So won wear joy like a designer outfit. Ivy Hunt wears dominance like she was born in it.
Saturday morning at Suzuka, and I’m watching from the Zenith garage as Ivy climbs out of her car after setting a qualifying ti that has the entire paddock buzzing. My body aches all over, courtesy of our pre-qualifying “ritual” that left walking like I have a bum hip. Turns out that trying to sexually exhaust a professional athlete before her qualifying session was like trying to drain the ocean with a teacup, a noble effort, yet catastrophic failure.
The chanics swarm around her purple machine like worker bees attending their queen, but Ivy’s eyes lock onto through the crowd. There’s sothing predatory in her gaze, a satisfaction that goes beyond re professional triumph. She stalks toward with the confident swagger of soone who knows exactly what she’s capable of, both on the track and off it.
“Enjoy the show?” she purrs.
“That was...” I search for words that won’t sound like complete fanboy gibberish. “Unbelievable. You were three-tenths faster than anyone else.”
Her smile widens, purple eyes gleaming with victory and sothing more primal. Without warning, she grabs the front of my Zenith team shirt and pulls into a kiss that’s more declaration of ownership than affection. Her mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, one hand sliding possessively to the small of my back.
I hear the collective intake of breath from the chanics around us, followed by a few knowing chuckles. When Ivy finally releases , I’m left gasping like I’ve just run a marathon at altitude.
“Consider that a thank you,” she whispers against my lips, “for your contribution to my performance.”
Before I can formulate a coherent response, the unmistakable clicks of cara shutters penetrate the mont. A group of paparazzi have gathered at the garage entrance, their long lenses capturing our intimate exchange with predatory enthusiasm.
“Miss Hunt! Is this your new boyfriend?” shouts one photographer, his accent thick with excitent.
“How long have you two been together?” calls another.
Ivy’s expression transforms instantly, that cocky confidence evaporating as her eyes widen with sudden realization. The caras continue clicking frantically, each flash capturing her rare mont of vulnerability.
“Nick, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice tight with genuine panic. “I completely forgot about the dia. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, though my stomach twists with anxiety. I glance at the photographers, whose excitent is palpable as they realize they’ve just captured sothing significant. “I guess they would have figured it out eventually. Blair’s ex suddenly with her teammate? The internet’s going to have a field day with us.”
Ivy’s hand finds my chin, gently tilting my face until our eyes et. Her touch is surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the possessive kiss monts before.
“We’re in this together,” she says with quiet intensity. “Let them say what they want. I’ll be with you through the whole process, okay? They can’t break us up.”
The mont is shattered by the sound of another car pulling into the garage. Blair’s purple Zenith machine glides to a stop beside Ivy’s, the chanics imdiately swarming around it. Blair climbs out, pulling off her helt to reveal that electric blue hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, I can’t help but be impressed. P2 is an incredible achievent for a rookie, especially at a technical track like Suzuka.
Her silver eyes find us imdiately, narrowing as she takes in our proximity. She huffs audibly, her lips curling into a scowl that could curdle milk.
“This is a garage, not a hotel room,” she snaps as she brushes past us, her shoulder deliberately bumping against mine. “So of us are trying to work here.”
Ivy’s lips curl into that signature smile that always makes my heart skip a beat, the one that’s equal parts predator and champion.
“Congrats on your P2, teammate,” she calls to Blair, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Almost fast enough to matter.”
Blair’s shoulders tense as she turns, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. “Fuck off, Hunt,” she spits before storming toward her engineers, the tension in her wake thick enough to cut with a knife.
I wince at the exchange, but Ivy rely chuckles, sliding her arm around my waist and guiding away from the commotion of the garage. The photographers continue snapping photos as we leave, but Ivy seems to have forgotten their existence entirely, her focus laser-sharp on .
We make our way through the paddock, navigating the maze of team hospitality units and equipnt crates. The Japanese sun beats down on us, surprisingly warm for spring, painting everything in golden light.
“You know,” Ivy whispers, her lips brushing against my ear as we walk, “if I win tomorrow, I think I should finally get to see you in a skirt around the paddock at the next race.”
Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck in a wave of embarrassnt. “I thought you said you didn’t care what I wore here,” I stamr, glancing around to make sure no one can overhear us.
Ivy’s fingers tighten possessively at my hip, pulling closer as we walk. “It’s not for the caras, baby,” she purrs, her voice low and intimate. “And it’s definitely not for PR.” Her teeth graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. “It’s for .”
I nearly trip over my own feet as we approach our trailer, my mind racing with images of myself parading around the Bahrain paddock, terrified of a draft. I never got used to skirts after I woke up here.
“If…” I swallow hard, finding my voice again as Ivy punches in the code to our trailer. “If you race really well tomorrow and win, I’ll... consider wearing a skirt at the next race.”
Her purple eyes light up with victory, as though she’s already claid the top step of the podium. The door slides open with that familiar pneumatic hiss, and she pulls inside, kicking it shut behind us.
“Consider?” she challenges, backing against the wall. “That’s not very committal, Nick.”
“Fine,” I concede, my resolve crumbling under her intense gaze. “I’ll do it. But only if you win by more than five seconds.”
Ivy’s eyes flash with competitive fire, her lips curling into that confident smirk I’ve co to both love and fear.
