Chapter 1

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Oral Sex,

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Alexis is a complicated young woman living a complicated life. But things only became more complicated when she nearly ran her car over the stranger with sad dark eyes. John is on the run from his past, trying desperately to figure out if he even wants a future. Will this beautiful complicated woman help him make up his mind, and possibly mend his heart?


ARG! What a day! I toss my bag across the truck cab in frustration, and clamber in after it. The sound of the door's metallic clash as it closes hard behind me is cathartic.

"Alex! Get back your ass back here! You haven't finished putting the new transmission in that Explorer yet!"

"Damn it, Ray!" I yell back at him through the open windows. "Do it yourself if it's that important! I was on call last night and I covered for you all day!"

Ray saunters up to the truck's driver's side window right as I start the old diesel engine up. The old tow truck may look uncared for, but the engine was well-tended. I saw to that. Ray frowns at me, his face already trying to plead me into staying.

I calm at his expression—he knew exactly how to manipulate me—but not today, "No. Ray, I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I've worked over eighteen hours straight. You got wasted last night, you were hung-over most of the day. You're up, you're capable ... fix the fucking Explorer yourself!"

I blanch at the expression on Ray's face, he hates it when I curse. He's always trying to turn me into a proper lady. Rather than wait for his overreaction, I shift the truck into gear and drive off.

It takes only a few minutes to reach my little apartment. With my bag in tow, I ran inside and encountered a 'Catastrophe'.

"Fucking hell, Catherine!" I scream.

No answer. ARG! What a day! First Ray, now my roommate has half her wardrobe scattered over our tiny apartment living room. Underwear, bras, and all manner of slinky delicates are hung, slung, and drying. I'd have to bob and weave just to get to the hallway. I know I'm covered in oil, grease, and grime. The only thing that could make this worse would be the look on Cat's face if she found her precious delicates soiled and stained.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Only one thing can solve this," I decide. I drop the truck keys in the key bowl we have by the door, and grab the only other set in the bowl. There are only three keys on the ring, along with a keychain featuring the classic silhouetted 'mudflap girl' wearing a cowboy hat. I'd gotten the funny keychain from the shop, someone had left it in a junker.

I grin at it after picking it up, and the sultry girl wearing the cowboy hat in the back of my mind tips her hat up with a single finger. Gripping the keys, I back out of the apartment and circle around to the back of the property.

The apartment I shared with Cat was really just an old roadside motel that had been converted into a half-dozen apartments. Passing by the old lobby, I wave at Arthur inside. The old man had bought this place two decades ago and done all the work in the conversion to apartments himself. He now served as landlord, handyman, and friend, all-in-one. He also let me rent the garage behind the apartments for a pittance. Most days, like today, he spends the afternoon sitting in the old lobby watching baseball on TV and enjoying the view of the woods on the other side of the highway through the lobby's glass wall.

Wading through the unkempt lot of weeds and wild grasses behind the building, I lift the garage door open and smile at my baby. She is a 2003 Toyota MR2 Spyder.

She was my 'rescue.' Some drunk Houston housewife driving up Highway 59 had rolled her in the middle of the night eight years ago. Ray had been drunk, and 'Happy Ray' had offered her as a birthday present. He really couldn't afford to give her to me like that, but I'd jumped at the offer anyway—what fifteen year old grease monkey in desperate need of her own car wouldn't take advantage?

It had taken me nearly all of those six years to get her up to par. I'd replaced the wimpy stock engine with a damaged Supercharged 2ZZ-GE Toyota engine from a Lotus Exige, replaced the blown oil pump, repaired the damage, and a few other aftermarket parts here and there. Since Ray was out cold most of the time, trading with other auto-parts dealers online garnered me replacement body parts. I did all the work in my spare time, and I'd been very careful to never let Ray get a good look at her. Drunk 'Happy Ray' would probably tell me how proud he was of me and want to take it for a drive ... straight into a tree. Hung-over Ray would probably accuse me of stealing money and parts from him.

All the extra work and effort meant I had turned a thoroughly thrashed car with 140 horsepower into a sleek little convertible with almost 250 horsepower. She was my prize possession.

