Chapter 13: Ultra Instinct

I'm starting to think Ivy's purple highlights are actually exposed wiring from the cybernetic brain beneath her scalp.

It's been two days since we left Shanghai, two days of rest, and frankly, athletic sex that's left me with muscles aching in places I didn't know could ache. Now I'm standing in the heart of Zenith's factory in Cambridge, England, watching my new... girlfriend? Owner? Mystical sex deity? I'm not entirely sure what to call her yet, but whatever she is, she's currently suspended inside what looks like a million-dollar metal death trap.

The simulator is unlike anything I've ever seen, a massive dodecahedron like structure of gleaming metal and carbon fiber that rotates on multiple axes, creating a perfect physical simulation of g-forces. Not the static setup I use for iRacing, but something that probably costs more than everything I've ever owned combined. The entire contraption shifts and tilts violently as Ivy attacks a virtual Shanghai circuit, her body experiencing every bump, every corner, every moment of acceleration and braking as if she were actually in the car.

"FUCK! This fucking piece of shit is understeering like a fucking shopping cart!" Ivy's voice blasts through the speakers, making one of the engineers wince. "What the fuck did you do to the front wing settings?"

The two women at the control panel exchange nervous glances as they adjust parameters on their screens. Their fingers fly across keyboards with practiced precision, though I notice a slight tremor in their movements.

"Is she always like this?" I ask the technician closest to me, a woman with short-cropped hair and thick-framed glasses who's been casting sideways glances at me since I walked in.

She lets out a strained laugh. "No, this is calm for her," she whispers, eyes darting toward the simulator as if Ivy might somehow see through the metal cocoon. "A few weeks ago, she threw her water bottle at the projection screen when the virtual tires degraded faster than she expected."

I watch as the simulator pitches forward suddenly, mimicking heavy braking. Ivy's cursing takes on a new level of creativity that would make sailors blush.

"Lap fifty of fifty-six, Ms. Hunt," announces the lead engineer, her voice steady despite the stream of profanity still flowing from the simulator.

I lean against the wall, trying to look like I belong here among these technical wizards with their multiple PhDs and cutting-edge equipment. The last time I visited this factory was when Blair signed with Zenith. I remember how she'd given me the sanitized tour, carefully steering me away from the "classified areas" with a patronizing smile.

"The aerodynamics lab is off-limits to non-essential personnel," she'd explained, her tone suggesting I should be grateful for whatever access I was granted.

But Ivy? When we arrived this morning, she'd grabbed my hand and marched me straight through security checkpoints, past doors with actual biometric scanners, and into rooms where engineers were hunched over what looked like alien technology.

"He stays with me," she'd declared when someone had the audacity to question my presence. "Nick is essential to my performance."

The door behind me slides open with a pneumatic hiss. I turn to see Bridgette entering, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes land on me, and a sigh escapes her perfectly glossed lips.

"So you insisted on coming here with Ivy?" she asks, disapproval radiating from every pore.

"Nope," I reply, popping the 'p' for emphasis. "She insisted I come. There's a difference."

Bridgette's eyebrows rise slightly. "I see. And you always do what Ivy Hunt tells you to?"

Before I can answer, the simulator powers down, its complex movements slowing to a stop. The cockpit opens with a mechanical whirr, and Ivy emerges like some vengeful goddess rising from the depths. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her eyes wild with the particular brand of focused rage that seems to fuel her existence.

"Fifty-six laps completed, Ms. Hunt," says the lead engineer, offering a printout of data. "Your times were consistent throughout."

Ivy snatches the printout from the engineer's hand, scanning the data with laser-focused intensity. Her mouth twists into a scowl.

"Nine seconds," she mutters, eyes flicking up to meet mine. "I was off Sunday's pace by nine fucking seconds."

She doesn't seem surprised by this revelation, just annoyed, like she's confirmed something she already suspected. The engineers shrink back slightly, their body language screaming that they'd rather be anywhere else right now.

"The simulator calibration might be…" one brave soul begins.

"The simulator is fine," Ivy cuts her off without even looking in her direction. Her purple eyes remain fixed on me as she tosses the data sheet onto a nearby console. "The car is fine. It's something else."

I shuffle uncomfortably under her intense gaze, acutely aware of Bridgette still hovering beside me. She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"You know, Nick, we still haven't discussed your... role here. I've said it before, the team has certain expectations about appearance and conduct that…"

Ivy's head snaps toward Bridgette with predatory speed. Her entire demeanor shifts, the annoyance about her lap times instantly replaced by something far more dangerous. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as she stalks toward us, her movements fluid and menacing.

"Bridgette," Ivy says, her voice deceptively soft. "What are you doing?"

Bridgette straightens, professionalism masking her obvious discomfort. "Just discussing team protocols with Nick. His attire is rather casual for…"

Ivy's hand comes down in a sharp clap that echoes through the room like a gunshot, cutting Bridgette off mid-sentence. The entire engineering team freezes, all pretense of working abandoned as they watch the confrontation unfold.

