The morning sunlight streams through my hospital window, turning the sterile room into something almost beautiful. It's a stark contrast to the darkness that's settled over the racing world after what happened in Monaco a few hours ago. Three protesters dead on the track, a traumatized driver, and a Grand Prix that ended under red flags with Blair West claiming a hollow victory no one's celebrating.
I shift uncomfortably in my bed, the braces and wires suspending my broken legs catching the light like some macabre art installation. The TV drones on with pre-race coverage of the Indy 500, commentators trying to balance excitement for today's race with somber reflections on Monaco's tragedy. Melissa should be in her final preparations now, focused and ready despite knowing what happened across the ocean.
Ivy sits beside me, her attention divided between her phone and the television. She's been fielding calls all morning from her team, from the press, from other drivers seeking her perspective on the Monaco disaster. Each time her phone rings, her jaw tightens a little more.
"At least twenty-five people have asked me what I would have done if I'd been there," she mutters, tossing her phone onto the bedside table.
I watch her face, the way her purple eyes narrow when she's processing anger, how she presses her lips together to keep from saying something she might regret. Even exhausted and stressed, she's breathtaking.
The morphine they gave me this morning is making me feel oddly brave, disconnecting my thoughts from the filter that usually stops them from becoming words. I clear my throat, drawing her attention away from the TV.
"Uhh, hey," I begin, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears, "did you ask the doctor when we can, uhh... you know, fuck again?"
Ivy's head whips toward me, those purple eyes widening in surprise before a slow, predatory smile spreads across her face. "Nicholas Hunt," she purrs, leaning closer, "are you seriously thinking about sex right now? With both legs shattered and your arms in braces?"
Heat floods my face, but the drugs make me bolder than usual. "Can you blame me? It's been almost a week."
She laughs, the sound washing away some of the tension that's been hanging over us since Monaco. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining carefully to avoid disturbing my IV.
"I did ask, actually," she admits, her voice dropping to that velvet register that makes my heart race despite the painkillers. "The doctor said not for at least six weeks, and even then we'd need to be extremely careful with your legs."
"Six weeks?" I nearly choke on the words, a sudden panic gripping me. "That's over a month!"
My mind races, the morphine making my thoughts tumble out uncensored. If Ivy goes back to racing, she'll be without the one thing she swears makes her faster. The thought sends a wave of anxiety through me that even the painkillers can't dull.
"Wait, but how will you race without my cum inside you?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "You always say it makes you faster, like it's your good luck charm or something."
Ivy's eyebrows shoot up, but that amused smile remains firmly in place. She leans closer, her purple-streaked hair falling forward to frame her face as she studies mine.
"If I go back to racing, we'll figure something out," she says, her voice low and reassuring. "There are ways around everything, Nick."
The casual confidence in her tone both calms and frustrates me. She makes it sound so simple when it feels like an insurmountable problem in my drug-addled brain.
"So not even like... a hand job?" I press, feeling oddly desperate. "That wouldn't hurt my legs, right?"
Ivy laughs, the sound rich and warm as she strokes my cheek with gentle fingers. "You're on blood thinners and heavy medication, baby. I'm not sure you could even get it up if you wanted to."
Her words land like a challenge, awakening something primal in me despite my broken body. As if responding directly to her doubt, I feel a familiar stirring beneath my hospital gown, my body betraying just how much her mere presence affects me, medication be damned.
I watch Ivy's eyes widen slightly as she notices the growing bulge tenting the thin fabric of my gown. Her purple gaze darkens with interest, that predatory smile spreading across her face.
"Well, well," she purrs, leaning back to appreciate the view. "Looks like someone's proving me wrong."
Ivy's gaze shifts from my face to the evidence of my arousal, her eyes narrowing with a hunger that makes my breath catch. She stares at me like I'm a succulent Chinese meal she's been denied for days, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that's both predatory and considering.
"I really probably shouldn't..." she murmurs, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr that makes my heart race despite the medication. Her fingertips ghost over my hospital gown, barely touching the fabric. "Does it hurt at all?"
I smile flirtatiously, emboldened by the drugs flowing through my system and the way her eyes have darkened with desire. "It aches, Ivy," I whisper, the double meaning hanging between us like an invitation.
She glances toward the door, which stands slightly ajar, then back to me with mischief dancing in her purple eyes. In one fluid motion, she rises from her chair and pushes the door closed with a soft click, turning the lock before returning to my bedside.
The look in Ivy's eyes sends a shiver through me despite the warmth of the hospital room. She slides her hand beneath the thin fabric of my gown, her cool fingers wrapping around me with practiced precision. I gasp, the sensation more intense than I expected, my nerve endings hypersensitive from days of medication.
"Shhh," she whispers, her free hand pressing gently against my lips. "You'll get us both kicked out if you make too much noise."
I nod, swallowing hard as she begins to move her hand in slow, deliberate strokes. The Indy 500 pre-race coverage continues on the television, the commentators' voices creating a surreal soundtrack to what's happening beneath my hospital gown.
"God, I've missed touching you," Ivy murmurs, her purple eyes locked on my face, studying every minute reaction. She adjusts her rhythm, slowing just as I feel the first building waves of pleasure. "But we're going to take this nice and slow. We have all day, after all."
"Please," I whisper, already desperate for release.