The other advantage of this garage was the dirty old bathroom in the back. I didn't really like using it. Even though I had cleaned it multiple times, the porcelain was stained brown in places, the fixtures were rusted, and the tile was cracked and stained. It just looked dirty. When I was covered in grease and I knew Cat was home, I'd usually clean up in here first before coming in the apartment. She always frowned at me like the oil and grime was going to jump off of me onto the walls of the apartment.

I turn on the shower and strip off my coveralls, followed by my fairly clean t-shirt and shorts. I look down and feel that familiar twinge of embarrassment. My inner sexy gives me a sad look and shakes her head, but the shy one just looks as embarrassed as I feel.

My usual plain and sturdy utilitarian bras were dirty, so I'd worn one of the 'pretty' bra and panties sets Cat bought for me. Actually, my usual plain bras and underwear were probably hanging amongst all frilly lace, satin, and silk that had exploded all over our living room. Cat always insisted, "Delicates must be treated as such, Lexi."

Stripping off the pink satin hipster boyshorts and matching bra, I finger the white lace edging. As much as these ... slutty underwear make me feel ... dirty, they're also pretty comfortable. And they do make me feel feminine—I'm just not sure I want to feel feminine. And having them off doesn't help the flushed embarrassment I feel.

Once I've jumped into the steaming shower and have my eyes closed, thoughts of my chubby awkward body fade away. I only open my eyes to run a scrub brush against my and blackened fingers. Of all my tomboy traits, this is the one Cat just can't abide. At least once a day I hear her 'tsk-tsk' aimed at my oil-stained hands. They've been that way since I was nine and started learning all about engines from Ray.

Clean of most the grime, and smelling of pomegranate and lemon Dove body wash, I blush again as I consider putting on the 'pretty panties' again. Ignoring the excited mischievous smile the sultry one grins from under the brim of her hat, I leave the underwear on the floor of the bathroom, just slipping on my slightly dirty t-shirt and shorts. I leave my work boots as well, and slip on the pair of old Reeboks I keep out here. Putting my hair back in its usual simple ponytail, I'm done.

I toss my bag—I've never thought of it as a purse—in the passenger seat and slide into my baby. I had to admit, at least the drunk who'd crashed her ad opted for the faux-leather interior. It was still plush and comfortable, and I love it. I plug in the key, pump the clutch in, and the engine purrs.

My iPod starts blasting the girlish voice of Cassadee Pope as Hey Monday grinds out the upbeat pop-punk of "Set Off," and I slide on my sunglasses. The minute the sun hits my face and the wind takes my hair, I'm immediately free of the anger and frustration I'd been feeling all day. I know exactly where I'm going, and I know the exact route I'm taking.

When my mom died, she had very little to leave to her only daughter, but it was something. Her parents old house and property on the north shore of Lake Livingston. It had been run down and unlivable when my mom was alive, or she probably would have sold it. It's only been the last few years that I'd started to fix it up—which also pissed Ray off.

We found out when I turned eighteen that my mom had a lot more squirreled away than we previously thought. Tom Wilkins, her Lufkin attorney handled her estate, and part of that had been a secret trust set up by her late parents in my name, one that she had even added to over the years. The money was mine to use as I chose, and it added up to enough to pay for college. But I pissed Ray off by choosing to fuel the money into the old house.

It wasn't enough to afford a team of workers who would have the whole thing done in six months, but it was enough to make it a do-it-yourself project in most areas. Ray hated that I wasn't pursuing art school, but I just kept telling him, "It's my life, Ray."

So that's where I was headed, the old house. When I had a load of lumber or something to haul, I took the truck down Highway 59 and then skirted down Highway 190 to the property. But when I drive my baby, I take the back roads that curve back and forth through the forest, usually well above the speed limit.

Within minutes, I'm out of town and on an abandoned road, pushing eighty in the curves and breaking a hundred whenever I can straighten the car out. My iPod stereo system is blaring, the sun is beating down on me, and the wind is whipping my hair behind me. For almost an hour, I'm just as happy as can be.

That is, until I have to slam on the brakes! "WHAT THE HELL!?" I yell.

