Corsa Confessions

The Morrisons car park at midnight was like a motor show for the council estate elite. Corsas with body kits, Fiestas with exhausts that could wake the dead, and the occasional Astra that someone's brother definitely hadn't nicked.

I was leaning against my own modified pride and joy—a black Corsa SRi with lowered suspension and alloys that cost more than the car itself—when she pulled up in a blur of white paint and neon underlights.

The car was impressive. The girl who stepped out was more so.

Tiny thing, couldn't have been more than five foot two, but she moved like she knew exactly how powerful she was. Cropped blonde hair, nose ring catching the streetlight, wearing a white crop top and grey jogging bottoms that sat low on her hips.

"Nice motor," she said, nodding at my Corsa. "That a 1.4 turbo?"

"1.6. Remapped it myself."

Her eyebrows went up. Respect. "I'm running a 1.8 swap. K-series from an MG."

"Fuck off."

"God's honest." She stuck out a hand. "Paige."

"Daz."

Her grip was surprisingly strong, her fingers calloused. Mechanic's hands. Sexy as hell.

"You coming to the races?" she asked. "Industrial estate, about one. There's a straight run behind the old carpet warehouse."

"Depends. What's the prize?"

She looked me up and down, slow and deliberate, a smile playing at her lips. "Depends who wins."

The industrial estate was already packed when we arrived, cars lined up, engines revving, the air thick with petrol fumes and testosterone. A crowd had gathered along the makeshift track—a quarter mile of cracked tarmac between two abandoned warehouses.

Paige pulled up beside me, window down, bass thumping from her stereo.

"Ready to eat my dust?" she called.

"Ready to see the back of your car the whole way."

She laughed. "Big words. Let's see if you can back 'em up."

Someone counted down. Three. Two. One.

Tires screamed. The world became a blur of motion and noise and pure adrenaline.

She was fast. Faster than I'd expected. That K-series swap was no joke. But I'd been racing on these streets since I could see over the steering wheel, and I knew every crack, every dip, every pothole to avoid.

We crossed the finish line neck and neck—literally, her bumper kissing mine, both of us slamming on brakes before we hit the fence.

"Draw," someone shouted.

Paige was out of her car before I'd even caught my breath, walking toward me with a look that was half challenge, half something else entirely.

"Not bad," she said. "For a boy."

"Not bad yourself. For someone who drives an automatic."

"Oi! It's sequential, you prick."

We were in each other's space now, close enough that I could smell her—petrol, sweat, something floral underneath. Her chest was heaving, same as mine. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug.

"So what happens in a draw?" I asked.

She grabbed the front of my hoodie, pulled me down to her level. "Winner takes all."

She kissed me hard, all teeth and tongue and the lingering taste of Red Bull. I lifted her—she weighed nothing—and her legs wrapped around my waist like she'd been practicing.

"Your car or mine?" she breathed.

"Yours is closer."

We barely made it inside before her hands were under my shirt, nails raking down my back. The back seat was cramped—these weren't exactly built for comfort—but we made it work.

"Fuck, you're fit," she said, pulling off her crop top to reveal small, perfect tits with silver bars through the nipples. "Proper fit."

I answered by taking one of those piercings between my teeth, tugging gently. She gasped, arched into me.

"Shit—do that again—"

I did, while my hand worked down her joggers. No underwear—just smooth skin and heat and wetness.

"Been turned on since the race," she admitted, gasping as my fingers found her. "Adrenaline makes me fucking horny."

"Yeah? How horny?"

She showed me, pushing me back, yanking down my jeans. Her mouth was hot and eager, her tongue stud doing things that made my eyes roll back.

"Christ—"

She looked up at me, mouth full, and fucking winked.

"Need you," I groaned. "Now."

She climbed onto my lap, positioned herself, sank down in one smooth motion. The moan she made vibrated through the whole car.

"Fuck, that's good."

The Corsa rocked on its lowered suspension as she rode me, the windows steaming up, the bass still thumping from her stereo. Outside, I could hear the other racers revving engines, but in here it was just us—sweat-slick skin, breathless moans, the obscene sound of our bodies meeting.

"Harder—come on—fuck me like you drive—"

I grabbed her hips, planted my feet, and gave her everything. She threw her head back, exposing her throat, and I bit down on that soft skin while she screamed.

"Gonna come—fuck—right there—don't stop—"

She came with a sound that was half scream, half laugh, her whole body shuddering around me. The sight of her—those pierced nipples bouncing, her face twisted in pleasure—pushed me over the edge.

"Fuck—Paige—"

She ground down, taking every drop, still shaking through aftershocks.

After, we lay tangled in the back seat, her head on my chest, both of us catching our breath. Through the fogged-up windows, I could see headlights—more racers arriving.

"Rematch next week?" she asked.

"You're on. Same stakes?"

She grinned, all teeth and mischief. "Double or nothing."

She dropped me back at my car, leaving me with a kiss that promised more and tire marks that would last for days.

I drove home at exactly the speed limit, grinning like an idiot.