Hot wheels

I’ve always had a thing for fast, one-of-a-kind cars. When I saw this one parked in my date’s garage, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Later that night I slipped back inside, alone. The garage was quiet. The car waited under a single light. I ran my fingertips along the cool curve of the front fender, feeling the steel glide beneath my skin. The hood was warm from earlier, the metal humming with leftover heat. I opened the door. The leather inside smelled rich and clean. I climbed in, knees bare against the seat, dress riding up my thighs. My hand drifted between my legs. The first touch was soft, testing. I pressed harder, hips rolling against my own fingers while my other hand gripped the steering wheel. The leather seat creaked beneath me as I moved faster, breath catching. I watched my reflection in the rear-view mirror—blonde hair loose, lips parted, eyes half-closed. The car didn’t move, but everything inside me did.