She’s mid-pump (foot flat to the floor, body arched against the seat, my hand buried between her thighs) when it happens.

A single, violent backfire cracks through the night like a gunshot. The exhaust spits a blue-white flame. Then the little V4 detonates into life with a savage, wounded roar that rattles the side windows and shakes the steering wheel in her grip.

Anna’s eyes fly wide. A raw, triumphant laugh tears out of her (half gasp, half moan) as the engine catches hard and climbs, revs soaring past 4,000, 5,000, the twin carbs gulping air and fuel like they’re starving.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes!”

She eases off the throttle just enough to keep it alive, but her foot keeps moving (little fluttering pulses, instinctive, sexual) riding the ragged edge between keeping it running and letting it drown again. The whole car shudders around us, alive and furious and ours.

Her head falls back against the seat rest, hair wild, blouse clinging to damp skin. She turns to me, pupils blown, lips parted, and the look she gives me is pure gasoline.

The engine snarls beneath us, popping and banging on overrun every time she lifts, refusing to idle smoothly, refusing to be tamed tonight.

Anna grins, wicked and radiant, shifts into first with a little too fast, and dumps the clutch.

The Fulvia lunges forward, tires howling, rear end stepping out as she floors it again just to hear it scream. My hand is still on her; hers is finally off the key, both of them white-knuckled on the wooden wheel now.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

The road unrolls dark and empty ahead of us, the little yellow coupe bucking and snarling like it’s as turned on as we are.

Reservation’s long gone.

We’re not going to dinner.

We’re going wherever this engine (and this night) decides to take us, foot down, windows down, hearts hammering in perfect, dangerous time with 1.3 liters of pure Italian chaos.

Anna laughs again into the wind, wild and free, and guns it harder.

The Fulvia doesn’t calm down; it just gets meaner.

Anna keeps it above four grand the whole way up Mulholland, the little engine screaming like it’s trying to tear itself out of the chassis. Every time she lifts for a corner the carbs suck air with a sharp, animal bark and the exhaust spits blue fire against the guardrail. The rear end steps out on every apex, tires howling on the cold asphalt, and she catches it with opposite lock and a laugh that sounds like pure sex.

I’ve got one hand braced on the dash and the other clamped high on her thigh, fingers digging into denim every time she downshifts. She’s driving one-handed now, left elbow out the window, wind whipping her hair into a black halo. The linen blouse is completely unbuttoned, flapping open, and the streetlights strobe across her skin like a private show.

We blow past the overlook where couples park to make out. Tonight the lot is empty; everyone heard the Fulvia coming and fled. She doesn’t even slow down.

At the top of the hill she suddenly yanks the wheel left, dives down a fire road I didn’t know existed. Gravel pings off the fenders, suspension bottoming hard, and she just laughs louder. Headlights carve tunnels through the chaparral and eucalyptus. The smell of hot oil and crushed sage pours in the windows.

Half a mile in she kills the lights.

Just moon and dashboard glow now. The road narrows to one lane, then less. She’s navigating by memory and madness, third gear pinned, the engine note echoing off canyon walls like a war cry. My heart is in my throat and somewhere lower.

Finally the road ends in a dirt turnout hanging over the city. She stands on the brakes; the Fulvia slides sideways in a perfect four-wheel drift and stops with the nose inches from nothing. Below us Los Angeles glitters like spilled diamonds.

Engine still snarling, she lets it fall back to idle (rough, lumpy, threatening to die again any second). She doesn’t touch the key.

For a moment we just breathe with it.

Then she turns to me, eyes black in the moonlight, lipstick long gone, hair wild, chest still heaving.

“Get out,” she says, voice hoarse.

We leave the headlights off, doors open, engine running just enough to keep the battery alive and the exhaust popping like distant gunfire. She walks around the front of the car, hips rolling slow, and leans back against the warm hood. The metal must be burning through her jeans but she doesn’t flinch.

I follow.

She pulls me in by my belt, kisses me hard, tastes like gasoline and adrenaline. Somewhere behind us the Fulvia backfires once (impatient, jealous).

We don’t make it gentle. Hood, fenders, driver’s seat later, gravel in our knees, her sandals kicked off somewhere in the dirt. Every time the engine stumbles she reaches blindly through the open door and gives the throttle one sharp stab with her bare foot to keep it alive, like she’s afraid if it dies the spell breaks.

It never quite dies.

Hours later (or minutes; time is liquid), we’re sprawled across the front seats, windows fogged, city lights blurred. The engine has finally settled into a steady, evil lope. She’s half on top of me, hair sticking to both of us, tracing lazy circles on my chest with one finger.

“I should probably let it cool before we cook the valves,” she murmurs, but doesn’t move.

The Fulvia ticks and pings as it cools, occasional cough from the exhaust like it’s clearing its throat.

Anna smiles against my neck.

“Next time,” she whispers, “I’m bringing the Alfa. It’s worse.”

I laugh, breathless.

She revs the engine once more (just because she can) and the little yellow coupe howls into the empty night like it’s daring the sunrise to try and stop us.