My baby's brakes are highly responsive though, letting out only a little high-pitched chirp. The tires however, make a half-screech, half-gravely sliding sound as I put the agile little beast into a controlled slide. I'm only sliding for a second though before I let off the brakes and turn the wheel, jerking the car back across the faded yellow line and come to a stop right alongside the rusty Ford Escort.

Fuck! Six inches closer and I would have run him over! He didn't pull the car off the road at all, just stopped right on his side of the road and crawled under the car. What the hell is he doing under the car like that?! It's just a flat tire!

I turn down "Crazy" and sigh, "Sorry about that, I drive this road all the time. This is the first time I've actually seen another living soul out here."


ARG! What a day! I almost wish I'd bought a more reliable car, but I really couldn't afford a better one. I only bought this car this morning, and already it's giving me lip. The car didn't look like much at all, and the price was only representative of the new engine the dealer had put in it. Hell, the dealer had insisted I take a look under the hood, and the engine practically looked like it belonged in a shiny new floor-model, not this rust-bucket.

I sighed, and whisper to myself, "I can't really blame this on him—it's not like the engine caused a flat tire."

I'm lying flat on my back trying to figure out where to put the fucking jack when I hear the roar of an oncoming engine. "Fuck," I mutter a few seconds later as I realize the car is coming very fast, and I'm in the middle of the road.

I move as quickly as I can, pulling my legs up and trying to slide sideways at the same time, but by the time I begin moving, I hear the squelch of the brakes biting too hard and skidding tires. Two seconds later, my heart starts beating again, and I'm not really sure how I feel about that. It would have been simpler to just die of a heart attack out here in the middle of nowhere, I think.

The blare of Aerosmith quiets, and voice with just the hint of a sweet Texas twang says, "Sorry about that, I drive this road all the time. This is the first time I've actually seen another living soul out here."

"No harm ... no foul ... thanks," I am panting for air as my body deals with the rush of adrenaline.

She snorts, "What for?"

"Turning down ... Steven Tyler," I chuckle.

"Seriously? Who doesn't like Aerosmith?" she laughs incredulously.

"Just me, I suppose."

She turns off the engine and I hear her shoes on the cracked and gravely pavement. She's right, this road is pretty much forgotten. I slide back into the position I was in earlier and start trying to figure out where the jack goes again.

"You need some help?" the woman asks.

I glance out at her, standing just a few feet away from the car. "Nice legs," I murmur.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Uh ... have you ever changed a tire?" I ask. "I feel stupid that I've never had to do this before."

The woman scoffs, "Don't worry about it. Here, I can show you how. Slide out of there."

I slide sideways again, and catch my first glimpse of her. I can't see much, because the sun is behind her blinding me, but her silhouette is a nice slim hourglass figure. I might be dead inside, but my libido isn't. I guess that's good to know.

She reaches her hand down to me, and I take it. I notice she's got a strong grip and she steadies me while I climb up beside her.

I switch our grip and shake her hand, "Hi, JJ."


"Nice to meet you," I smile politely. Her eyes are quite captivating, I don't think I've ever seen that shade of blue-green before in someone's eyes. Maybe they're contacts. She's good looking, but young ... a teenager? She's not wearing any makeup, so it's harder for me to tell. Her face looks so fresh and clean. I'm not really used to that look on a woman—girl? What color is her hair exactly? It's not brown, it's not blonde. Is that what they call dirty blonde? That sounds so ... dirty—I'm staring, I realize, and look down at her hand. Oh God! How long have I been holding her hand like this?

I quickly let go, noticing her hands are clean, but they're dirty ... like they were stained with something. Charcoal?

"Are you an artist?" I ask.

She looks startled, "Uh ... yes, but..."

"Your hands," I nod. "Charcoal?"

"Oh! No, although I like working with charcoal. Nah, this is engine grease," she laughs. Oh, my. Wow, what was that?

"So you really can teach me how to do this!" I chuckle.

The girl—now almost convinced now that she's just eighteen or nineteen—squats down in front of the flat tire, "Yeah."

I mimic her squat next to her. She reaches under the car, in front of the tire, and then stops, "Put your hand over mine."

When my hand slides over the back of hers, I feel her shiver, and I swear it's like I've touched a live wire.

