Page 11 of The Man I Hate

“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 solution. 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.”