Dear Reader, this is a very rough draft.

"Damn it all the hell," I hiss, yanking the wheel to the right, forgoing the blinker.

There's no one around, and the tiny bit of disobedience soothes the anger in my soul. My steering wheel vibrates as I pull to the side of the deserted road. The flat tire makes it a bit hard to maneuver, but that's not the main reason I'm trying to choke the life out of an inanimate object.

Gravel kicks up and a cloud of dust swirls around the car as I guide it off the pavement. The delineation between the barren field to my right and the road's shoulder is basically nonexistent. Kind of like my luck at the moment, but I guess I'd rather have no luck than bad.

I shift the gear into park and rest my forehead on the hard plastic between my tight, knuckled grip. Jesus is welcome to take the wheel, but I'd welcome the devil if he changed tires.

I inhale and exhale slowly.

I should have changed my clothes.

Sighing, I straighten in my white leather seat and rifle in my center console to grab my sunglasses. Ensuring the road is as dead as when I pulled over, I step a black snakeskin Manolo Blahnik onto the tarred highway. I left New Orleans city limits about three hours ago, so I only have about half an hour left until I reach the small town of Redbud. Twenty-five more miles until I return to the place I spent fifteen years trying to escape. Trying to forget. Trying to erase.

Granting my aching muscles some reprieve, I shake out my arms and stretch my spine under the bright midday sun, a rivulet of sweat immediately trickles down my spine. I make my way to the trunk, absorbing the environment I thought would have stayed a memory. The loud whirring of cicadas is the soundtrack I'll be changing my tire to. The constant hum vibrates around me, almost palpable in its intensity. I can practically taste the oil boiling off the asphalt, it's a gritty sensation in the back of my throat. The smell of grass and trees is mixed with the sharp tang of hot metal from my car, and I wrinkle my nose in repulsion. The quicker I change my tire, the quicker I can return to my vehicle and escape this olfactory affliction.

Arriving at the trunk, I roll my eyes at my distorted reflection in the dusty, white paint before squeezing the latch open. Every piece of clothing I have on is so wrinkled I doubt the creases will ever come out. I almost laugh at my next thought.

If those rich, high society women could see me now. Then reality hits me. I'm one of those rich women.

But I'm more Rich Adjacent. My feeble attempt at trying to fool myself only helps a minute amount. I close my eyes trying to savor the feeling but it fleas like a dog with his tale tucked between his legs.

Beads of perspiration gathers on my skin. My black, lightweight, cropped cardigan sticks uncomfortably to my body. I peel it off then stuff it into my LV duffle, the sun now having free reign over the fair skin of my shoulders. I've been outside for less than a minute and I'm already stripping.

I so should have changed my clothes.

My designer bags cover the hideaway spare, so I ungracefully plop them onto the gravel. I trudge to the front passenger tire. In the most unladylike fashion, I hike my white pencil skirt up to my thighs and carefully sit on the small spare to begin my arduous task.

The third lug nut is deciding to be most difficult and giving me a hard time. I don't remember changing a tire being this hard. Perhaps I've gotten soft since I left Redbud for the big city?

Wiping my forehead with the inside of my wrist, I begin debating the merits of calling Triple-A when I'm granted grace from the sun and cast in the glorious shadow of a cloud. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, smiling at the sky.

"I was beginning to feel like Texas BBQ, being smoked slow and low." My voice throaty from the strain the angle is putting on my vocal cords.

"Hm."

"Shoot!" The deep, gruff voice has me shrieking as I drop the wrench and slide off the wheel.

Gravel digs into my butt and exposed leg as I hit the ground, but my shadow doesn't move. Who is this, and why didn't I hear a car pull up?

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the biting pain of the little rocks embedding themselves into my palms, yanking down my skirt. I was showing this stranger an indecent amount of skin and currently feel very vulnerable considering my position. And a little miffed. A man should know better than to sneak up on a woman who is by herself on a deserted stretch of highway. Especially a southern gentleman, therefore, I think it's safe to assume he's not.

I clear my throat as I straighten, ready to either lay into him or ask him for help with that third dang lug nut.

I hold up my hand to block out the sun allowing my eyes to focus on the stranger, and I freeze.

