The Jag

First, I've always had a thing for British cars. Something about them just really revs my engines, total pun intended. From rough-and-tumble Land Rovers, to wee punk rock Minis, to Bentleys that smelled like tea, and Rolls-Royces that stunk of elite haughtiness. But nothing got me going like a Jaguar. Perhaps it was the fact that my first real sexual experience was in one. Nothing like getting finger-fucked in the back of your first boyfriend's Jag to really set the standard, right? Anyway, there's something about Jaguars that just does it for me. When I see one on the street, it takes my breath away. Especially if it's British racing green. I might as well drop my panties right then and there.

Second, let me tell you about Mr. Shaw. Mr. Shaw is the CEO and owner of the company I work for. He's British—yet another weakness of mine. He's tall and lanky, but muscular. He's pale with black hair and the coldest, but hottest, blue eyes. He also dresses in the most impeccable suits. You can't imagine him in anything else but those damned slim-fitting suits. Since I worked in administration, I would pass him in the hallway a few times a day. I won't lie—there were nights that I was horny and I would think about those crystalline eyes while I "took care of business."

One Friday evening, I was asked to stay late and help my boss, Regina, with a project she was working on. Around 8:00, she asked me to head down to the basement garage and pick up some files that were in Mr. Shaw's car. I had no idea what car he had, but I knew where it was parked. Everyone knew where Mr. Shaw's car was parked, because everyone knew not to park there. She gave me the keys and waved a dismissal, and I headed down to the garage. Of course, there were no other cars there, so no one else heard me gasp when I saw it.

A Jaguar F-Type R. One of the latest models, with a motor that growled like a wildcat during acceleration and an all-leather interior. In British racing green, of course - how more impeccably British could he be? I stared at it, practically drooling, then walked up tentatively and delicately ran a finger along the hood of the car. God damn, this was a sexy vehicle. This car was made to take women, men, and the road like a ravenous, sexual beast. I leaned over to look in the window and check out the all-black leather interior. Licking my lips, I said, "This car was made for fucking."

"Glad you think so."

I spun around, and found myself staring right in the bespoke-suited chest of Lachlan Shaw. Looking up I found him smirking down at me, his eyes boring into mine like sharp icicles. "Um, hello Mr. Shaw. I'm sorry, Regina sent me down here to get the files out of your car. I have the keys," I hesitantly said, holding them up. He grabbed them out of my hand, leaning close to me to unlock the door. His breath ghosted across my cheek. "So," he said lowly, "I see you like my car."

I fidgeted with the collar of my black cardigan sweater. I was extremely nervous all of a sudden. His eyes made my knees weak - not to mention giving me a tight feeling low in my belly. "Sort of. I just really like British...cars."

"As do I. Call it a slice of home, if you will." He moved away from me a little, allowing me to step out of the way of the door. He opened the door, and dipped his chin in a small bow, gesturing for me to get the files sitting on the plush carpeted floor of the car. I bent down and grabbed the files, my face coming close to the leather seats. The first thing I realized was that the car smelled like him: peppermint, leather, and tea. The second thing I realized was that my snug red pencil skirt was placing my ass right on display for him. I smiled to myself, and wiggled a little bit as I reached for the last file, which had slid a little farther away from me. As I stood up, I glanced at his reflection in the window and caught him staring at my ass. When I turned around and brought myself up to my full height, his eyes traveled up my body, resting on my chest and then catching me square in the eye. "Miss Adair, is it?"