“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me, I promise,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The car purrs, and when he guns the engine, making it roar, you can feel its power thrumming through your body. He presses a button and the sunroof whirrs open. You look up at the stars.
He eases out of the parking spot, then lets the car idle. “Ready?” he asks.
You open your mouth to reply, but all you can do is yelp, exhilarated, as he slams his foot on the accelerator and the car springs forward, the g-force pushing you back in your seat. As the speed increases, you let out a laugh and, clearly encouraged, he tears through the streets, expertly running through the gears, his muscles rippling with every gear-change. He flicks on the car’s surround-sound system, and you lean back and relax into the soft leather, the thud of the music and the throb of the powerful engine pulsing through your body. You can tell how comfortable he is behind the wheel; he was made for this car, and you can’t help thinking that you were, too.
The engine roars as you fly through the deserted late-night city, the music pumping and the wind tearing through your hair. He swings onto the highway, barely slowing around the corner, and you feel the slight heart-stopping weightlessness of a skid before the car regains traction again. He’s clearly showing off, putting the car through its paces. The car eats up the miles, and you mostly have the late-night highway to yourself. You can feel your heart beating in your throat, and when you look across at him, the exhilaration on his face matches exactly what you’re feeling.
Then, with no warning, and much to the distress of the GPS, which starts recalculating immediately, he yanks the steering wheel hard right and takes an exit, the car now practically sideways. He straightens it effortlessly and shoots down the ramp. “Sorry!” he yells over the music. “I can feel my phone vibrating, just got to check my messages.”
Back in the city, he pulls to a sharp stop outside a late-night corner store. You can’t help grabbing his leg to brace yourself as the car screeches to a halt. Embarrassed, you snatch your hand back. But it’s nice to know you were right—if his thigh is anything to go by, his body is pure muscle. He turns off the ignition and you can finally hear yourself think again.
“Sorry,” you say. You’re certain your cheeks are flushed with adrenaline, and your hair must look pretty wild from being whipped around by the night air.
“Sorry for what?” he says, digging his buzzing phone out of his pocket.
“Grabbing your leg.”
“There’s nothing quite like it, hey?” he says, and you notice that his face is also flushed.
“The car or your leg?”
He laughs, then scrolls through his phone. “My guy’s ready for me,” he says, looking a little disappointed. “I suppose I’d better take you home first.”
You’re disappointed, too. You spot a couple of teenagers shooting the car admiring looks before disappearing into the store.
“Or . . .” he says, leaving it hanging.
“Or what?”
“You could come with me if you like. It’s just a quick detour. Then I can take you straight home afterward.”
“What exactly does this ‘run’ entail?”
“I told you, nothing illegal. I’ve just got to pick something up for Charlie. It won’t take long. And,” he says with another smile, “we can take the highway again.”
You think about it. You definitely haven’t had your fill of this car yet, let alone this man. But what on earth is he up to? Maybe you should just play it safe and go back to the bar for a nightcap.
If you decide to accompany him on his mystery errand, click here.
If you ask him to take you back to the bar, click here.
You decide to go with the bodyguard on his mysterious errand
“I’LL COME WITH YOU on one condition,” you say. “No—two.”
“Go on. But let’s not forget who’s doing who the favor here.”
“One: that you’re not about to get me involved in anything that might kill me or land me in jail. Two: that you let me drive.” You mentally add up how much you’ve had to drink. It was really just that one glass of sparkling wine. You should be okay.
“No way,” he says. “Absolutely not. Under no circumstances.”
“Why not? You chicken?”
“I’m not chicken! Do you know how much this car is worth? It’s a classic.”
“I know exactly how much it’s worth,” you lie.
“I don’t mean to sound patronizing . . . but do you really think you could handle a high-performance machine like this?”
“Why don’t we find out?” You smile at him sweetly.
He sighs.
You bat your eyelashes in a parody of a flirt. “Pretty please?”
He stares at you, and you can see him turning the idea over in his head.
“Look, just give me a quick go. I’ll drive from here to that streetlight two blocks away, and if you don’t think I can manage this car, I’ll jump right out and let you drive again.”
He still looks unsure.
“I won’t even argue. If you say you want the car back, I’ll just hand her straight back to you, Scouts’ honor,” you say, fabricating some kind of salute. “Did I tell you I used to be a Girl Scout?”
He sighs again. Then he narrows his eyes at you as if he’s weighing the consequences. “Okay, but my turn to lay down a couple of ground rules.”
“Ooooh, bossy, I like it.”
“I’m being serious! No grinding the gears, they can be a little stiff. And easy on the clutch.”
“Deal.”
“No running any red lights.”
“Yes, officer.”
“And you’re never to let on to Charlie or anyone else that I let myself be talked into this.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“If you break any of those rules, then I’ll have to get my guns out.”
Oh shit. “You have guns?”
“Sure.” He lifts both arms, pulls the bicep in his right arm, then the bicep in the left arm. “This one, and this one.”