“Five seconds?” She laughs, the sound rich with arrogance. “Child’s play.”
I shake my head, unable to hide my skepticism. Even for soone of Ivy’s caliber, a five-second gap is practically impossible in modern Formula 1. What she pulled off in China was nothing short of supernatural, potentially a once-in-a-career performance that left comntators speechless and competitors shell-shocked.
“I’d settle for you winning by any margin,” I admit, my voice softening. “I just want to see you on that top step again.”
Before Ivy can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The screen lights up with a na that makes my stomach drop through the floor as I grab it. Mom. I stare at it like it’s a venomous snake, contemplating whether to let it go to voicemail.
Ivy notices my expression. “Who is it?”
“My mother,” I mutter, thumb hovering over the screen. With a resigned sigh, I accept the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“You disgusting little slut,” my mother’s voice cuts through the speaker, sharp enough to draw blood. “So you’re just bouncing around the paddock now? First Blair, now this Hunt girl? Have you no sha?”
I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear. Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up, her enhanced hearing clearly picking up my mother’s tirade.
“Hello to you too, Mom,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “I see you’ve been following the racing news.”
“It’s all over Twitter,” she hisses, each word dripping with venom. “My whore of a son betrayed his girlfriend, a promising rookie with actual talent for the world champion. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
I press my palm against my forehead, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. Ivy watches intently, her expression darkening as she picks up fragnts of my mother’s tirade.
“You’re going to completely fuck up lissa’s week,” my mother continues, not bothering to pause for my response. “She’s racing in Miami next Sunday, and now all anyone’s going to ask her about is her brother’s sex life. Did you even think about that before you started parading around with this Hunt woman?”
Of course. Once again, it all cos down to how my life affects lissa. Not once has she asked if I’m okay, if I’m happy, if I’m being treated well. Just how my choices might inconvenience her precious racing prodigy.
“Sorry, Mom,” I mutter, my voice flat and emotionless. What else can I say? Nothing will ever be good enough.
“You’re such a lazy fuck-up,” she spits, the familiar refrain cutting through with practiced precision. “If you were a girl, I swear I would have beaten the shit out of you while you were growing up just to teach you so sense. lissa hardly ever needed to learn any lessons, but you, you just never fucking think, do you?”
Ivy’s face transforms as she listens, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Before I can stop her, she snatches the phone from my hand.
“Ms. Woods,” she says, her voice deceptively calm. “This is Ivy Hunt. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of eting yet.”
My heart stops as my mother’s voice squawks through the speaker, too muffled for to make out the words.
“No, I don’t think I will give him back the phone,” Ivy continues, her tone hardening.
I reach for the phone, but Ivy sidesteps easily, her athletic reflexes making it impossible for to reclaim it.
“Actually, Ms. Woods, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand.” Ivy’s voice drops an octave, taking on that dangerous edge I’ve heard her use with Blair. “Your son is brilliant, kind, and far more resilient than he should have to be. The fact that he’s turned out so wonderfully despite your parenting is nothing short of miraculous.”
My mouth drops open as Ivy continues her systematic dismantling of my mother.
“And for the record,” she adds, pacing the trailer like a caged tiger, “Nick didn’t betray anyone. Blair dumped him. I was smart enough to recognize what she threw away.”
I watch Ivy transform as she listens to whatever my mother is saying through the phone. Her shoulders square, her jaw tightens, and sothing dangerous flashes in those purple eyes.
“Ms. Woods,” Ivy cuts in, her voice razor-sharp. “Let make sothing perfectly clear. Your son isn’t the problem here.”
She pauses, listening for a mont before her lips curl into a cold smile.
“No. Your daughter wasn’t unlucky because her brother dated her rival.” Her voice drops to a deadly calm. “lissa was weak. She never belonged in Formula 1. And that weakness?” Ivy’s eyes find mine, softening just for a second before hardening again. “That cos directly from you.”
My heart stops. The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.
“I’ve studied your daughter’s races,” Ivy continues rcilessly. “She crumbles under pressure. She second-guesses every move. She races like soone terrified of disappointing her mother, not like soone hungry for victory.”
I should feel outraged, should leap to lissa’s defense, but sothing in Ivy’s brutal assessnt rings painfully true. I’ve watched my sister shrink year after year under our mother’s expectations.
“How dare…” My mother’s voice is loud enough that I can hear it from where I stand.
“I don’t need to hear this,” Ivy snarls, jabbing at the screen to end the call. She tosses my phone onto the couch like it’s contaminated, her entire body vibrating with rage. The silence that follows feels electric, dangerous.
After a mont, she turns to , her purple eyes blazing. “Your mother,” she says, running her fingers through her hair in frustration, “is genuinely the worst human I’ve ever encountered. And I race against people who would kill their own mothers for pole position.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. “Welco to my world.”
In one fluid motion, Ivy pulls backward onto the mattress, her body following mine in a graceful arc until she’s hovering above . Her expression shifts from fury to sothing playful yet possessive.
“You know what?” she purrs, her fingers tracing my jawline. “I could be your new mommy.” Her lips curl into that predatory smile I’ve co to adore. “I’d take such good care of my precious boy.”
“I think you already are.”
Kendal Woods, Nick's mother:
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