It's been fifteen years since I've seen this man, but those eyes... I've seen those eyes every day when I've peered up at the sky and every night when I've closed my eyes. They are branded into my soul.

"B...Bastain?" I ask, but I know the answer. And he knows I know the answer.

"Do you need help changing that tire, ma'am?" He asks, nodding at the tire in question.

"Um," I falter, searching for words and composure. But damn, it's hard. This is a blast from the past that I knew would happen, but I thought I would have at least a few days.

Unresolved feelings inundate my thoughts as I take him in. He's just as beautiful now as he was when he was eighteen, the last time I saw him. Tall, as much as he is handsome, he has several inches on my five foot, seven-inch height. That's even with the help of the several inches my pumps provide.

Wait. Did he just call me Ma'am? I know I look different but he has to know it's me. He has to...

His large arms are crossed against his chest, but it's not hard to see the shiny metal badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, "You're a cop?"

Brilliant deduction.

He's staring me down, his expression stonier than any of those old geezers on Mount Rushmore. "Yep."

Okay. Well, let's try an open-ended question. "How have you been?"

Even though I try my darndest, my voice waivers as I speak to this man. The question is trite, but I find myself at a loss for words in this situation. I'm not sure that I particularly care about his answer but when in doubt, politeness can be used as a shield or a sword.

"Fine. Would you like help with that tire?"

His answer leaves me disoriented. Does he not know who I am?

Regardless, I am in no position to reject his offer. I'm not getting anywhere with my limited skillset. Although, I still have the ability to call a service but at this point, that would be blatantly foolish on my part. Foolishness isn't something I need to put on display in front of this man.

"Yes, please. That would be awfully kind of you," I answer, masking my defeated tone with one of cordiality.

However, he stands still, his eyes the only thing that move as they narrow on me. Then I realize he needs me to move in order to access the tire. I back away as eloquently as possible in my completely inappropriate shoes and mindlessly wave a hand at my attempt of self-reliance.

He nods before kneeling, snatching up my discarded wrench and proceeding to pop off the remaining lug nuts. I bite my bottom lip as I watch this man. He does it as easily as popping champagne corks at a New Years Eve party.

"Jack?" he asks, eyes not moving from the the project in front of him.

"Jack?" I repeat his question. Surely, he's not calling me Jack. Even if he doesn't remember me, he's got to know my name isn't Jack.

He hangs his head then shakes it, catching onto my confusion. "Car. Jack."

"Oh! Yes, of course," I offer, internally rolling my eyes.

Then, when I turn and have my back to the man, securely out of his purview, I take the luxury of actually rolling my eyes. Of course, he wasn't calling me jack. One look at this blast from the past and I've lost all common sense.

I straighten my spine. Why am I letting Bastain Kessler get to me? I may have been the one that left all those years ago, but he's the one that let me go. The one that didn't think I was worth much more than a woman he had a fling with. Not like a woman he had spent four years with, loving. Planning a future with.

I grab the tool and return to the man, extending it as I approach. But he's not looking at me. There must be something super interesting on my damaged wheel because he can't seem to tear his eyes from it. He's so engrossed, in fact, he can only be bothered to extend his arm in my direction and do the gimmie gesture with his fingers. I obey and consider it a small victory that I don't slam the small device hard enough into his outstretched hand to break any bones.

He gets to work and all I seem able to do is stand in a trance, watching this specimen of a man work before me while I bake under the Louisiana sun. Bastian was once my everything but now... he's an unhealed wound of my past. A strange sensation twists around my heart and I rub my chest in hopes of any kind of relief. But there's none.

With a voice like shards of glass dipped in aged whiskey, he brings me back to my reality. "Mrs. Vasilis, your spare is on."

I wince at the family name that is no longer my own but don't correct him. "Thank you, Bastian," I answer with clipped politeness.

I would be remiss if I didn't admit to myself that not hearing him say my name hurts. But I'll never let him know that. If there's one thing I've learned to do over the past decade and a half, that's how to smile even if you have a splinter the size of Texas in your rear end.

Gravel shifting beneath him warns of his intent to stand but then his eyes focus on the outside of my left thigh and he freezes. "What's that?"