They’re huge. You laugh and he grins back at you. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he says as he hauls his bulk out of the driver’s seat. “I really hope you know what you’re doing.”
You run around the car to take the driver’s seat before he changes his mind, pausing to pull off your shoes. If you’re going to put this beast through its paces, heels will definitely be a hindrance. As soon as he slides into his seat, you drop your shoes on his lap.
“Now I’m really beginning to regret this,” he says.
The seat is pushed so far back to accommodate his size that you can barely touch the pedals with your toes. He leans across you to help you adjust the seat, his arm pressing against your breasts.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.”
The air between you is charged all of a sudden, and you think if you pretend to struggle with the seat belt, maybe he’ll lean over you again. Then you take a deep breath and shake off the feel of his arm; you need to concentrate on getting your bearings. In seconds you have the gears, indicators, and rev counter placed, and you’re confident you know what you’re doing.
The bodyguard places a hand on your leg, to get your attention. You like the way it feels—reassuring and sexy. He looks at you earnestly and nervously: “Promise you won’t crash?”
“I promise,” you say. “I promise on both of our lives I will not crash this phenomenally expensive, limited-edition monster of a sports car.”
“And remember what I said about the gears.”
“I remember.”
“And the other rules.”
“Okay, okay. Can we go now?”
He sighs once more and removes his hand. “What the hell. Go for it.”
Fresh adrenaline floods your system as you turn the ignition and feel the engine roar in response. You turn off the GPS so there are no distractions. It’s way more exciting now that you’re i
n the driver’s seat. You take a deep breath, release the hand brake, drop the car smoothly into gear, and put your foot down on the accelerator.
“Easy, tiger!” you hear him shout as you surge forward. You handle the steering wheel, going just fast enough to get a rush, but not so fast that you terrify the pants off him. You drive the two hundred yards in seconds, then execute a perfectly polite stop directly in line with the promised streetlight. Not a stall, not a judder, not a single ground gear. You even impress yourself.
You look across at him demurely. He’s clutching his seat with both hands, and looking at you in awe.
“I was not expecting that!”
“Happy? Can we go now?”
He nods and grins, and you rev the accelerator quickly, check your mirrors, and put your foot down. When you’re sure he’s not looking, you flip the traction control off. This is going to be fun. You wait until the rev counter reaches the red zone, then drop the clutch and floor the accelerator.
“Holy fuck!” he shouts as the car leaps forward.
“There was nothing in your rules about not doing a wheel spin,” you shout above the thunder of the engine. The car is superresponsive, and as you turn the corner at the end of the street, the back slides out. You tweak the wheel to compensate, then decide to slow down and turn the traction control back on before you give your passenger a heart attack.
“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point!” he yells.
“Scared yet?”
“Shit, you really can drive.”
You drop into third, check that the junction ahead is clear, and gun the engine again. “Thanks.”
“Where did you learn how to do that? Are you Lewis Hamilton’s sister or something?”
“I wish. It’s all down to Grand Theft Auto.”
“Grand Theft Auto? The Xbox game?”
“Kidding,” you lie.
He laughs, and you can feel him checking you out again, his view of you clearly different this time. You’re aware that the skirt of your dress has ridden up your thighs as you worked the clutch and accelerator, but you don’t move to pull it down.
“So,” you ask, “where are we headed?”
“South. But how about we take the long way around?”
You share another grin. Then you press your foot down.
As you slide onto the highway, letting the speedometer inch even higher, you can feel him relaxing next to you. He instructs you to take an exit that leads into one of the more expensive suburbs in the city, then he leans back and turns the music up. You’re curious about your destination, but he wouldn’t be able to hear any questions over the roar of the engine, the beat of the track, and the whoosh of the wind, and you wonder if this is why he’s cranked up the volume.
Still, you’re pleased he isn’t trying to interfere with your driving. It feels good to be trusted, and even when you let the car have its head, pushing it to a speed that makes you feel wonderfully reckless, he merely looks at you and smiles. When you smile back, he lays one arm lightly along your headrest, and places a hand gently on the back of your neck, massaging the column of nerves just under your hairline with his fingers. As he touches you, you drop your shoulders and feel the tension leak away from your neck. There’s a part of you that wishes this would never end: his strong hands on your skin, your foot pressing against the accelerator, the empty city roads around you, the night sky above you, and the feel of the powerful engine throbbing below you, up through your seat.
All too soon he removes his hand from the back of your neck, and you miss it instantly. He indicates that you should pull into a multistory parking garage alongside a towering glass building. The parking garage appears to be deserted, all the gates raised.
You pull the car to the curb and turn to glare at him. “Seriously? A deserted parking garage?”
He shrugs.
“I thought you said you weren’t doing anything sketchy? Because this location is a massive ‘doing something sketchy’ cliché.”
“Trust me.”
You hesitate. You’re in the driver’s seat. In a worst-case scenario, you can just get out of there—put the pedal to the metal and drive away. You can always return the car to the bar and its rightful owner later.
