The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Read online

  Men were a different story. Men made me nervous.

  Once I was comfortable around a man, I became my outgoing and obnoxious self. Reaching that point either required that I expose myself to him until I was comfortable, that I was drunk, or sex. Sadly, expressing my willingness to have sex required that I be drunk or comfortable. Being comfortable took time. Men were impatient creatures, which normally meant they gave up before I relaxed enough to be myself.

  The anxiety created by my social inadequacies wreaked havoc on my sex life.

  “What do you feel like eating?” he asked.

  Making decisions wasn’t one of my strong suits. To maximize my social skills and minimize the awkwardness between us, I drank two glasses of wine before he arrived. Even so, he was still a man, and I was a few drinks away from being my outgoing self. If he wanted me to be at ease in his presence, he needed to pour half a bottle of wine down my throat, park the car, and fuck me.

  I wished I had the ability to tell him it was that easy.

  “I’ll eat anything.” I offered a grin of reassurance. “Really.”

  “I want to eat somewhere that’s got something you like. Something you enjoy. What’s your favorite food?”

  We were parked at the curb in front of the bookstore. His right hand clutched the steering wheel tightly, which caused his muscles to flex. I hoped he and his bicep would decide where we were going to eat without any input from me.

  “I don’t really have favorites.” I shifted my gaze to meet his. “I like everything.”

  While he focused on jockeying through Allen’s evening traffic, I thanked the tee shirt gods for crafting a garment that fit him like a thin layer of powder blue paint.

  He glanced in my direction. “How does seafood sound?”

  It sounded hideous. Eating seafood often made me sick. It happened more often than often. Always was more like it. Seafood was nasty, and my digestive system knew it.

  My stomach churned in disapproval of his suggestion. I forced myself to smile. “Sounds great.”

  I didn’t want to give him a reason to reject me. Choking down a piece of fish was the least I could contribute in exchange for a date with him. An evening filled with muscles, pearly white teeth, and a mile of dick were well worth vomiting in a restaurant bathroom.

  “There’s this place called Rockfish over on Park Boulevard.” He checked for traffic before changing lanes. “It looks like a shitty little dive and they serve the food on plastic plates that don’t match, but it’s really good.”

  Men who looked like he did asked girls like me on dates for one reason, and one reason only.

  Sex.

  Some girls were able to measure their successes by counting the months they’d been in a relationship. I wasn’t so fortunate. My relationships simply didn’t last. Having sex was my means of measuring success, and I was hoping for a successful night.

  There was no doubt that vomiting during our dinner date would end the possibility of a post-meal sexual romp. Frustrated at the thought of getting sick, I gazed out the car’s side window.

  Changing his seafood plans was paramount to our night’s successes. Sucking his dick while he drove should make him forfeit the dinner plans, leaving us with nothing to do for the evening but have sex.

  Introducing the idea of an in-car blowjob would require that I consume at least two of the miniature-sized bottles of Apple Crown Royal that were rattling around in the bottom of my purse. Sneaking them in the confines of his car would be impossible.

  There was no way around it. Seafood was on the horizon.

  “Sounds great,” I said cheerily.

  “How long has the bookstore been there?” he asked.

  Shifting the subject matter from fish to books was a nice change of pace. I decided to sprinkle clues of my willingness to have sex throughout our conversation – Hansel and Gretel style.

  “Five years. I opened it right after I graduated college. Romance novels are the store’s specialty.” I gave him my best sultry look. “Steamy contemporary romance novels.”

  I hoped steamy contemporary was suggestive enough to spark his interest. I braced myself for the onslaught of sexual innuendos that he was sure to make.

  “Out of school for five years, huh? I thought you were older. Not that you look older, it’s just…” He glanced over his right shoulder. “I think it’s the glasses. They make you look distinguished.”

  I was disappointed that he didn’t bite on the romance novel lure but was flattered about the distinguished comment. The remark regarding my youthful appearance edged its way beneath my skin. After a lingering moment, I began to itch.

  Outside the confines of the bookstore, I felt young and unaccomplished. As one might imagine, I hoped I didn’t appear that way.

  “I’m probably older than you think,” I said. “It took me a while to get through college. Allen Eagles class of 2007. I graduated college in 2013.”

  He gave a shallow nod as he maneuvered through traffic. I waited for him to acknowledge what I’d said or continue the conversation, but he said nothing. After a few moments, I broke the awkward silence.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “How about me, what?”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “Plano Senior High,” he said.

  “When did you graduate?”

  “A few years before you.”

  His face was free of any wrinkles, whatsoever. I expected he was a few years younger than me. I really didn’t care how old he was. Eventually, curiosity got the best of me.

  “What year?” I asked.

  He drew a long, slow breath. “2000.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I would have guessed you were younger than that.”

  I no more than spoke and wished I could take it back. He did look young, but I didn’t want him to think I took exception to him being a few years older than me. Truth be told, I was attracted to older men.

  “But I’m glad you’re not,” I added. “I prefer guys who are older than me.”

  He flashed a smile that could have melted steel. “I’m thirty-five.”

