Fast and furious

I drove the cherry-red Ferrari to the garage, slipped out of my pants, and felt every stitch on the leather seats press against bare skin. One hand on the wheel, the other between my legs. The purr of the engine almost matched the sounds I made when the engine revved. I slid two fingers inside, curling them slowly, hips lifting each time the tach needle climbed. Heat blossomed, sweat beaded on my belly, and I pictured the miles still left on those slick, mile-long tires. For a second I couldn’t tell which sight looked hotter: my slick fingers disappearing between my thighs or the sculpted hood reflecting sweat and streetlights above. Every throb inside me pulsed in rhythm with the exhaust, so I climbed on the console, knees wide, rubbing my clit against the shifter. Slick, metal, leather. My breath hit the windshield like fog. One quick jerk and the world tilted—fire in my belly, that perfect V12 thrumming below. When it was over, I licked my fingers clean, grinned at my glassy reflection, and thought maybe the car had enjoyed it too.