Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 67
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 67 - 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 Lays Eyes On Her
Alternate Title: The One Where He Needs Her In His Life
NATE
For the first time in months, I’m not taking part in this race. Usually, I’d be lined up, foot on the brake as I wait for the signal. However, this particular race is different because I’m only here to simply cheer on Nate.
Nate’s new at this shit and as much as I’d like to give this competition a go—give any race a go, really—this one’s below my reputation. I have a certain notoriety to upkeep. If I were to challenge a bunch of newbies, my win wouldn’t mean anything. I’d look like a fucking clown.
I glance around the crowd, making eye contact with a rather fit woman. She’s got long, black hair, dark brown eyes and tattoos wrapped around her left arm. She eyes me up—gaze dragging down my body and back up—and I take a moment to do the same.
It comes with the territory of these things. More often than not you end up going home unlike you came—with company. I don’t always go for the noncommittal fuck, but if it’s presented to me and I’m in the mood then I’m not about to turn it down.
Eventually, I can hear the sound of the cars circling back towards the finish line where most of us stand. I expect to see Nate’s white Lancer first, but I don’t. In first place is a blue 1967 Pontiac Firebird.
I cock my head to the side, not recognizing who the driver is.
I’ve been around the illegal street racing circuit for years, which means I know most, if not all, drivers. I’ve driven alongside them. I’ve fucking beaten them.
Which means I haven’t only memorized their skills but I know all their vehicles as well. Even the newer drivers, I’ve seen them around or I’ve heard rumours of what they’re driving.
This, however, is uncharted territory. This is a vehicle—a driver—that I haven’t had the pleasure of beating yet.
The car is sexy as fuck. I admire it as the person behind the wheel whips past me and the other bystanders at my sides. They’re several car lengths in front of the second car, which I quickly learn is Colt as his Lancer passes by in a blur.
By the time that Colt passes me, the first place car has already passed the finish line. There’s no doubt about the winner and as I begin to saunter in that direction, I stop dead in my tracks.
Literally, as if I’ve struck an invisible brick wall.
Because the driver opens their door and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on steps out. I swear to God that it’s like some cheesy fucking slow-motion bullshit because she’s insanely fit.
She’s smaller, not very tall, but her hips have a heavenly curve to them. She’s got long, brunette hair and as she turns towards me—even at this great distance—I can see the intoxicating shade of green that hug her pupils.
My breath is instantly stolen from my lungs.
Like the most skilled of criminals, she’s managed to knock oxygen from my body with the smallest movement.
She’s so beautiful that I swear, she must be fictional. Am I dreaming?
I don’t even have words to describe it. I’ve seen lots of women in my life. I see them all the time around these things and more times than not, I have at least one woman throwing herself at me. Most of them are the same—they’re not looking for anything serious, just a fuck, no conversation or depth. They honestly don’t care to learn much, if anything, about me and I do the same with them. It’s always consensual; for me, it’s about getting off. I enjoy fucking, there isn’t much more to it. However, for these women, I believe it’s mostly about just being able to say that I’ve fucked them.
I’m not really sure I understand it. Maybe it comes with my reputation, but I don’t mind to decipher it. We both get something out of it that we want. And hell, I’m not one to judge.
This woman, though, she seems different at first glance. I can’t pinpoint why I think that, but I do.
I’m not saying that she wouldn’t be down to fuck, but I’m saying it in a way that she’s the first woman in a very long time where seeing her only once for a few hours wouldn’t suffice.
I find myself quickly snapping an unsolicited photo of her as she stands beside her car. Looking hot as fuck, in leather pants that cause me physical pain.
You do see a lot of women around these things, but the drivers are typically men. I say typically because it’s not completely unheard of. I’ve met and raced a shit ton of women that are better than ninety percent of the men. I think that there’s a stigma around this shit—women aren’t taken seriously behind the wheel.
I’m still frozen in the middle of the crowd that’s managed to disperse. I can’t tear my gaze off her, observing as some of her fellow competitors remove themselves from their vehicles and walk up to her. I can hear them congratulating her, asking questions about her Firebird. I can make out the sound of her voice as she gives them tips on how to better their own rides.
It’s hot as fuck.
“Hey, you’re Nate, right?” A different woman’s voice tears me away from her. I’m forced to twist my head to see who’s approached me. It’s the girl I made eye contact with earlier—the one with jet black hair and a sleeve of tattoos to match.
“Yeah,” I answer lamely, turning back to the stranger I’m suddenly obsessed with. But I’m met with disappointment because she’s gone from my field of vision. I can still spot her Firebird, but she’s no longer standing beside it.
“So what do you say?” The girl beside me inquires.
