He motioned toward my hand with his eyes. “You’re shaking.”
He was right. It had nothing to do with the incident, though. To be honest, all thoughts of the event had been temporarily replaced by mental images of Braxton and me doing the dirty.
I wasn’t about to admit that I was enthralled by him or that the fascination was likely the cause of my nervous energy. I glanced at the tip of my fork and feigned surprise.
“I guess I am,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
He leaned forward. “Come here,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.
Excluding a half-assed smirk from time to time, Braxton didn’t exhibit much emotion on the joyous side of the spectrum. His look wasn’t stern or angry, it was simply one of a serious nature. Having him playfully approach me with a whisper was intoxicating.
Overcome with curiosity, I set my fork down and met him at the center of the table. “Yes?”
“I’ve got an idea,” he whispered.
He was close enough to kiss me. His breath was nearly as sweet as his cologne. I was captivated.
“An idea?” I asked.
“Of sorts. I want you to make a bet with me,” he explained. “It ends with one or the other of us taking off our clothes. It should help take your mind off whatever’s making you shake.”
If one of us was going to end up taking off our clothes, I’d be an idiot not to play. Regardless of which one of us was going to strip to our skivvies, things would be headed in the right direction. My knees wagged back and forth in anticipation.
“Okay,” I breathed.
“So, you want to do it?”
Incapable of hiding my excitement, I nodded eagerly in agreement. “Sure.”
“I’m going to guess the color of your panties,” he said flatly. “If I get it right, you’re going to take them off and put them in your purse. If I guess wrong, I’ll strip down to my boxers and finish breakfast.”
As if it wasn’t bad enough already, he tossed gasoline on the sexual fire that was burning between my legs. I expected him to smirk, laugh, or to say that he was joking. The look on his face was as clear as his request.
He was dead serious.
The odds of him guessing the color of my panties was minuscule. My heart raced at the thought of seeing him half-naked.
I swallowed heavily. “All the way to your boxers?”
“Boxers and socks,” he declared. “I’ll give everything else to you.”
I would have given him a hundred bucks to see him without his shirt on. It seemed like a fair bet. Nevertheless, I wanted to negotiate for more.
“If I’m going to risk losing my panties, you’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”
His gaze narrowed. “Like what?”
“Strip to your boxers and socks and tell me about Lady Gaga,” I said. “How you met, and what she was like. The entire story.”
He let out a sigh of frustration and leaned away from the table. After studying me for a long moment, he gave a regretful nod. “Fine.”
I offered my hand. “I’ll take that bet.”
He started to shake my hand and then hesitated. “How close do I have to get?”
“What do you mean?”
“For instance, would I have to guess the specific color, or could it be orange instead of tangerine, mango, or pumpkin?”
I laughed. “If you get the color right, it’ll be good enough.”
He crossed his arms and looked me over. His hazel eyes glistened mischievously. Feeling as if he’d hypnotized me, I stared blankly into the abyss of his green and brown speckled orbs.
“Take off your green panties and put them in your purse,” he said.
I blinked. “Huh?”
“Green,” he said. “Your panties. They’re green.”
“How did…” I stared in disbelief. “I feel like you sucked that information out of my soul.”
“Am I right, or am I wrong?” he asked.
I forced a sigh. “You’re right.”
He leaned against the back of his seat and playfully wagged the tip of his index finger at me. “Get busy.”
I wasn’t opposed to taking my panties off in the restaurant. Not by any means. In fact, if it was going to get me one step closer to having sex, I’d likely strip naked if he asked me to. I reached under the table and hiked my dress to mid-thigh. As if it were a common occurrence for me to remove my undergarments while eating breakfast, I pushed my panties to my knees.
I glanced nervously around the restaurant. The small diner was filled with people, all of which were obviously more concerned with eating their breakfast than watching me undress. Pleased that I’d worn a presentable pair of underwear, I was brimming with nervous excitement.
Without further hesitation, I slid the panties along my calves and past the heels of my shoes.
In a rather theatrical display, I flopped my purse onto the table and propped it open. Then, I lifted the lace undergarments above the bag and paused. Contrary to what he may have thought, I had no intention of dropping them in my purse. I was going let him keep them for a souvenir, hoping they’d provide him the inspiration to act on whatever urge prompted him to have me remove them.
The green fabric dangled from between my thumb and forefinger. A few seconds ticked off the clock.
His eyes twinkled with satisfaction.
I tossed them at him.
With the speed of a bolt of lightning, he plucked them from the air before they landed against his suit. Wearing a slight smirk, he reached inside his jacket and tucked them in his pocket.
“How do you feel?” He nodded toward my lap. “Right now?”
I writhed in my seat. My pussy was soaked. Braxton, the other hand, seemed unaffected. Maybe when he wasn’t saving women from vicious thugs, he was torturing them with his handsome looks and playing games that required them to relinquish their underwear.
I didn’t know what he expected me to say.
“Liberated,” I said.
My response seemed to amuse him. He almost grinned to prove it.
Almost.
He raised his chin slightly. “What else?”
