot, but he’s actually admitted it out loud to me. It’s either all a part of his game, or he’s actually being honest with me.
It’s weird that we have this odd connection. It’s almost as if we’ve known each other in another life because I honestly feel like I’ve met him before. I’ve never felt such a physical attraction to another human being like I feel with him. There’s just this pull between us and he obviously feels it too.
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