  I grinned. “Twenty-nine.”

  He shrugged playfully. “What’s age, anyway?”

  “Nothing but a number.”

  “Exactly.”

  The novels about men who were fractionally older than the respective women they dated all eluded to the same thing. Older men were more capable – and willing – to take care of their female counterparts than men who were lesser in age than the women they courted.

  I wanted to ask how someone like him could be single but was one glass of wine short of being courageous. Bravery came with wine or with time, and there hadn’t been enough of either. At least not yet.

  Following the failed erotica discussion, I opted to bring up a subject that all men seemed eager to discuss. Talking, regardless of the subject matter, would ease my state of mind.

  “I like your car,” I said.

  I knew nothing about cars, other than that my father and brother were infatuated with them. They talked about them for hours on end, leaving my mother and I to talk about reading, our fingernails, and bargains. Men’s attachments to cars, I’d learned, could be life-long. Cars were to men what shopping was to women.

  An obsession.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “It’s been a project.”

  The car was perfect in appearance and didn’t appear to be any sort of a project. I wrinkled my nose in opposition to his claim.

  “Project?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “It had been wrecked, and there was significant interior damage. It was a declared a total loss from the insurance company. I rebuilt it with my bare hands. I replaced the damaged interior, added a supercharger, headers, high performance exhaust, bigger intake, a closer ratio…”

  He continued to speak, but the words stopped registering. He sounded like my brother. I waited until his mouth stopped moving and then I smiled. Close ratio widgets and bi
gger thingamajigs did little to stimulate me. I wanted to devise a way to discuss above average penis sizes and the advantage of having a friend with benefits.

  “Oh wow,” I said, beaming with false excitement. “That’s awesome.”

  He smiled a lip-thinning grin, revealing his incredibly perfect teeth. I admired him longer than I probably should have, enjoying the minute details of his handsome facial features.

  While I was deep in admiration, his smile twisted into a sly grin. “Watch. This.”

  Dripping with intention, the two words hung in the air like a heavy fog. I craned my neck in anticipation, mentally prepared for him to pull out his cock. Believing the sight of it alone might fuel me to eat fish with vigor, I fixed my eyes on his torso and prepared for the show.

  He met my wondrous stare. “Ready?”

  I parted my dry lips. “Uh huh.”

  His right hand reached for the gear shifter. He downshifted. A horrendous whining sound came from under the hood, and the car shot forward with so much force that it plastered my stomach against my spine.

  I wanted to scream and laugh and vomit all at the same time, but the force of the car’s acceleration prevented me from doing any of them.

  The rear tires screeched. The car shot forward at the pace of Mars-bound rocket. Incapable of doing something as natural as drawing a breath, I sat with my mouth agape and gawked through the windshield with bulging eyes. A quick glance at the speedometer revealed a 125 mile-an-hour – and still rapidly increasing – speed.

  While my thrashing heart reminded me of the dangers associated with triple-digit speeds along a city street, my eyes tried to make sense of the objects as they sped past. Apart from what was inside the car, everything became a blur. Everything except for the flashing lights on the six police cars that blocked the road ahead.

  I desperately needed to shout out a warning, but the words didn’t come.

  Upon seeing the roadblock, he slammed on the brakes. “Those motherfuckers!”

  The car slowed from warp speed to a crawl in an instant, slamming my chest against the seatbelt’s strap in the process. The force sent a shockwave of pain across my shoulder and along my spine.

  I surveyed the roadblock. The police officers were carrying assault rifles, which wasn’t typical – even in Texas. I envisioned being yanked from the car, patted down for weapons, and handcuffed. I’d never been arrested and wondered if the experience was anything like what I’d read.

  While an officer approached the car, I swallowed what felt like a throat full of sand and looked in my nameless date’s direction.

  “What’s your name?” I squeaked. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s Tyson. Tyson Neese.”

  I mentally prepared for being made the bitch of Collin County jail’s lesbian shot caller. “Are we going to jail, Tyson?”

  “As long as you don’t say anything, we’ll be fine.”

  “Say anything?” I stammered. “To who?”

  “The cops,” he replied. “Don’t say anything when they start asking questions. Not a word.”

  I swallowed heavily. “About what?”

  “Anything,” he said through clenched teeth.

  My mind went in a thousand different directions. Flashing lights. Speeding cars. Heavily armed cops. Maintaining silence. Spending a night – or more – in jail. While my perfect little world began to spiral down the drain of life, the officer rapped his knuckles against Tyson’s window. Beyond him, flashing lights and uniformed cops filled the street.

  Tyson cracked the window no more than an inch.

  “License and registration,” the officer said, his tone muffled by the car’s nearly shut window.

  “Why am I being stopped?” Tyson asked.

  “We’re searching for someone,” the officer responded. “License and registration, please.”

  “A specific someone?” Tyson asked. “Do I fit the description?”

  “License and registration, please,” the officer said.

  “Is the individual you’re seeking driving a 2004 Mustang Cobra?” Tyson asked in a snide tone. “Silver in color?”

  “License. And. Registration.” The officer cocked his head. “Please.”