“You just asked me to take off my panties in a public restaurant and I did it,” I said. “I’m sure you’re aware that you’re an extremely attractive man. What do you expect me to say?”
He gave me a quick once over. “Do you feel better?”
Obviously, he wasn’t getting my point. I rolled my eyes. “I’m not bothered by the idiot who tried to take my car. To be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about him.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replied. “I asked if you felt better.”
I fidgeted in my seat. “Better? About what?”
“You were clearly sexually frustrated earlier,” he said in a flat tone. “Do you still feel that way?”
I was sexually frustrated. I took exception, however, to him claiming that I exhibited the frustration prior to that exact moment. “Earlier?” I snapped. “When?”
“Ten minutes ago, when you started to eat that potato.” He gestured toward my fork. “The one you still haven’t eaten.”
It seemed he already knew the truth. There was no sense in lying about it. “Okay. What if I was? You’re sexy, I’m single, and it’s been far too long since I’ve had sex.” I mentally cocked my hip. “So, yeah. I was sexually frustrated.”
It was a little more information than I would have normally given on a breakfast date, but he crossed normal off the list when he asked me to ditch my panties.
He gave me a confused look. “Taking off your panties didn’t help matters?”
I was wallowing in a puddle of proof that peeling off my panties in public made matters much worse. “No,” I said in a sarcastic tone. “It sure didn’t.”
He arched a playful eyebrow. “What do you think might?”
“Might what?” I asked. “Ease my sexual pain?”
He gave a nod. “Yes.”
I had only one s
olution. I hoped his thoughts mirrored mine. Not knowing whether I was going to sink or swim, I dove in headfirst.
“If you’d fuck me,” I responded. “All my problems would be solved.”
He leaned away from the table. After eye-fucking me twice, he met my hopeful gaze. “Is that what you want?”
His voice lacked emotion. His face was without expression. He was enjoying himself far too much. It was time to put his little mind-fuck game to an end.
“Are you enjoying this?” I asked, my tone thick with frustration.
“Enjoying what?”
“Torturing me. Is this fun for you?”
He smirked. “Immensely.”
His playful resistance was making matters worse. I could feel my heart beating in places I had never felt it before. Namely, between my legs. I tossed my napkin over my plate and reached for my purse.
I tilted my head toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
He grinned. “Where?”
I flipped two twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and onto the table. “You’re either going to fuck me and then take me to the police station, or you’re going to take me police station, and then fuck me. But we’re having sex.”
He stood. “Are we?”
“Yes,” I said. “We sure are.”
* * *
I reached for the seatbelt. Unreeling it was more complicated than a Chinese calculus textbook. My panties weren’t the only thing that was missing. Apparently, I’d lost my ability to reason altogether.
Braxton started the vehicle and turned on the air conditioner. Upon realizing the depth of my mental struggle, he laughed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying…” I continued my inspection of the foreign-looking device, silently laughing at my inability to perform the simplest of tasks. In no time, my lap was filled with every inch of seat belt strap the British SUV had to offer.
“I’m trying to remember how one of these things works,” I muttered.
He pulled off his jacket and tossed it in the backseat. “I thought you wanted to fuck.”
My lower region flushed with excitement. Giddy at the thought of fucking in the car, I excitedly glanced around. A sunshade covered the windshield. The side windows were a dark enough tint that only those curious enough to peer inside would be able to see what we were doing. Having sex in a public parking lot wasn’t on my conscious to-do list, but it wasn’t on my to-don’t list, either.
I released the seatbelt. All ten feet of it sucked into the retractor with a thwack!
“Here?” I asked, just to make sure we were both singing off the same song sheet. “You want to fuck here? In the car?”
“I thought you said you were sexually frustrated.” His brows pinched together. “How bad is it?”
I’d hit the freaking jackpot. There was no sense in wasting any more time. I pulled the hem of my dress to my waist and wagged my index finger toward his lap. “Get those pants off, Mister.”
He unbuckled his belt and pushed his slacks to his knees. His boxers came next. When they cleared his lap, his gorgeous cock sprung to attention.
Apparently, he was as excited as I was.
I stared at it like it was two-headed unicorn. “Is there anything about you that isn’t attractive?”
He chuckled. “I’m pretty ugly when it comes to relationships.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
He stretched a condom over his massive member.
My lust-filled eyes met his. I didn’t need a written invitation or any verbal instructions. Eager to feel his massive girth inside me, I crawled onto his lap, facing him. At the instant I came to the realization that I’d never had sex in a car, he raised his hips.
With the tip of his God-given gift resting against my soaking wet folds, he paused.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. I exhaled a long breath. “Wow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you sure?”
I could have responded in the affirmative, but I chose not to. At that juncture, I felt actions would speak much louder than words. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and released my weight. His thick shaft penetrated me.
Surprised by his girth, I paused.
We locked eyes. I forced myself to take him into me, slowly. As I began to wonder about my physical limitations of accepting his entire length, the tip of his dick collided with my cervix.
The breath shot from my lungs.
