Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 4
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 4 - 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 Proves Who’s King
NATE
I inhale on the cigar, opening my mouth after a moment to release a hefty cloud of smoke. Nate’s glass clinks against the wood of the billiards table as we wait for Cam to take his shot.
Even just watching Colt drop his glass against the table edge brings flashbacks about in my brain. Reminders of bending Arielle over this table and fucking her until she screamed my name.
God, was that ever a day. Even thinking back at the way she was dripping down her legs has me shuffling to adjust the growing boner that seems to be arriving at a very inappropriate time.
Gross thoughts. Gross thoughts.
It’s like the saying goes—the memory of that night has served as lighter fluid for those nights I’ve spent camping alone.
I want to see her again. The last week’s been spent fantasizing about fucking her in the shower, in front of a mirror, while she’s dressed up, seeing her on her knees for me—my mind’s been consumed with images of her body and the things it does to my own.
When Cam steps around the pool table and sets up his shot, I smirk before sipping on my drink, knowing full well what happened on that corner several days ago. Not like Cam and Colt knew that, though.
In fact, I hadn’t talked much about Arielle. Hell, I probably haven’t mentioned her, but it’s not like we were the type of friends to sit around and share tales of how we got laid. It was simply talking about how good the fuck was—which she was excellent.
When I look to Nate, the smirk slowly vanishes from my face, and he raises an eyebrow. “What’re you smirkin’ at?”
With a shrug of my shoulders, I coolly lie, “He’s going to miss the shot.”
“Am not,” Cam grumbles out, focused as ever to prove me wrong. Alas, when he finally decides to strike the ball, it misses the pocket and bounces around against the other billiards balls.
I told you so.
He always missed that shot. He just hasn’t realized that it’s in his nature. Whenever he got a few ounces of alcohol in him, his coordination was useless. He was constantly tripping, stumbling, spilling, and missing things that he should have full control over.
Colt and I laugh at the same time just as Cam turns to us with a scowl.
“Shut up,” Cam bites as he runs a hand through his long hair and puts down his pool cue.
As he approaches us, he continues, “As if you can do any better.”
“I can.” I chime cockily, taking the pool stick from where he’s left it.
“Watch how it’s done,” Colt teases and I watch as Cam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, but nonetheless positions his body so that he’s able to observe exactly how it should be done.
Within a few seconds, I choose the ball I’d like to hit, the angle I’d like to strike it from, and I’m already set up and swinging my arm back. Once the ball sinks into the pocket, a satisfied smirk overpopulates my face and I glance up at Cam, who’s rolling his eyes. “Fuckin’ show-off,” he mutters with humour.
“Well, that’s game.” Colt announces just as I release a puff of smoke from my cigar. Thick fumes fill the air between the three of us and once it clears, Cam begins cleaning up the balls and I check my phone, noting that it’s about time for the three of us to head out.
Cam had to leave because Colt and I had some business to attend to.
There was some guy who wanted to meet with me. Apparently, he’d seen me out on the racing circuit and has been talking shit about me—bragging that he could beat me. I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of bull he was spreading around, but I knew one thing—I could beat him.
I don’t care where the fuck he came from. I couldn’t give two shits if his father was a professional racer for his entire damn life. I know that I’m without a doubt a better driver than him.
So of course I’ll race him. It’ll be like taking candy from a pathetic little baby.
I’m not sure who he is or where he comes from that he thinks he can shit talk me, but I’m excited to prove him wrong. He got in contact with me a few days ago and wanted to do a drag race of sorts, which is happening in a very short amount of time.
Maybe I’ll be able to convince him to play for pink slips. Then, that way I could win his ride and he won’t have jack shit to even continue on the racing circuit. At least, not until he can afford or find something else to drive.
“Time to go, yeah?” I tell Colt and he nods his head.
“You’re going to kick that shit talker’s ass?” Cam questions, placing the pool cues in their respective holders against the wall.
