Fast and furious

She picks the Ferrari the way another girl might pick a hotel room. Top down, engine ticking under the hood, paint so glossy it catches every angle of her ass when she turns to look at it. Blonde hair loose, lingerie already sliding off one shoulder, she climbs onto the hood and stays there. The metal is warm. Her thighs part over the curve of it, and the lace between her legs is darker where she’s already wet. She pushes two fingers under the thin strip of fabric, not waiting for a camera cue or a build-up. Just gets to it. The car stays still but her hips don’t, rocking against her own hand while she bites her lip and watches the light slide across the red paint. It’s hard to know where to look—her fingers working, the flash of bare skin under white lace, or the way the curve of her ass lines up with the hood scoop like it was molded for her. She doesn’t slow down. She never does.