She pulls her hand away, and her voice quivers, "You feel ... uh ... you feel that?"

For a moment, I'm not sure what she's talking about, what I feel under the car, or whether I felt the buzz when we touched. Stupidly, I just say, "Uh, yeah."

Alex smiles shyly, "Okay, that ... that's where the jack goes." She moves the jack into position, brushing away a few stray rocks. Then she starts to crank it.

I move my hand over hers, and again feel that numbing jolt for a millisecond. Now I know Alex felt it too, she nearly jerks her arm back from it. I continue cranking on the jack, raising it. She stays crouched next to me though, and my eyes dart sideways to glance at her. She's looking right at me, so I try to cover, "Am I doing this right?"

She nods, pensively.

The jack touches the spot she showed me under the car, and then her hand is on my arm, just a few inches above my wrist, "Stop."

Alex takes the crank from me, which also doubles as the lug wrench, "It's easier if you loosen the lug nuts before you take the weight off the axle."

"Why's that?"

Alex laughs—oh, that sound again! It's a wonderful sound—and says, "I'm not sure. I'm sure a physicist could explain it to you. Probably something involving Force—"

"And Pi," I add in with a grin.

She smiles at me, "Yeah. I don't know why it's easier, but it is. You do the reverse when we put the new tire on too."

Once she loosens all the lugs, she hands me the wrench/crank back and I continue. It suddenly is much harder, and I with my sideways glance I see her grin, "Hey! I'll let you do the hard part."

"Thanks," I grunt.

Once the tire is off the ground several inches, Alex rolls this tiny tire from the back of the car where I'd gotten the jack and crank.

"Oh shit! Do I not have the right size spare?"

Alex laughs her magical laugh again, "You really don't know what you're doing! No, this is what most cars have now. Most people call them 'donuts.' It's just a temporary spare. You gotta keep the car under 60, go easy on it, and replace it as soon as possible with a new tire."

"Shit!" I blush, I keep forgetting I'm basically in the deep south now. "Sorry, excuse my language."

Alex brushes my comment off, "It's okay, I've said much worse myself."

"So I need a new tire?" I sigh.

"Actually, you'll want two," she glances at the front tire on the other side of me. "Make that four. These tires are basically bald."


"They're so worn down, they have almost no tread. It means they're ripe for more blowouts. Especially on rough roads like this."

"Fuck!" this time I'm not apologizing.

"Sorry for the bad news."

"It's not your fault," I snap.

"No, it's not," she snaps back.

"Sorry, I'm just frustrated. I didn't mean to take it out on you. I just bought this car this morning in Dallas. Now I need four new tires."

Alex pats my back consolingly, "Welcome to the world of used cars. I take it this is your first?"

I nod. 'Well, it's not a lie, ' I tell myself. It is my first used car.

"Don't worry about it. It's not the first time I've seen someone freak over their first replacement part or work that has to be done on a used car. Actually, I see it almost every day."

"You work in an auto supply or something?" I ask.

"I'm a mechanic," she frowns.

I smile, "I guess it's my lucky day then."

Her frown dissolves instantly into a smile. She spends the next five minutes showing me how to take off the blown tire, which I carry and put in the trunk, and then how to put the flimsy 'donut' in its place.


I spend the next few minutes showing him how to put the spare on, and then watch as he cranks the car back down. I'm standing behind him, just staring at his back. The Dixie chick in my head is giving me a look like, 'Check out his ass!'

I've already checked it out, more than once. He's good looking, and he's in excellent shape. For a guy who doesn't seem to have a clue about cars, he obviously works out and takes good care of his body.

JJ looks back up at me with a grin on his face when the jack is free. I can tell he must be almost thirty, maybe even early thirties, but he looks like a little kid when he grins like that. It makes the shy me blush all over, and I can feel real heat in my cheeks.

He's so handsome—I noticed a white line on his hand. He's either married, or he used to be. Normally, I don't notice that, I think, frowning. Normally, I don't pay attention much attention to guys I don't know.

I'm glad he was squinting into the sun when he first saw me, because I flushed and turned red right when I saw him. His chest is so broad, and his face is so ... I don't know. He's handsome, classically handsome even. His eyes are dark though, but he doesn't seem scary. It's more like his eyes are sad, but the rest of his appearance portrays a carefree outlook.