I nod my head, “He’s lucky that’s all I’m doing.”
“What was his name again?” Cam raises an eyebrow.
Colt stubs out his cigar. “Wasn’t it something stupid?”
“Of course it was,” I reply. “He’s fucking stupid, so why would his name be anything better?” I move towards the front door, waving the two of them to follow. “Now Cam, kindly get the fuck out of my house. Nate, let’s go.”
When Colt and I arrive where we were meeting this fuck face, we pull up to find a tall guy with dark brown hair. I can swear he looks familiar from somewhere, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like it’s right on the tip of my tongue, but it’s useless to try and figure it out right now.
All of my focus is on his ride. Unlike what I had assumed he drove he’s actually resting against a motorcycle. It’s a beauty, that’s for sure, but it’s nothing compared to mine.
My Skyline was my baby, but so was my Camaro. Divergent from most racers, I not only drove import, but I drove muscle as well. It truly was hard for me to choose which to race. I’ve always felt that both are a part of myself and who I am as a person. Sometimes I think that I should be behind the wheel of my Camaro all the time. I also sometimes believe that the only true reason I even drive import is because I’m scared to scratch something that’s entirely irreplaceable.
Majority of my friends—scratch that, all—drive import. It was kind of the unspoken language between us, as odd as that sounds.
Granted, Cam wasn’t as much the racer as Colt and myself, but he still preferred import when it came to aesthetics and what was built underneath the hood.
As we approach the fucker, he stands up from where he was leaning, taking two steps towards us. Colt looks down over him—being just over six foot—and this guy seems intimidated that someone’s actually taller than him. Although, he seems like he’s maybe slightly shorter, possibly at six foot even.
Meanwhile, I’m down here.
Suddenly, I remember that his name was Hayes. “So, you ready?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest while widening my stance, instantly feeling micro–sized.
“To beat your ass? Yeah,” Hayes responds coolly, not at all seeming affected by my reputation.
It’s something I’m not used to. I’m completely cultured to people being scared to say a word bad to me or behind my back. I thought I’d finally rid of this bullshit when I beat the best racers in Miami to become the top of the top. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?
“Don’t be so sure.” I defend. “Your piece of shit can’t hold up to mine. Now, enough smack talk. Let’s get this over with so I can race against someone who’s actually good.”
I turn around to walk away—since I figured I had ended this petty bullshit, but apparently Hayes doesn’t get the cue. “How do you know Arielle?”
I furrow my eyebrows together, confused. “As if that’s any of your fucking business?” Stopping dead in my tracks, I turn to face him.
“I’d say it is, seeing as how I’m romantically interested in her.”
Romantically interes—who in the fuck?
“Romantically interested?” I taunt.
“I want to know more about her.” He explains. In a way, he seems serious, but I can also see a sort of teasing in his eyes. He’s asking to see if I’ve fucked her, so that if I haven’t, he will so he can rub it in my face.
“Can’t say that I know much.” I admit. “What makes you think she’s interested in you?”
I expect him to shrug, but he responds, “As if that’s any of your fucking business?”
It irks me. He has that smug fucking look on his face as if he knows he’s managed to get underneath my skin. He’s been taunting me for days now. First with this whole shit talking thing and now he’s doing it with Arielle.
He’s not asking about her because he’s interested—well, he probably is, but that’s not why he’s asking me of all people. He’s asking because he wants to irritate me, and it’s working.
“Look, if you’re wondering whether she’s a good fuck or not, well ... she is. But if you think she’s going to give you anything other than the cold shoulder, you’re in some sort of fucking dreamland. Now stay away from her, and let’s get this shit over with.”
I turn away again and get halfway to my car before his irritating voice interrupts my stride.
“Why?”
“Why, what?” I snap. I’m fucking tired of these mind games.
“Why should I stay away from her?” Hayes’ lips curl into a smirk. One that I want to fucking punch off his face.
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