Adrienne
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I practically snarl the words over my shoulder as I elbow my way past the sweaty, greasy man in front of me. My new—and now equally greasy—red Louboutins hit the platform at the bottom of the stairs leading into the Thirty-third Street station, and I keep up my pace, not bothering to listen to the offensive words spewing from his mouth.
I don’t have time for this. My boss already kept me late in the office going over my new position as an executive marketing consultant at Dover Street Market. Normally something I’d be totally cool with. But today I have an appointment to view a new apartment and I cannot be late. It’s a good one, guaranteed to be snatched up if I miss my appointment. And with my current lease ending in a matter of days, I need to grab it fast.
I swipe my metro pass through the turnstile and break into a run—not an easy task in my impractical and now filthy designer heels. A stream of people is already pouring into the 6 Train. I manage to slip through the doors just before they slide closed and slump against the edge of the seat next to me.
“Well, that’s just perfect,” I mutter, bending down and examining my shoes. Mr. Greasy McNasty left a huge scuff on them in addition to the grease marks. I want to be charitable and accept that it was just an accident, that anyone could have lost their balance and almost knock me down the stairs in the crowded rush hour terminal. But then I notice that he somehow snagged my thigh-high silk stockings. There’s a giant rip going all the way from my ankle up past the hem of my pencil skirt. How the hell?
I stick my leg out as far as I can on the crowded train and trail my finger up the tear, lifting my skirt to see just how bad the damage is.
Dammit! All the way to the top where my garter belt is clipped onto it. This is how I’m going to arrive to try to score one of the best apartment deals on the Upper East Side that I’ve ever seen—Adrienne Rhodes, a complete and utter hot mess.
Not if I can help it!
Knowing this is the only chance I’ll get to undo some of the damage, I turn back toward the door and reach up my skirt and unfasten the clips on my right thigh. I glance furtively around, hoping no one is paying attention. Yeah, I’m on a crowded public train with my hand up my skirt, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when a killer apartment is on the line.
I slide the stocking down my leg and slip my foot from my damaged shoe, pulling the tattered silk off and stuffing it in my Prada bag. Just as I start to slide my shoe back on, the train jerks to a stop at Grand Central, throwing my already precarious balance way off. I grab for the pole next to me, but it’s too late.
I’m falling.
I’m about to land on my ass on the floor of a subway train. As if I don’t already have enough ruined clothing for one day.
Realizing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, I close my eyes and brace for the impact. But then they fly wide open.
Big hands grasp my hips, and I find myself shifting in a new direction, the impact of my fall broken by a lap that is suddenly right under my ass. A very hard, very erect lap.
My breath whooshes from my lungs in a gasp that is half shock, half lust. A gasp that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Because oh my god, I am totally sitting on some random stranger’s raging hard-on. And it feels really damn good.
The people around us move, some getting off the train, some shifting to make room for new passengers.
The hands on my hips clench as the train moves again, fingers digging into me, and I’m mortified to find myself wriggling, some naughty part of me hoping I might move just the right way to relieve some of the sudden pressure that’s quickly building between my legs.
“You okay?” The deep, gravelly voice should pull me to my senses, but instead the sexy rasp only makes me wetter than I already am.
Pull it together, Adrienne. Am I really getting off to some guy I haven’t even seen? Almost as if my body has a mind of its own, I twist slightly on his lap, the movement making my breath come faster as it pushes me harder against his dick.
Then my eyes lock on his, dark, depthless and smoldering.
Oh my god. It’s him.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly, unable to move. Unable to think.
Because it’s my train guy. The guy I’ve been eye-fucking for the past two months on my ride home after work.
“Need some help?” he says, a smirk on his full lips that makes me want to dive in and suck them right into my mouth, bite down hard and then lick them better.
“What?” I shake my head, not comprehending his words. Nothing making sense past the sudden throbbing in my pussy.
He leans down and grabs my forgotten shoe, sliding it slowly onto my foot. His eyes never leave mine as he trails his fingers up my bare leg.
I swallow hard, wondering if I’m dreaming. Because every late-night fantasy I’ve had lately stars this guy right here. This dark-haired mystery guy that I see on the train two or three times a week, his stubbled jaw inciting thoughts of what it might feel like scraping against my thighs as he licks me to orgasm.
Oh yeah, I’m totally dreaming. Because when his hand reaches the bottom of my thigh, it travels over to the other leg to continue its journey upward. His eyes go impossibly darker before they drop down, and I follow his gaze.
Somehow in my struggle to remove my stockings and my subsequent fall, my skirt got hiked up. Way up. I can see the lacy top of the other one where it is still held in place by my garter clips.
His fingers trail higher still, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he deftly unclasps the hook. Hooking a finger inside the thin silk, he drags it down my leg, removing and replacing the other shoe after he bares my legs completely.
I can’t look away. This is probably the most erotically charged moment of my life, and it’s happening on an overcrowded rush hour train.
“That better?” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck, and I swear I feel him get even harder beneath me.
I nod. But it’s not. I’m so wet that I wonder if even my skirt will be soaked through when I stand up. The only thing that would make me better right now is for him to do something about the fierce need taking over my body, making me lose all sense of propriety.
The next span of time passes in a blur as the 6 Train flies through the dark tunnels of New York. I want so badly for him to touch me, to slide his hand back up my skirt. But he doesn’t. He keeps his hands firmly in place on my hips, though, not letting me leave the torturous pleasure of the hardness of his lap.
When the train finally pulls into my stop, I remain seated, not wanting the moment to end. But somewhere in my mind I find my motivation. The apartment. Right.
Staggering to my feet, I give my train guy one last regretful look. I can only hope we end up on the train together again tomorrow. Because I need to see where this could go.
Almost as much as I need this new apartment.