"What's what?" I ask before following his gaze that's locked on my leg. And what I see confuses the heck out of me.

On my once pristine, white pencil skirt, is an array of different stains and smudges. It's wrinkled beyond repair, but that's the least of my worries. Dirt, car grease, unidentifiable dust and....blood.

Blood?

Leaning against my car, I glance down. Halfway down my thigh is a dark crimson circle a little larger than a quarter, and a trickle of red almost reaching the bottom of my skirt. Intending to slide my skirt up to settle the confusion of what's causing this, because I don't feel any pain or discomfort, I reach for the hem.

"Stop," the man kneeling at my feet harshly demands.

And I do. His tone garnering no discussion. Besides I was too stunned to put up any objection.

"Don't move," he commands as he situates himself in front of me, one knee bent, the other resting on the gravel of the shoulder.

The sun's kiss replaces his honey wheat hair with a golden halo and flashes of our past together flit through my mind. Mostly pictures of me running my hands through the soft locks, my fingers itching to recreate the scene. But the man before me has shorter hair than the boy I knew. No longer resting on his shoulders in waves. Instead it's longish on the top, fading to a buzz cut around his ears. Would his hair still be as soft?

I close my eyes, hoping to hold back the assault of memory lane. But that only lasts a fleeting second when a warm touch on my knee has me slamming my lids wide open. A large, tanned hand is skin on skin with my bare leg, the other gingerly peeling the skirt up my leg. I squeeze my hands into fists and bite my bottom lip as a fission of electricity spread out from his point of contact, using my veins as a roadmap that somehow leads directly to my lady bits.

The trail of blood against my skin is exposed as the skirt is folded half way up my thigh, getting precariously close to the apex of my legs. The electricity that had just been sizzling beneath my flesh is replaced with ice as I remember something very important.

I am not wearing underwear.

Typically I would never leave the house without panties, but I can only wear thongs with this outfit and I didn't have any available when I dressed this morning. Either they were dirty in the hamper or I packed them in my suitcase the previous night, and said suitcase had been in the trunk of my car, stationed in my garage. And Officer Jerk is about to find out.

"Bastain!" I gasp and try to slap the iron grip from my person. But it was a fruitless endeavor. His grip doesn't let up one bit.

"Lena. Stop," he hisses as he flashes me a warning with his blazing eyes, and I falter.

Lena.

No one has called me that since...well...him. And that was fifteen years ago.

He doesn't move, and neither do I, his eyes acting as a freeze ray, rendering me motionless. Motionless until his next command.

"Now move your hands behind you," he demands, jaw set in a hard line.

I should argue, put up a fight. Do something, say something. This man has no right to tell me what to do. He may be a cop but I'm not under arrest. However, my body is under the spell his eyes have cast on me.

Bending my elbows, I place my hands behind me, between the small of my back and my car. I may have acquiesced to his order but with a little sass as I return his glare with my own. I swear the corner of his lips twitch in amusement and he redirects his attention back to my thigh.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

If he keeps inching my skirt up, he's going to see my private part.

Oblivious to my inner dialogue, he continues his perusal of my bloody thigh. When there's less than an inch before my flower is exposed to the elements, he discovers the source.

"There's a piece of glass in your thigh," he grumbles as if to himself.

Confused, I look at the exposed wound. Sure enough, it's small but I see it glint in the sun. The amount of blood trickling from it seems disproportionate to the size of the foreign object embedded in my skin. And luckily, I feel no pain. Must be from the adrenaline rush of the surprise of a popped tire, or being startled by whom I thought was a stranger.

It must have gotten there while I had my skirt up like a hussy, trying to change my tire. His brows furrow as he examines it, getting close enough that if he stuck his tongue out, he could lick me.

Lick me? Evangelina Colette Ravenelle. Where on God's green earth did that come from? And why would he stick his tongue out?

"Do you have a first aid kit in your car?" Bastian asks as he shuffles to his feet and stands.

I have to think a moment before answering, "No."

My answer is short and clipped. With the grouchy mood he's in, I'm in fear of being judged. Judged for not having a freaking first aid kit. Just another side effect of constantly being under the oppressive thumb of my dead husband and his family. I have a lot of things to unlearn.

"Don't. Move."