  The please was in the most sarcastic of sarcastic tones. It was just my luck. My first date since my junior year in college, and it was going to end with Tyson and I being hauled to jail before I got a chance to show off my mad blowjob skills.

  While I prepared for the car doors to fly open and the cuffs to be snapped in place, Tyson explained his position further.

  “Under the Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution, I’m protected against illegal search and seizure. Lujan versus State made it clear that the state of Texas has deemed random checkpoints contrary to the Fourth Amendment,” Tyson said in a stern, but respectful, tone. “There’s no specific reason for stopping me, therefore this is an unwarranted stop.”

  The officer stared blankly.

  “Am I being detained?” Tyson asked.

  The officer leaned away from the window. His eyes thinned to slits. His right hand hovered over the holstered pistol that was secured to his belt.

  Oh. My God.

  We’re going to be shot.

  Tyson and the police officer glared at one another. After what seemed like an eternity, the officer broke Tyson’s gaze.

  “Sarge!” the officer shouted. “You’re going to need to come over here.”

  The sergeant meandered to the officer’s side. He looked at the window, and then at Tyson. “Roll the window down,” he demanded.

  Tyson shook his head. “I can hear you just fine.”

  The sergeant lowered his mouth to the opening. “License and registration, please.”

  “Under what grounds am I being stopped?” Tyson asked.

  His voice was expressing the irritation that was obviously building within him. I had no idea why he was so frustrated and wondered why he didn’t simply comply with the officer’s demands.

  “We’re looking for someone,” the sergeant said.

  “Do I fit the description?” Tyson asked. “Was he driving a silver Ford?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” the sergeant responded.

  “Am I free to go?” Tyson asked.

  The sergeant motioned beside the police cars that were parked in front of us. “Pull over and shut off the car, Sir.”

  “Am I free to go?”

  No, you’re not. He just told you to pull over.

  “Pull over and shut off the car, Sir?”

  There, see? He wants you to pull over.

  “Am I free to go?”

  I was on a date with big-dicked cop-hater. I was headed to jail for sure, and I was wearing a crappy outfit.

  Beads of sweat burst from my body’s every pore. I glanced around the interior of the car, looking for something to shield the hail of bullets that was sure to come, but found the car’s cabin meticulously spotless.

  Then, it caught my eye. Wedged between the edge of Tyson’s seat and the car’s center console, was a pistol.

  Oh. My. God.

  Upon seeing the gun, my heart lurched into my throat, blocking me from taking another breath. I glanced up, wishing someone could answer the thousand questions that were rattling around in my head.

  “Do you have any weapons in the vehicle?” The officer asked in perfect timing with my discovery.

  We did have weapons in the car. At least one, anyway. It was hidden from the sergeant’s view by Tyson’s well-toned thighs.

  My future was clear. We were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. The possibility of pre-dinner sex evaporated. My feeble life flashed before my eyes. I filled with regret at my lack of accomplishments. At minimum, I was going to jail.

  If I survived the gunfight, that is.

  The search of my personal belongings would reveal six mini bottles of liquor, one of Jenny’s Xanax, my vibrator, and a bottle of CBD oil that I thought was legal b
ut wasn’t quite sure. My contraband-stuffed purse was pale in comparison to the firearm that Tyson’s was shielding from view.

  I wanted to bid farewell to my parents but knew reaching for my phone would end disastrously. Texas cops who were armed with machineguns shot anyone who reached for anything.

  It happened at least once a week. Watching the evening news was proof.

  “I have a license to carry,” Tyson said in a matter-of-fact tone. “My permitted firearm is at my side, officer.”

  My entire body tensed in anticipation of the officer’s reaction.

  “If you don’t touch yours, I won’t touch mine,” the police sergeant said.

  “Barring a threat on my or my passenger’s life,” Tyson said. “It will remain in its holster.”

  The sergeant’s glare bore through the window and warmed my pale flesh. As still as a stone and fearing for my life, I waited for him to shout things like keep your hands where I can see them, or no sudden movements.

  Instead, he waved his hand toward the four police cars that were ahead of us. “You’re free to go.”

  Tyson gave a nod. “Have a nice evening, officers.”

  The air shot from my lungs. I looked at Tyson. Although my heart was beating as if I’d just completed running a marathon while breathing through a soda straw, he seemed calm and without an ounce of concern. I wanted to be angry with him. To scream and kick and demand that he let me out of the car, but that wasn’t at all how I felt.

  Narrowly escaping the grip of death was oddly exciting. I hadn’t been pulled over by the police in years, but recalling the event wasn’t difficult. I followed the officer’s demands, had no weapons in the car, and received an expensive traffic citation in reward for my compliance.

  Tyson, on the other hand, had been driving one hundred miles an hour over the speed limit, was armed and noncompliant. In exchange for his argumentative nature, he was released without so much as the speeding ticket he deserved.

  I glanced at the pistol and then at Tyson. “Can I talk now?”

  He maneuvered through the makeshift roadblock, waving at the officers as he drove past. “Sure.”

  “Are you always like that with police officers?” I asked.