When he slid out from under the car, after I got over his handsome and refined looks—yes, refined, that's what it is—I almost giggled like a schoolgirl. I'd just barely been able to control it. I never giggle. Not even when it's just Cat and me watching trashy soaps on our days off together. His chest is so broad, and it tapers down slightly to his hips. Goddammit! He's shaped like a freakin' Calvin Klein model or something.

Abercrombie and Fitch! Yeah, with the regal looks, the dark eyes, and the perfectly ruffled dark hair. It's like he's on his way to a freakin' yacht club or something.

JJ puts his hand out towards me again, "Thank you for your help ... Alex."

"You're welcome," I answer, almost automatically.

"Uh, you're from around here, right?" he asks tentatively.

I nod.

"Where's the best place for me to get new tires then?"

"Moscow. My stepfather has an auto shop and junkyard. We should have a full set of tires that will fit this Escort. They won't be new, but they'll be in better shape than these are."

"Just follow this road?"

I nod again, "Yeah, then turn north when you hit Highway 59. It's about..."

"What?" he asks after I trail off.

"Damn. You won't make it to Moscow on that spare. It's too many miles of bad road. That spare just won't hold up."

His face falls. And mine falls along with him because I know I'm going to do the 'neighborly thing' and offer him a ride back into town, which means I'll have to see Ray again today, and I just don't want to deal with that mess. ARG! What a day!

I sigh, "I can give you a ride back into town. Ray—that's my stepfather—will just have to ride out her and tow you back into town ... I'll try to get him to waive the cost of that. We might be able to get you out of here by this evening."

JJ shrugs, "I'm not in a hurry."

"Where you headed?" my curiosity piqued.

He shrugs again, "I was thinking of going down to New Orleans. I thought I might find some carpentry work down there. It's really the only workable skill I have these days."

"You're a carpenter?"

"Not by trade. I worked summers for Habitat for Humanity for years as a kid, until I was about your age and went to college. And I've done some do-it-yourself stuff since then."

I don't know why, but I blush at him thinking I'm just a teenager. Even the slut in my brain is blushing—she's smiling like the cat who ate the canary, but she's blushing too.

Before I know what I'm doing, I blurt out, "You're not in a hurry, you're worried about how much these tires will cost, and you're a carpenter 'slash' male model? When did God decide it was 'Give Alex a Break' day?"

Then I really blush.

But he doesn't seem to notice, or he just ignores my 'male model' comment, "You need a carpenter?"

I nod, tongue-tied.

"And you can pay?"

I teeter my hand back and forth shyly.

"What does that mean?" he grins. Oh, there's that kid on Christmas morning again.

Finding my voice I squeak, then adjust and continue, "It ... uh ... it means I can't really afford a real carpenter, but if you're offering at a discount, I can give you plenty of work, and ... well, room and board if you want it."

"Living with ... you?" he seems unsure. Oh, so he is married.

"No. You'd be living in the house I'm restoring. It's not really livable, but the roof is still solid, there's water, and I'll bring your meals out to you—at least until we get your tires replaced. I'll throw in the tow myself ... though it won't be until tomorrow."

He glances down at the car, and then back at me, but his eyes are on my chest at first, then dart up to my face. Oh ... God! I'm not wearing a bra! I blush down to my toes again and my arms cross in front of me. He shouldn't be checking me out anyway—he's married!

"How much can you afford to pay me?" he asks. He's all business, I wonder if he even notices that I'm blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Sighing, I answer, "I can really only afford about ten dollars an hour."

"Plus meals and a free tow?" he laughs.

I nod, sadly, "I know it's not much but—"

"I'll take it."


"I'll take it," he says again.

"Uh, okay. Well, why don't you just follow me then? It's only about ten miles more from here, and I'll show you the house."

JJ nods and smiles, moving to climb back into his beat-up Escort. I just stand there stupefied for a second until I hear his engine smoothly start. Well, at least that part of the car sounds like it's working fine.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Consensual / Romantic / Heterosexual / Oral Sex /