“Sit here.” Marching off, he’s coiled tight, with the pigeon-toed walk of a ballplayer.

Still, I’m hopeful. I have youth on my side. In a few years, by, say, twenty-eight, thirty, the whole enterprise will start to sag. For the moment, though, my face is unlined, my ass round and firm. I’m extremely tall, almost six feet, and lanky, with long legs, slim waist, and large breasts. I have a wild mass of auburn curls and freckles that trail into my cleavage. I’m not a conventional beauty. But because of my height and thick, glossy hair, I’m striking. Besides, money hides a multitude of sins, and I have unlimited resources.

The cop returns, looking peeved. “Speed limit’s sixty-five. You were going—”

“A lot faster.” I nod. “I know.”

“This is—”

“My last chance. I know that too. One more ticket and I’ll lose my license.”

“Your left taillight—”

“Is broken. I’m on it.”

Finally, he smiles—and pulls out a ticket pad. But just as I admit defeat, he steps back and shines his light along the Porsche’s curvy exterior. So, I stay quiet, watch him, and wait.

There are two states of male arousal: feral and submissive, each with its own unique tell. Feral men get jacked up in two seconds; they fuck anything in their path. Submissive men are sneakier; they beg for intimacy while pawing their way to climax. On the hunt, both are equally dangerous. Feral guys are fast and ferocious, their aggression is laced with violence; one wrong move and you’re done. Submissive men make no explicit demands, but they lack a core, so you serve as filler. They destroy you from the inside out, inflicting deeper wounds that won’t heal.

This cop is feral, for sure. He’s ogling my car with glazed eyes. “Nice ride,” he notes as he chews the inside of his cheek.

I don’t let myself breathe.

“You drive too fast,” he says. But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my car, at the rich leather seats and high-tech dashboard. The Porsche is a gorgeous piece of machinery, clean lines, smooth surfaces, curves in all the right places.

“Want a ride?” I ask softly.

Around us, traffic shrieks, sirens howl, the wind is deafening, but he’s moved beyond sound, beyond language. Where he’s gone, nothing matters but want. I understand, Officer, I want to say. I too have unbearable urges, needs I can’t satisfy. Without thinking, I take my keys out of the ignition and extend my hand.

He won’t look at me, or the keys. “I’ll let you go with a warning,” he says sharply. His stance, his tone, the way he presses my license into my palm—it’s all deliberate. He’s reminding me, and maybe himself, who’s in charge. “But you better slow down.”