Bastian's retort is short and clipped as well.

He turns to go to his car but must have noticed the movement of my arms as I pull them from behind my back because he comes to an immediate halt.

"I said, Don't. Move."

I gulp down any verbal response but manage to meekly nod my head. Satisfied that I was going to listen, he strides away as I return my hands. I may be a grown woman but I feel like a scolded child in this moment.

Leaning all my weight against my car, I contemplate my life. My husband died a month ago. My mom died a week ago. My brother, who I haven't seen since he was two years old, and I thought was alive, is actually dead. Now, here I am, on the side of the road with a flat tire on the outskirts of New Orleans on my way to go through my mother's assets at her small house. I can't forget the small piece of shrapnel embedded in my thigh, and waiting for my ex high school sweetheart to extract it.

Oh, and I'm not wearing any bloomers.

My sunglasses slide down my sweaty nose and my fingers twitch at the need to push them higher on my bridge, however something tells me I shouldn't move a muscle. This man has no say over me, and I don't think getting a flat tire is an arrestable offense. I'm not taking any chances regardless of the improbability of ending up in the slammer.

The sun managed to dry the thin, yet substantial line of blood that originated from the speck of glass sparkling in the sun. It's about the size of a pinhead and I'm fairly certain the wound is extremely superficial considering I can't even feel it. However, disinfecting it is probably a great idea since who knows where the heck this debris on the side of the road came from.

The crunching of gravel alerts me to the return of the police officer, causing me to wonder how I didn't hear his approach the first time. I take the chance at being reprimanded and turn my head to observe his approach. And catch my breath. Not only is his face beautiful, but his body is as well. I hadn't been able to really look at him before, but now I am granted that perusal. He's wearing black cargo pants that are tight around his thighs. A black t-shirt with Redbud Police Dept. in white block letters emblazoned across his chest, his shield glinting from a cord around his neck. I swallow the excess saliva that had accumulated in my mouth from the show. Quickly, I advert my eyes, not wanting him to see the emotions that has been dormant there for so long.

He has filled out since I saw him last. Once the lanky, lean and yet muscular teenage boy is now the thickly muscled paragon of a man. The resentment I've been fostering over the years was geared toward that old picture I had in my head. Of a boy that was my first love who gave up on me so easily, that lied so I would leave. I'm finding it hard to consolidate these two very different versions of the same person.

Not sparing me a look to see if I obeyed his orders, he returns to his position of kneeling before me. This man on his knees makes me feel some kind of way that I can't explain. The animosity I'm trying so desperately to hold on to completely dissipates when he is, once again, skin to skin with his hand on my thigh.

His first aid kit is laid open at my feet, exposing gauze, alcohol, band aids and Neosporin. With tweezers in hand his brow furrows as he extracts the foreign object with the concentration of a surgeon. His massive left hand is wrapped around my thigh, fingers almost touching. His thumb is precariously close to my nether regions and I need to stop this. It's indecent. And I'm liking it entirely too much. The urge to thrust my hips up just a bit so he's touching me right there is overwhelming, causing my sex to slicken.

Oh god, oh god, oh god!

I can feel moisture building, my clit beginning to tingle. It wouldn't be that big of a deal if I was wearing underwear. But I'm not, and this is about to get really embarrassing.

My heartbeat sky rockets as I move my hands to plead my case in hopes that he will let me go. My tire is changed now. I'm fine. This wound is superficial and can be left as is until I get to my rental home.

"Listen. I appreciate your concern but surely you have better things to do-"

His grip on my thigh tightens as he swiftly drags his gaze up my body to sear his warning into my retina's.

"Evangelina. Keep your hands behind your back."

"Bastian. Really. This is unnecessary," I urge, beginning to smooth my skirt down my thighs, not caring if I bleed on it. It's ruined. Besides, that's the least of my worries. I need to get far away from this man.

Plus, his piercing gaze isn't helping keep the flood gates closed.

Seeing my disobedience seems to flip a switch in him and he acts. Dropping the alcohol pad he had in his hand, he encircles my wrists with his fingers. In a graceful motion, he's able to pull me toward him enough to get my hands behind me again, let go, then push me back against my car so my weight keeps them in place. The forceful jostling has my glasses falling from my face and a few whisps of hair escape my ponytail.