My gaze fell to my lap. I had no idea the cervix was an erogenous zone. The men I’d been with in the past hadn’t had the ability to bring it to my attention. Braxton, on the other hand, couldn’t help it.
Proud of my accomplishment, I replaced my look of pleasure with a guilty grin. I met his gaze. He looked like he’d see a ghost.
“Oh, yeah. I’m doing just fine.” I let out a breath. “What about you?”
“Jesus.” He winced in mock pain. “Are you a virgin?”
“A recycled one,” I said with a laugh. “I haven’t had sex in a few years.”
“A few years?” He coughed. “Really?”
“I got divorced and swore off men.” To save myself from making another O-face, I adjusted my weight. “Then, you saved me from a thug and tricked me out of my panties.”
“You’re not going to camp out on my doorstep after this, are you?”
He was talking too much and fucking too little. I didn’t need a lecture on how to have sex and walk away. I’d done it more times than I cared to admit. Just not recently.
“This is nothing more than the two of us having fun,” I said. “Stop talking and fuck me.”
“Just remember.” He withdrew himself until the tip of his dick was tickling my pussy lips. “You asked for this.”
After that low-level warning, he fucked me as if his continued existence depended on it.
I’d had men make sweet love to me before, and I’d undoubtedly been fucked a few times. I had never, however, been fucked like Braxton was fucking me. His savage thrusts lifted me with such force that my head hit the car’s headliner.
Each inward stroke forced the tip of dick into the soft flesh of my cervix. The subsequent jolts of euphoria that rushed through me took with them my ability to refrain from reaching climax prematurely.
The clapping sound of his hips slapping against the back of my thighs filled the car’s interior. A few unplanned high-pitched squeals on my part followed, as did the occasional Oh. My. God.
His cologne, my perfume, and the sweet musk of sex melded together.
I had every intention of leaving a lasting impression. In fact, fucking him until he couldn’t walk was my plan of action. However, a matter of minutes into our impromptu parking lot romp, and I was scratching the headliner of his two-hundred-thousand-dollar SUV with the tips of my thirty-dollar nails.
I draped my arms over his shoulders. On the verge of a sexual meltdown, I sank my fingertips into the flesh of his muscular back.
“Ohmygod,” I exclaimed. “I’m…”
Before I finished my thought, my pussy tightened around his shaft. The next few strokes sent me into the sexual stratosphere. As I reached the pinnacle of climactic bliss, he continued to pound away.
An orgasm rushed through me like a tsunami overtaking a Japanese beach.
I let out a blood-curdling wail.
Overcome by the sudden surge of emotion, I blacked out momentarily. When I returned to a half-conscious state, my mind was a jumbled mess of mental jelly. He had officially fucked me senseless.
Mindless, I crawled off his lap. Sitting in my seat with shaking legs, I stared blankly at the sunshade. I raked my fingers through my hair and offered him an apologetic look. “That. Felt. Amazing.”
He glanced at his lap.
I did the same.
Twitching with desire, his cock pointed at the heavens above. Before I could offer a helping hand, he peeled the condom away and began stroking himself with his right hand.
I’d never witnessed a man pleasuring himself. In awe of the sight, I watched with eager eyes. A few joyous moments and several tight-fisted strokes later, he ejaculated into the palm of his cupped left hand.
Repeatedly.
Flushed with a pang of odd sexual guilt for witnessing the act, I glanced at his face. Hoping for some type of confirmation that it was okay for me to have watched so enthusiastically, I waited for him to meet my gaze with approving eyes.
“Would you mind handing me a wipe?” he asked. “They’re in the glove box.”
Wondering if jacking off inside the car was a common occurrence, I opened the glove box. A package of leather interior wipes were all that was available.
I lifted the package. “One of these?”
“It’s all I’ve got,” he replied. “I keep them to wipe off the seats after my greasy-haired coworker gets out.”
I handed him one. I glanced at the puddle of cum in the palm of his hand. It was a three-wipe operation.
I handed him two more. “Oh.”
He cleaned up the mess and situated his slacks. After buckling his seatbelt, he looked at me and smirked. “Do you want some help with yours, or do you think you’ll be alright?”
I mentally shot him a glare. Without looking, I retrieved the belt and buckled it. “I’m good.”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “You sure are.”
Braxton
Jacking off in my hand wasn’t as satisfying as I wanted it to be. Disappointed somewhat in Anna’s sexual stamina, I stared at my computer’s monitor. As I recalled the highlights of my morning, Pratt stepped into my office.
The skin under his eyes was thin and dark. His hair—which was normally styled—was dry and unkempt. Wearing a look of defeat, he shuffled toward the closest chair.
“No good news?” I asked.
He poked a piece of candy in his mouth and neatly folded the wrapper before putting it in his back pocket. “Nope.”
Performing surveillance on high-profile targets was one of the services I offered. Typically, I gathered information in support of someone’s theory, and then provided photos and videos of the proof, at a price. Attorneys, actor’s agents, and movie producers were a few of my typical clients.
The Man I Hate Page 3