"If you upset him, Bridgette, I'll fucking kill you."

The words hang in the air, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that no one doubts she means it literally. Ivy steps between us, her back to me like a shield.

"Nick can wear whatever the fuck he wants," she continues, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Suede, denim, fucking pajamas, I don't care as long as he's present for me. So back the fuck off."

Bridgette pales visibly, her perfectly manicured hand clutching her tablet tighter. "Ivy, I was simply…"

"We're done here," Ivy declares, reaching behind her to grab my wrist. Her grip is firm but not painful as she tugs me toward the door.

I barely have time to process what's happening as Ivy drags me through the facility, past startled engineers and wide-eyed technicians. Her pace is relentless, her grip on my wrist unyielding as we navigate a maze of corridors. The few brave souls who make eye contact with us quickly avert their gaze when they see the thunderous expression on Ivy's face.

"Where are we…" I start to ask, but she silences me with a look that could melt steel.

We round a corner and stop at an unmarked door. Ivy punches in a code with such force I'm surprised the keypad doesn't shatter. The door slides open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished bedroom, clearly designed for those nights when going home isn't an option.

Without warning, she shoves me inside and follows, the door automatically locking behind us with a definitive click. Before I can get my bearings, she's on me, pushing me against the wall. Her eyes burn with a feverish intensity that makes my breath catch.

"I need you," she growls, her fingers already working at her jumpsuit. "Right now."

The zipper comes down in one fluid motion as she sheds the purple Zenith uniform with practiced efficiency. Her body is a marvel of athletic perfection, all lean muscle and dangerous curves. She kicks the jumpsuit aside and presses against me, her hands finding my belt buckle.

"Wait, Ivy, we're at your workplace…" I protest weakly, even as my body betrays my words. She gets my pants down to my ankles.

"Shut up," she commands, spinning around to face away from the wall, bending forward at the waist. She reaches between us, her fingers wrapping around my hardening length. "Good," she purrs, satisfaction evident in her voice. "You're already hard for me."

My objections die in my throat as she guides me into her, already slick and ready. The sensation is overwhelming, her fiery warmth consumed me completely as she pushes back, taking control of our rhythm.

"Fuck," she moans, not bothering to lower her voice. "This is what I needed. This is what was missing in the simulator."

Her hips slam back against me with increasing urgency, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine. I grip her waist, trying to steady myself as she sets a punishing pace.

"You feel that?" she pants, looking back over her shoulder, her purple eyes locked with mine. "This is how I won in Shanghai. With you inside me, filling me up, making me complete."

My gasps echo in the small room as she continues her relentless assault, her words becoming filthier, more desperate.

"Everyone out there thinks I'm a genius for that race," she growls, "but you're my secret weapon."

"Fuck," I moan, the words ripped from my throat as Ivy's body slams back against mine.

But something shifts in her movements. The frantic, almost desperate pace suddenly transforms. Her hand reaches back, fingers threading through my hair with unexpected tenderness. She guides my head forward until my lips brush the nape of her neck.

"Kiss me there," she whispers, her voice stripped of its usual hardness. "I want to feel your mouth on me while you're inside me."

I press my lips against her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat, breathing in her scent. She shivers, a small, vulnerable sound escaping her that I've never heard before.

"Nick," she breathes my name like a prayer. "You feel so fucking good."

Her hips still move with bruising force, but there's something different in the way she's grinding against me now. It's not just about her pleasure anymore. She's angling her body, changing the depth and rhythm until she finds the spot that makes me gasp.

"There," she purrs, triumphant. "You like that? Right there? I can feel when it's good for you."

I nod as my hands slide around to cup her breasts. She arches into my touch with a moan that sounds almost surprised by her own sensitivity. Her fingers cover mine, guiding my movements, showing me exactly how she likes to be touched.

She turns her head, seeking my lips in an awkward but desperate kiss. Our tongues dance together as she continues to work her hips against mine, each thrust punctuated by a small whimper that vibrates against my mouth.

"I need you to come inside me," she demands, though there's a pleading quality to her voice I've never heard before. "I need to feel you let go. Please, Nick."

Her words send me over the edge. I feel her inner walls clenching around me in rhythmic pulses, her entire body tensing as she reaches her climax. The sensation of her tightening around me is exquisite, pushing me past the point of no return.

"Ivy," I gasp, my voice breaking as pleasure cascades through me like lightning. "I'm…"

"Yes," she hisses, grinding back against me with desperate intensity. "Give it to me, Nick. All of it."

Our bodies move in perfect synchronicity as we fall apart together. I clutch her hips, pulling her flush against me as I empty myself inside her, each pulse drawing a shuddering moan from both of us. The warmth spreads between us, intimate and primal, as I pour everything I have into her willing body.

She reaches back, fingers tangling in my hair as she holds me close, her body trembling with aftershocks. I can feel her heartbeat through where our skin connects, racing in time with mine. For these precious seconds, we're truly one being, connected in the most fundamental way possible.

"Fuck," she whispers, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she milks every last drop from me. "I can feel you filling me up. It's... perfect."

