The low rumble of the car felt good against Camila’s lush ass. Her body practically hummed whenever the engine was running. Every pulse of the motor sent delicious vibrations through her, stirring the wicked desires that lived just beneath her skin. She licked her lips, tasting the emotions that hung heavy in the air. The envy of wannabe race queens brushed up against her senses and made her pussy throb. Even sweeter were the hungry stares of other racers and spectators watching her every move. She sighed, eyes rolling back at the intoxicating delight flowing over her.
‘Yeeessssss,’ Camila basked in it. ‘He’s mine, bitches. All mine.’
She swept the crowd until she saw him, HER driver. Her man.
He strode out of the crowd with an easy confidence that made her swoon with need. Dark hair waved in the breeze, revealing deep green eyes she spent countless nights staring into from her back, legs wrapped around his torso. She was bound to those eyes almost as completely as she was bound to the car she was leaning against and every time she stared into them, a storm of emotions stirred within her.
Had she been that handsome when she was a man?
“Why are you pouting, ‘Mila?” She folded her arms across her chest, resisting the urge to arch her back to draw his attention elsewhere. His fingers found her chin and gently tilted her face upward. “I know that look; what’s got you worried?”
His gaze followed hers to one of the opposing cars. Black high-gloss paint job. An angry red underglow. An eerie presence emanating from it that was horribly familiar. Its driver carried the same impossible aura as her boyfriend. The same hunger. The same seduction. The same power that devoured her masculinity the night she challenged a stranger and lost everything.
“You have nothing to worry about,” His soothing voice always calmed her. “If we win this, the car will have what it wants. We’ll get what we want.” His thumb brushed her cheek. She leaned into it. “You’ll be mine forever.” That should have frightened her. Instead, her heart fluttered.
She accepted his kiss and searched herself for the old fire that had once fueled her resistance. She found none of it. None of the anger, none of the defiance. All of that desperate desire to reclaim her old self was gone. All she found was a desire for victory and pleasure.
Every victory brought refinement. The car had sculpted her body by drawing in her waist, swelling her hips, and softening her lips until they were ready to spoil her man’s cock and kiss him after the finish line.
Yet the changes beneath the surface had always been the most powerful. The car never simply altered her body; it fine-tuned her to love it. Every increase in cup size was gifted with new pleasures. Every surrendered inhibition was rewarded with lustful delights. What had been an infringement has slowly morphed into her indulgence.
Somewhere along the way, Camila had stopped enduring her femininity and started longing for it.
This new rival in black was uncertainty. If the cars truly shared the same nature, then she could be rewritten all over again. A different car, a new driver, and a completely different self. How strange it was that she had fought so hard to protect some semblance of her old self, yet now she feared losing the bad bitch she had become.
When her boyfriend climbed into the driver’s seat, Camila leaned in through the window and cupped his face. “Win, baby,” she purred, pressing her glossy lips to his cheek. “Win for me.” Her eyes met his. “Win so I can keep being yours.”
It was the devil she knew, the devil she loved most. It was obvious now that a bet on him wasn’t about victory. It was a wager on herself. Every surrender, compromise, every intoxicating step was another that led her to Camila. Perhaps she should have mourned the man she used to be. Perhaps she should have longed for freedom. But the truth was impossible to deny.
She loved being Camila.
As the engines roared and the street trembled with anticipation, Camila raised the flag high above her head. Then she dropped it.
To the victor go the spoils.
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