You let out the accelerator, the speedometer confirming nearly ninety and the engine dropping in volume as the straight comes to an end.
Leaning way back in your seat, you push the brake, easing off and on to keep the control tight, and as you pull round the corner Axl’s finale thunders through the speakers, a bare naked delivery as he’s reaching from deep down inside himself.
Don’t, ever leave me
Say you’ll always be there
All I ever wanted
Was for you
To know that I care…
The song winds down, and as if in harmony with it you ease your right foot off, letting the accelerator breathe out, the power chords still rocking through you in waves, you’re almost breathless from the buzz of the speed, the braking, and the adrenaline, a speed-ball of risk and excitement!
You look up in the mirror, and from nowhere there’s a car right up on top of you, almost in your rear, and your heart jumping into your mouth, shit no!, there’s a blue flashing light, you’re bloody well busted!
Quickly, you scramble to gather your senses, shifting upright in your seat, relaxing your legs back down into the foot well, coaching yourself to stay calm, pleading with yourself that surely anyone behind you couldn’t see how you were sitting?
But god they’ll know you were flying, and you weren’t checking your mirrors, not for that last stretch at least. Bugger!
The road becomes so much narrower, and ahead on the right side there’s access to a farmers field, the five bar gate set back a few feet from the road, with a hard standing over the ditch and verge.
You pull over as far off the road as possible, the gate now beside you, the verge and ditch right in front, and behind you the car pulls in tight to you, boxing you in.
The music has stopped. You kill the ignition, and look first into the door mirror, then the rear view, then back to the door mirror, waiting, eyes rolling upward, bugger, bugger, bollocking bastard, shit!
He climbs out of his car, black boots, fitted black jeans, and a close fitted black shirt, certainly not uniform. He slowly walks to your door, and you roll the window down the remainder of the way, chest tight with waiting.
He’s paused, standing by the edge of the door, “Miss, I need to ask you step out of the car” he commands, his voice deep and purposeful, irresistible even.
You pull the handle and push open the door. You wonder how he’s processing the sight of you as you lift your first leg out, the deep red leather heel lowering to the ground, the intimate lines of your silky smooth calf running up over your knee to the long length of your toned, tanned thigh.
You take your time to carefully pull yourself up and out, and you can feel his eyes on you, from the tender of your shoulders down the slender of your bare back to the teasing impossibility of the deep, low cut, reveal. Over the perfect fit of your hips and the tight cling around your toned thighs, following the full length of your smooth legs, their even silky sheen, stunning, his eyes slow-running down to the dark red leather straps of the chic heeled sandals.
“Close the door, face the car, and place both hands on the roof” he commands.
“Have I done something wrong?” you protest slowly turning to face him, closing the door as you do so.
“Just do it” he demands, with a no nonsense, zero tolerance tone.
You resist turning to look at him, and tug at the hem of your tiny dress trying to cover yourself a little, but in vain, before extending your arms over the roof, placing your palms down, your fingers spread. The dark paint, hot to the touch, scorched from a day spent under the sunshine.
“Do you know why I stopped you?” he asks, his voice deep, slow, methodical.
“Speeding?” you assume.
“No, you’re a wanted woman” he affirms.
“Wanted for what?” you protest “and by who?”
“Me, Fox, I want you” his voice confident, centered and strong, arousing and certain.
“And what will you do with me?” you plead, anxious, excited.