I don’t even know what she’s asked. I’m so hyper focused on the other woman that I can’t be bothered to listen.
In the crowd I finally spot her. She’s standing with a woman with long, wavy, purple hair. With her hands around her waist and smiling beautifully. Her girlfriend?
There’s also a man nearby and I can’t help but wonder who he is to her. He puffs away at a cigar and playfully shoves the woman with purple hair, right before the girls kiss and jealously shoots through me.
“Are you gonna’ answer me?”
I forcefully tear my gaze away a second time, “M’not interested, thanks.”
The girl that was hitting on me scoffs and rolls her eyes before walking away.
I mean, I was interested. Before I saw her.
I take another few steps forward and then I’m interrupted again. Jesus fucking Christ, can I not catch a break? This time it’s Nate, looking a bit defeated, but none too much.
“Did you see that?” Is what he greets me with.
Her?
Yes.
How the fuck could I miss that?
“You mean how badly you lost?”
His hand is quick to find my shoulder and he pushes teasingly. “Experience is experience, man.”
I fucking guess. It’s not like that for me, though. I’d never hear the end of it if I lost. Experience to me is winning.
Nate’s a bit more soft when it comes to shit like that, though. Everything to him always has some sort of silver lining. He’s able to take a step back during situations and see whatever good came of it, no matter how small.
There’s nothing wrong with that, it just isn’t really me. Sometimes bad shit happens and I tend to dwell on it.
“But no, the chick that beat me. Did you see her? She was insane!”
Not really sure where he’s going here ... Is he talking about her? Like, the way she looks? Or her driving? Her car? Which is it?
“She drives a pretty fuckin’ sick car,” I comment, deciding to play it safe.
He nods his head, “She’s a fuckin’ sick driver. I think she’d take you for your money.”
That gets my attention. Finally turns me towards our conversation instead of desperately glancing around the crowd for her. “Really? You think so?”
“Fuck yeah, she’s amazing behind the wheel. I’ll bet you she’d finally take your crown.”
“There’s no fuckin’ way. You’re high,” I light up a cigarette as I speak, dragging on it to blow smoke past my lips.
“Well, let’s go find out then. We’ll ask her ourselves.”
“Lead the way, mate.”
As we start in her direction, I hear an engine come to life and I instantly know it’s the Firebird. Eventually, she comes into view, driving towards us with the cigar-smoking guy in the passenger seat and the purple-haired woman in the backseat. I’m unable to take my eyes off her as she passes—blessed with the sight of her up close.
“Guess we’ll have to catch her next time,” Colt comments as the two of us watch her drive off.
Several weeks later
As we come around the corner, she’s right at my fucking side.
Arielle.
I know her name now. I had to spend at least two weeks asking around, inquiring about the hot as fuck woman who drove a Firebird. It seems as though she doesn’t have too many friends on the racing circuit and it made it that much more difficult to find her.
Colt helped, of course. And eventually, we asked the right questions and found someone who told us about her. How good of a driver she is and about her boisterous, longtime friend, Chase. The woman with the purple hair is still an unknown, as is Arielle’s relationship status.
So yeah, maybe I set up a race, maybe I had people send out specific invitations to drivers, made sure one got to her, and yeah, perhaps I’ve manufactured this entire situation. Including what I’m about to do.
I swerve my wheel slightly, knowing what it’s going to cause. Aware of the fact that she can handle it.
I worry for a moment that it’ll piss her off enough that she’ll never want anything to do with me, however, I think she’s too feisty to back down from it. I’m imagining swearing, name-calling, and a woman that’s incredibly sexy when she’s angry.
I hate that I have to do this to her beautiful car, but it’s one of the only ways that I can guarantee she’ll talk to me. Otherwise, I fear that once the race is over, she’ll disappear from my life like she did the last time.
I see her in my peripheral vision as she swerves to avoid hitting me and only moments later, my ears are filled with a terrible screeching sound as the side of her vehicle sideswipes a light pole. I inwardly cringe at the sound, glancing over my shoulder only momentarily to see her swerve over the median, ultimately braking facing the oncoming lane.
I whip past the finish line, slamming on my own brakes to come to a halt in front of the gathered crowd. I put my Skyline into park and remove my seatbelt, yanking the key out of the engine and getting out of the vehicle.
I can’t control a wide smile from breaking out—I can hear her voice as she shouts profanities loudly in her Firebird—and Colt comes up to me just as she’s moving her vehicle off to the side. He congratulates me, but he doesn’t hang around because he sees Arielle approaching us with a scowl on her full lips.
Fuck, she looks hot. I was right.
“You Goddamned cheater!” Her tone is laced with anger and she points a small finger directly towards my face, not afraid of me whatsoever.
Not that she has any reason to be.
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