We stay joined for several moments, catching our breath, neither willing to break the connection.

"Thank you, Nick," she says, pressing her forehead against mine. "Thank you for being with me."

The admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than what we just shared physically. I stroke her cheek, surprised by my own tenderness toward this woman who bulldozed her way into my life.

"I'm here," I tell her, meaning it more than I expected to.

Her lips find mine, not with the frantic hunger from before, but with a gentle intimacy that catches me off guard. Her tongue teases against mine, exploring my mouth with languid strokes that make my knees weak. It's almost sweet, this kiss, a striking contrast to the raw physicality we just shared.

After a moment that stretches like honey, she gently pushes me back, breaking our connection. She kneels and pulls my pants up, tucking me away and zipping me up with surprising care. Her fingers linger at my waistband, adjusting it with an almost possessive precision.

"There," she murmurs, rising to her feet with feline grace.

I watch as she retrieves her jumpsuit, sliding back into it with efficient movements. When she turns to face me, her expression has transformed. The intensity that usually hardens her features has melted into something softer, more open. Her smile spreads across her face, not the calculated one she uses for cameras or the predatory one that precedes her more dangerous moods, but something genuine and almost goofy.

"What?" I ask, unable to keep from smiling back.

"Nothing," she says, zipping up her suit. "I just feel good. Really good."

There's a looseness to her movements now, a fluidity that wasn't there before. The tightly-wound coil of Ivy Hunt has temporarily unwound, leaving behind a woman who seems almost... normal.

"Come on, lover," she says, extending her hand to me. "I need to get back in that simulator."

I take her hand, still slightly dazed by this transformation. "Are you sure? You seemed pretty frustrated with it earlier."

"Trust me," she says with a wink. "I've got this now."

We make our way back through the facility, and I notice the difference immediately. Where before Ivy had stalked through the hallways like a predator, now she moves with relaxed confidence, nodding at startled engineers who clearly expected hurricane Ivy rather than this calm, collected version.

When we return to the simulator room, the engineers exchange nervous glances, clearly bracing for another tirade. Instead, Ivy offers them a serene smile.

"Let's run it again," she says, already climbing back into the machine. "Same program, same parameters."

The engineers exchange surprised glances but quickly set to work. I find a spot near the main monitoring station, leaning against the wall as the simulator hums back to life. The massive machine begins its dance again, tilting and rotating as Ivy attacks the virtual circuit.

This time, the room feels different. Where before there was tension thick enough to cut with a knife, now there's an almost eerie calm. The only sounds are the mechanical whirrs of the simulator and the occasional tap of fingers on keyboards as the engineers monitor the data.

No cursing. No screaming. No threats to disembowel the nearest technician.

"Lap ten complete," announces the lead engineer, her voice carefully neutral. "Times are... impressive."

I watch the screens displaying Ivy's telemetry data, the colorful lines and numbers meaning little to me beyond the obvious, she's fast. Really fast.

The simulator continues its mechanical ballet, Ivy silent within its confines. The only indication of her presence is the data streaming across the screens and the occasional glimpse of her purple helmet through the small window in the cockpit.

"Halfway point," calls out another engineer. "Still maintaining pace."

The laps continue to fly by as Bridgette appears at my side, her earlier discomfort replaced by professional curiosity. "What did you do to her?" she asks under her breath, eyes fixed on the screens.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant despite the heat rising in my cheeks. "Nothing."

She gives me a sidelong glance that says she's not buying it. "Right. It's not hard to figure out what happened when you two disappeared for twenty minutes and came back looking... different."

Before I can respond, the lead engineer's voice cuts through our conversation. "Final lap."

Everyone in the room leans forward, eyes fixed on the screens as Ivy completes her fifty-sixth lap. A collective gasp ripples through the engineers as the final time flashes on the display.

"She just beat her Shanghai race pace by over a second," mutters the glasses engineer.

The simulator powers down with a hydraulic hiss that seems almost satisfied with itself. The engineers huddle around their stations, murmuring to each other in the reverent tones of scientists who've just witnessed something that defies explanation.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to look casual while my mind races with implications. Did our quickie in the break room really just improve her lap times that dramatically? Does she just not know how to relax without fucking me?

The simulator's cockpit opens. Ivy emerges pulling off her helmet in one smooth motion. Her purple-streaked hair tumbles free. Unlike before, there's no rage, no frustration, just a serene confidence that radiates from her like heat from an engine.

She hands her helmet to a nearby technician without even looking at them, her purple eyes fixed on me with laser focus. The room seems to fade away as she walks toward me, her jumpsuit clinging to her athletic frame with each purposeful step.

Ivy walks out after a minute of unstrapping and she looks at me and says, "I'm going to be untouchable this season, Nick. And it's thanks to you."

The declaration hangs in the air, bold and unapologetic. My cheeks burn as I feel every eye in the room turn toward me.

Bridgette steps closer, her professional mask slipping to reveal genuine confusion.

"Seriously, what did you do to her?"