Ivy just smiles that predatory smile of hers, continuing her maddeningly gentle pace. "The race is about to start, baby. We've got hours to go."
True to her word, as the cars line up on the starting grid at Indianapolis, Ivy settles into what can only be described as a campaign of sweet torture. She alternates between her hand and her mouth, bringing me right to the edge before pulling back each time, leaving me gasping and frustrated.
"Ivy, please," I beg after she's pulled away for the third time, leaving me throbbing and desperate. "I can't take much more."
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, those purple eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Sure you can. We've barely started lap thirty." She nods toward the TV where the cars scream around the oval track. "You're doing so well, baby. Just like these drivers, it's all about endurance."
I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "You're cruel."
"Mmmm," she hums, resuming her teasing strokes. "You love it though."
Time becomes meaningless as Ivy continues her exquisite torture. The race blurs in and out of my awareness, occasionally pulling my attention when Ivy deliberately slows her ministrations to force me to watch.
By lap 198, I've completely lost track of the race, drifting in and out of focus as Ivy continues her relentless teasing. A particularly loud cheer from the TV pulls me back to awareness, and I manage to focus my bleary eyes on the screen.
"Look," Ivy murmurs, her lips leaving me just long enough to speak. "Your sister's doing pretty well for her first time in the car. Fifth place."
I blink in confusion, trying to make sense of what she's saying through my pleasure-fogged brain. That's when I notice the standings on the screen, Enza Venturi is leading the race, her car screaming around the oval with commanding precision.
"If it was me out there," Ivy whispers between licks, "I'd be in first place, not Enza."
The combination of her words, the competitive edge in her voice, and the sensation of her tongue is too much. I feel the pressure building, unstoppable now.
"Ivy," I gasp, "I'm going to…"
She doesn't pull away this time. Instead, her mouth engulfs me completely as I come undone. Ivy doesn't miss a drop, swallowing greedily as if she's been starving for this, her eyes locked on mine with possessive intensity.
When she finally pulls away, a tiny burp escapes her lips, surprising us both. She covers her mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment.
"Oh my," she says, then dissolves into giggles that make her shoulders shake.
I can't help but join her, our laughter filling the sterile hospital room, transforming it into something warmer, more like home. The insanity of the moment, me broken in a hospital bed while Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, delicately wipes her mouth after swallowing my load during the Indy 500, is not lost on me.
"That was so much, Nick," she says, her accent thickening as she catches her breath.
"It's the longest I've gone without cumming since we met," I admit, feeling oddly proud of this fact despite my broken body. "Nearly a week is like an eternity for us."
She smirks, that predatory smile that always makes my heart skip. "True. We usually can't make it through breakfast without…"
A sudden commotion from the TV interrupts us. The announcer's voice rises to a panicked shout as chaos erupts on screen. In turn two, with lap 200 nearing its end, the second-place car loses control, slamming violently into Enza Venturi's leading machine. The impact sends both cars spinning, debris scattering across the track like deadly confetti.
"Holy shit," Ivy breathes, her attention completely captured by the unfolding disaster.
Before the dust can even settle, the third and fourth place cars clip the wreckage, spinning into a less dramatic but equally race-ending crash. Through some miracle of timing and positioning, a car weaves through the carnage untouched, Melissa's car, suddenly catapulted from fifth to first in the blink of an eye.
"Oh my fucking god," I gasp, my body instinctively trying to sit up before pain reminds me of my limitations. "That's Melissa! She's in the lead!"
The yellow flags wave frantically around the track as safety crews rush to the accident scene. With only half a lap remaining and the track littered with wreckage, officials make the call, the race will finish under caution.
"She's going to win," I whisper, disbelief coloring every word. "Melissa's going to win the Indianapolis 500."
My eyes go wide as the realization fully hits me, and when I glance at Ivy, I see her expression mirrors mine, pure shock mixed with dawning excitement. Her purple eyes are huge, her mouth slightly open as we watch my sister take the white flag, then the checkered, leading the remaining cars at a controlled pace behind the safety vehicle.
"Your sister just won the fucking Indy 500," Ivy says, her voice filled with awe. "On her first attempt."
The euphoria of watching my sister win the Indy 500, combined with the lingering ecstasy from Ivy's ministrations and the cocktail of drugs flowing through my system, suddenly becomes too much for my body to handle. A strange warmth rushes up my throat without warning, no nausea, no retching, and before I can stop it, I've vomited a little bit down the front of my hospital gown.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry," I gasp, mortified as I stare down at the mess on my chest.
Ivy doesn't hesitate or recoil in disgust. She immediately grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink and returns to my side, her movements quick but gentle as she begins wiping my face.
"Don't be sorry, baby," she says, her voice surprisingly tender as she cleans me up. "The doctor said the drugs could make you sick." Her fingers brush my cheek with such care it makes my heart ache. "And you were probably so surprised by Melissa's win that your body just got a little confused."
I look up at the TV. Winning the Indy 500 is a huge achievement. "I really can't believe it." I whisper.
"Which part?" Ivy asks, a small smile playing at her lips as she finishes cleaning my face and starts gently tugging at my soiled hospital gown. "That your sister just became an Indy 500 champion, or that I made you throw up from pleasure?"
"Both, I guess."