A low and throaty growl rumbles from between his clenched teeth. If he wasn't kneeling right in front of me I would have sworn to the heavens that there was a rabid coyote stalking nearby. Grabbing my thighs in both of his hands he keeps me in place, iris's a blue fire searing into my soul. I squeeze my eyes closed and tilt my head back. I can't look at him anymore. All that rough handling has pushed me over the edge. I'm done for.

I bite my lip and keep my face to the sun, closing my eyes against it's rays. His hands don't move except for the slight squeezing he's applying. He's anticipating my next move, making sure this time I'll listen.

Oh god, oh god, oh goooooooood!

The slightest drop of moisture escapes from my core and I swallow hard. This is going to be so embarrassing!

Maybe he'll just think I'm peeing a bit?

For heaven's sake! Like that's any better!

A slight breeze tickles my inner thigh. Wait...there's no wind. I slam my eyes open on a gasp and jerk my gaze down. Bastian is no longer looking up at me. He's looking straight at me, at my vagina.

At the thin rivulet of my desire that is about to touch his thumb.

The sensation I thought to be a breeze, is his heavy breathing. His face is practically only an inch from my betraying center.

"It's...it's...," I stutter, not sure of what to say.

But he doesn't pay me any mind. All his concentration is on that one...single...drop. He's staring at it as a man that has been walking through the desert for days would.

Then he erases the distance between him and that glistening drop of his fascination. Flattening his tongue against my inner thigh, he licks, following the trail all the way up to my sex. My skirt is pushed up to my hips by his exploring, revealing my lack of undergarments to him and to anyone that drives down this highway.

The instant his tongue comes in direct contact with my naked sex he jerks his head back as if my vagina electrocuted him. What. Is Happening?

He growls again, this time it radiates from his chest, through his arms and hands then up my thighs to my core.

"I remember this," is all he says before he tears into me like a feral animal. He straightens on his knees, moves his hands to under my behind, then my feet are leaving the ground.

"Baz!" I squeak as I'm pushed up the side of my car. I have no choice but to lay my legs on his shoulders, wrapping them around his head. My hands, now free, grab onto his hair for extra stability.

His tongue spears into me and I groan at the rush of pleasure. He wraps his arms under and around my thighs, pulling them apart enough so he can bite at my clit. He's exposing the part of me that has never seen the light of the sun and I couldn't care less. Even considering we are on the side of the road, I couldn't care less.

My back against the car, feet not on the ground, I am completely at his mercy. He sucks and licks and bites...and I let him. His arms bulge and hands squeeze around my thighs as he delves into my core. I curl my toes as he runs his tongue from entrance to clit, causing my left shoe to fall off my foot.

Thomas never did this to me in all the fifteen years of our marriage. The only thing I have to compare it to is when the teenage version of this man did it to me when we were in high school. I remember it being good, but not this good.

My chest spasms as I attempt to hold back my screams of pleasure. I lick my lips then clamp down on my lower one when he sucks my clit hard. Salt lingers on my tongue from sweat along with several flavorful words.

I must not have done a good enough job of keeping quiet because his eyes clash against mine. Our gazes are like two opposing weather fronts, causing a huge storm to brew where they meet. Pushing against each other in a reverse tug-of-war.

He tilts his head back, almost making me lose my grip on his now damp locks. His lips glisten with wetness. With my wetness. "Go ahead and scream. No one's here. No one's coming. Except you."

I immediately obey, "Oh god!" I pant.

He returns to feasting upon my slickness. I rock my hips into his face, needing more to get to that ever distant release. This causes him to chuckle. He knows he owns my body in this very moment. And I know I need to surrender in order to be able to jump off that cliff to let the abyss of pleasure swallow me whole.

"Bas...Bastian!" I shudder out, signaling how close I am. My spine digs into the unforgiving surface of my car but I pay it no mind. I need just a bit more to reach...

He bites my clit and I'm there. I pull his hair and let the sensation flow through me. Pleasure buzzes through my body as I have the largest orgasm of my life. It's like a reward for living the past fifteen years for someone else. The light at the end of the tunnel.

It's blinding.

And I surrender.