You take a deep breath, rev the engine again, and shoot into the entrance, concentrating on swinging the car around the multiple ramps as fast as you can.
The bodyguard instructs you to head to the roof level, which also seems to be deserted. All you can see from here is the night sky and the city for miles in every direction. He gestures for you to hang a left. You drive slowly across the deserted concrete landscape, slamming on your brakes when a pair of headlights flash in front of you. You can make out the shape of a top-of-the-range white BMW, which is parked fifty yards or so away.
“I’m not going any farther,” you say.
The bodyguard puts his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, okay.” He opens the passenger door and heaves himself out. “I’ll be right back.”
You watch him sauntering toward the Beemer, then you execute a quick three-point turn in case you have to get out of here in a hurry—you’ve seen scenes like this in gangster movies and anything could happen, so you leave the car in gear. You can hear your heart beating hard and fast in your ears, and you’re clutching the steering wheel so tightly, your fingernails are digging into the leather. This must be how getaway drivers feel waiting outside the bank for the robbers to come charging out.
You glance into the rearview mirror, watching the bodyguard lean in through the front window of the darkened BMW. He’s too far away for you to make out exactly what’s going on over there. You force yourself to remain calm, but all you can picture is the interior of a prison cell. You’re going to kill him for roping you into this.
The transaction takes less than a minute, and then the bodyguard is walking casually back to the car, both his hands in his pockets. The BMW comes to life and crawls across the rooftop, speeding up and turning on its lights as it hits the down-ramp.
The bodyguard slides into the car, closing the door and pulling on his seat belt. “All right?” he asks.
“Now that,” you say, not bothering to hide your anger, “was sketchy as hell! You lied to me.”
He upends a paper bag into your lap. “See for yourself.”
Expecting to see a bag of white powder or something equally dubious spilling out of it, you’re shocked into silence as you look down at a plastic packet containing several bright blue pills. You recognize them instantly. “Viagra?”
He nods. “Viagra. The guy in the BMW owns the late-night pharmacy on Kent Street.”
“Viagra? That’s not illegal. Why all the secrecy?”
“Imagine if the press found out that a couple of the boys in the Space Cowboys have a little trouble getting it up. It’s not very rock star, is it?”
You laugh. “Nope, not very rock star at all. I must say, now I’m really glad I didn’t go with Charlie.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
You look over at him, serious for a second. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“No worries.” He smiles, and those incongruous dimples pop out again. “Listen . . .” he says reluctantly. “This has been fun, but I’d better get this stuff back to the boys. Where do you want me to take you?”
You run through your options. After all this, do you really want to go straight home? You could head back to the bar for a last drink. But then again, you like the idea of being driven home in style.
If you ask him to drop you off at home, click here.
If you ask him to take you back to the bar, click here.
You’ve asked him to take you home
“OKAY IF I HAVE my car back now?” he rumbles with a grin.
You make a show of being deeply reluctant, but the truth is, as much as you loved handling the beast, you’re looking forward to sitting back and watching those muscles work their magic through the gears again.
&nbs
p; You swap places and laugh as he’s forced to readjust the seat back to its full extension. You tell him your address again, and he programs it back into the car’s GPS.
“Thank you for taking me with you,” you say as he effortlessly guides the car down the curves of the parking garage’s ramps. “It was a hell of a rush.”
“Thank you for coming with me instead of going with Charlie,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone turn him down before.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. If he needs Viagra, then I’d say he knows all about turning down.”
It’s a pretty pathetic crack, but the bodyguard slaps the steering wheel and laughs, his dimples dipping into his cheeks. You drop your hand on to his leg again, squeezing it lightly. Maybe it’s all the adrenaline of driving such a fast car and the aftereffects of the “deal” still pumping through your body, but touching him comes naturally.
In response, he keeps one hand on the steering wheel and drops the other one onto your leg, just above the knee, your arms crossing. His hand is strong and cool on your leg, and you feel wild and daring. Your pussy surges with desire, and you find yourself wanting more. So you remove your hand from his knee and place it on top of his hand on your leg. Then you slowly slide his hand up your thigh.
He takes his eye off the road and glances at you briefly. You give him your most dazzling smile, then slide his hand even higher up your thigh, so that it slips under the hem of your dress. He shoots a grin at you, then focuses back on the road, not taking his eyes off it. He slows the car a little and then, still in perfect control, he slides his hand even higher.
You part your legs and breathe deeply, thoroughly relishing the feel of his fingers on you. He massages your thigh lightly as he moves his hand higher and higher.
The four-lane highway is deserted. You, the bodyguard, and the sports car own the road.
You open your legs as wide as they will go in the seat and lean back as far as you can, angling your pelvis so that he has access to the very core of you. As his fingers touch the lace of your G-string, you know he must be able to feel how wet you are, and you watch a small smile creep across his face.
A Girl Walks into a Bar Page 12