pleeeeease call me. I’m stuck on the side of the fucking road in the middle of nowhere and I’m out of gas. And please don’t say it—I know it’s my fault.” She flipped the phone closed.
Great. Now what?
Moments like these made her wonder what she’d been thinking when she purchased her little house so far out of town. Actually, she knew why she chose to live in rural Utah. The older home was affordable. And it was a fun project of sorts—a do-it-yourself work in progress. She enjoyed the modernizing and the remodeling.
Roxie glanced at the dashboard clock of her two-seater convertible-hardtop man-magnet. The dream machine cornered on rails. Another benefit to living in the middle of nowhere—she could open up the engine and do zero to sixty in five seconds.
She had the tickets from Sheriff Soto to prove it.
Speaking of Sheriff Soto, peacekeeper of her community, he would be a welcomed sight about now.
But hell, Sheriff Soto was always a welcomed sight. Part of the reason she consistently broke the speed limit was the thrill of the chase with the sheriff—but she didn’t know whether she was the cat or the mouse. Over six feet of powerful, tell-me-what-to-do muscle, he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, old enough to do his job and young enough to do it well and look incredible in his uniform in the process.
For weeks he’d plagued her nighttime fantasies. However, Sheriff Soto was a virile man who would remain a fantasy—because cops didn’t date exotic dancers. But that didn’t stop her musings.
On the occasions he’d written her citations, she’d imagined his long, thick fingers working her over. And when he handed her the ticket, he always did it with a smile. Full lips, straight white teeth and a sexy-as-hell dimple in his left cheek. He wore his hair, the color of dark chocolate, cropped close to the sides of his head and a bit longer on top. She imagined the silky texture brushing against her inner thighs as he delved between her legs for a little oral action.
Damn, she was making herself horny. And alas, there was never a cop around when your pussy wanted to do eighty in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
Turning the ignition key so she could crack the power window, she turned the radio on low. She’d wait fifteen minutes before calling Jay again.
A symphony of crickets chirped and insects buzzed. A gentle breeze sifted through the grasses, the movement playing with Roxie’s imagination. But no one would be lurking about in the middle of nowhere. She clutched the cell phone in her fingers and watched the digital numbers on the radio. The longest six minutes passed before she dialed Jay again and left another voicemail.
Sitting alone, listening for a maniac to jump from the darkness, had Roxie’s heart racing. What would she do if Jay didn’t call? Should she dial 9-1-1? Not really an emergency, but she couldn’t spend the night in her car.
An owl hooted in the distance. She jumped. Well, hell, the cops could get over it. She dialed info.
Automated 4-1-1 asked for a name and city.
“Cob County sheriff’s office.” She fumbled in the dark, feeling around in the glove box for a pen. Shit. Ah, she found a pen and jotted the automated response. “Okay, Jay.” The sound of her own voice in the car lessened the anxiety firing her blood. “You have ten minutes, then I’m calling the cavalry.”
Jay didn’t call.
Roxie hummed along to the radio. The dispatcher said she’d have someone out ASAP. Roxie could only hope that meant tonight was a slow night and her wait wouldn’t be long. In the meantime, she could always hike up her skirt, think about the sheriff and take the edge off her nerves with a quick orgasm. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d masturbated while thinking of Ivan Soto.
Flipping down the sun visor, she ran her fingers through her long black hair. She widened her copper-brown eyes and wiped away mascara smudges from under her lower eyelashes. Grabbing
Great. Now what?
Moments like these made her wonder what she’d been thinking when she purchased her little house so far out of town. Actually, she knew why she chose to live in rural Utah. The older home was affordable. And it was a fun project of sorts—a do-it-yourself work in progress. She enjoyed the modernizing and the remodeling.
Roxie glanced at the dashboard clock of her two-seater convertible-hardtop man-magnet. The dream machine cornered on rails. Another benefit to living in the middle of nowhere—she could open up the engine and do zero to sixty in five seconds.
She had the tickets from Sheriff Soto to prove it.
Speaking of Sheriff Soto, peacekeeper of her community, he would be a welcomed sight about now.
But hell, Sheriff Soto was always a welcomed sight. Part of the reason she consistently broke the speed limit was the thrill of the chase with the sheriff—but she didn’t know whether she was the cat or the mouse. Over six feet of powerful, tell-me-what-to-do muscle, he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, old enough to do his job and young enough to do it well and look incredible in his uniform in the process.
For weeks he’d plagued her nighttime fantasies. However, Sheriff Soto was a virile man who would remain a fantasy—because cops didn’t date exotic dancers. But that didn’t stop her musings.
On the occasions he’d written her citations, she’d imagined his long, thick fingers working her over. And when he handed her the ticket, he always did it with a smile. Full lips, straight white teeth and a sexy-as-hell dimple in his left cheek. He wore his hair, the color of dark chocolate, cropped close to the sides of his head and a bit longer on top. She imagined the silky texture brushing against her inner thighs as he delved between her legs for a little oral action.
Damn, she was making herself horny. And alas, there was never a cop around when your pussy wanted to do eighty in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.
Turning the ignition key so she could crack the power window, she turned the radio on low. She’d wait fifteen minutes before calling Jay again.
A symphony of crickets chirped and insects buzzed. A gentle breeze sifted through the grasses, the movement playing with Roxie’s imagination. But no one would be lurking about in the middle of nowhere. She clutched the cell phone in her fingers and watched the digital numbers on the radio. The longest six minutes passed before she dialed Jay again and left another voicemail.
Sitting alone, listening for a maniac to jump from the darkness, had Roxie’s heart racing. What would she do if Jay didn’t call? Should she dial 9-1-1? Not really an emergency, but she couldn’t spend the night in her car.
An owl hooted in the distance. She jumped. Well, hell, the cops could get over it. She dialed info.
Automated 4-1-1 asked for a name and city.
“Cob County sheriff’s office.” She fumbled in the dark, feeling around in the glove box for a pen. Shit. Ah, she found a pen and jotted the automated response. “Okay, Jay.” The sound of her own voice in the car lessened the anxiety firing her blood. “You have ten minutes, then I’m calling the cavalry.”
Jay didn’t call.
Roxie hummed along to the radio. The dispatcher said she’d have someone out ASAP. Roxie could only hope that meant tonight was a slow night and her wait wouldn’t be long. In the meantime, she could always hike up her skirt, think about the sheriff and take the edge off her nerves with a quick orgasm. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d masturbated while thinking of Ivan Soto.
Flipping down the sun visor, she ran her fingers through her long black hair. She widened her copper-brown eyes and wiped away mascara smudges from under her lower eyelashes. Grabbing
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