The Commute (Regular Sex Issue 1) Read online

  Regular Sex 1 ~ The Commute

  By

  Kitty French

  Regular Sex 1 ~ The Commute

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  I look up, and just like that I’m done for.

  ‘Take me,’ I say, and then feel my cheeks glow, probably turning the same shade of dull ox-blood red as the faded upholstery of the seat he’s absently stroking as he watches me. He raises one brow a little as if he’s seriously considering my offer.

  ‘Take it,’ I correct myself and shoot him my best ‘aren’t I a goofy klutz this morning,’ smile, even though we both know that I’d meant exactly what I said, although it would have been wiser if the words had stayed inside my head. I’d just handed him the upper hand within three seconds of meeting him, a mistake I’d made several times before and vowed to learn from. That’s me all over though; keep on doing the same thing and expecting the results to be different, which even I can see is the action of an idiot.

  ‘I’m Stacy, newly crowned queen of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time,’ I say brightly, because he’s slid into the seat opposite mine and is still looking at me intently. His eyes are a curious sort of blue; they remind me of a pale turquoise cocktail I had on the beach in Ibiza last summer, or of soft, worn Levi’s begging to be unbuttoned by your lover.

  ‘Queen Stacy.’ He inclines his head formally. ‘I’m Jude, king of bad intentions.’

  I glance across at the table on the other side of the aisle, sure that we must be providing entertainment to the other passengers. I see them, the same people I’ve seen almost every other weekday morning for the last year or so; Mr. Bad-morning-hair, nose buried in the business pages of The Guardian, the one I have long since decided is the fellow morning traveller I’d shag if I had to play ‘do someone or die’ on this train. Rather him than Santa Claus, the old guy seated opposite him who, despite the lazy nickname I’ve given him because of his too long white beard which he appears to use to catch stray soup spills, is actually an old grouch most of the time with more than a whiff of yesterday’s shirt about him.

  King Jude and I are at the far end of the carriage. A quick twist around in my seat to glance down the aisle tells me that all is as it always is further on down there; that no one could care less about the coronation that has just occurred behind them on the 8.10 into Birmingham Grand Central.

  ‘I’ve caught this train a thousand times and I’ve never seen you,’ I blurt, as if to confirm that I am indeed unable to control the words that tumble from my mouth. Is it him? Has he slipped some kind of truth serum into the cardboard coffee cup on the table in front of me, or hypnotised me with his knowing blue glance? Christ, I hope not. What if he’s sadistic and makes me throw myself from the train? Bloody Stu and Sandra the office slut would think I’d hurled myself to my dramatic death because of them and their dirty crotch dancing. Who does that while dressed as elves anyway? They were one viral YouTube clip away from ruining Christmas for kids the world over, irresponsible pair of rabid dogs.

  ‘I know I’d remember you.’ He steeples his hands on the table between us. I wonder if it’s possible to orgasm just from the sound of someone’s voice, because his is doing weird stuff in my knickers. I’m hot and bothered, and I’m looking at those capable, steepled fingers and wanting them to open the buttons of my blue wool winter coat. And then my blouse. In fact, I don’t think I’d complain if he stripped me naked and banged me over the chipped Formica table between us. I subconsciously move my coffee towards the window just in case as I rack my brains to remember if my bra matches my knickers, because it is entirely possible those laser eyes have already seen straight through my clothes. My nipples harden at the idea of him looking at me like that. What the hell am I doing? Or more to the point, what is he doing to me?

  ’So tell me the rules of your kingdom, Queen Stacy,’ he murmurs, leaning forward slightly. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  I don’t think he’s taken his eyes off me since he stepped aboard the train, and it’s had the strange effect of turning this thundering workhorse carriage into an intimate dining car for two from yesteryear. I don’t glance out of the window, but if I did, I fancied I’d see the glittering Mediterranean as we rattled through the French Riviera, or maybe the majestic Swiss mountains soaring upwards rather than the frosted, grey urban sprawl of the West Midlands at breakfast time.

  ‘The rules of my kingdom?’ I say slowly, playing for time. ‘Well… it’s warm, for starters. Really, err, balmy.’

  Balmy? Go me. I’d slipped straight into travel agent spiel; my boss would be proud of me for once. His endless shitty holiday telesales training hadn’t gone to waste, after all. I’ll tell him when I get in to work this morning. On second thoughts, maybe I won’t. How can I credibly relate this story back in the office? Morning folks! This guy on the train hypnotised me into taking my clothes off this morning, but you’ll be happy to know I sold him a package deal to the newly discovered kingdom of Stacy, where the sun’s balmy and the men are sex gods?

  Across from me, Jude nods, his expression deadly serious.

  ‘Balmy.’ I think I see approval in his eyes. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  He shrugs off the jacket of his business suit and loosens the knot of his tie with one hand. He’s dressed for business, yet his eyes tell me his thoughts are anything but professional as he pops the top button of his shirt and runs his finger around the inside of his collar to loosen it. Somehow it’s the horniest movement I’ve ever seen.

  He lowers his eyes to the oversized buttons of my coat and studies them until my fingers move of their own accord and slide the buttons free. My coat falls open, and his expectant eyes lift to mine and silently tell me that it has to come off. I slip it back over my shoulders and lay it folded on the seat beside me.

  ’Still too warm,’ he whispers, his fingers working his shirt cuffs open so he can fold his sleeves back. I have a thing for turned back sleeves; they say capable, and they say strong, and they say I’m going to blow your fucking mind in bed.

  My eyes drop to his forearms as he works. I notice the discreet, expensive watch on his wrist, the smattering of golden hair over his lightly tanned skin, and the long, lithe biceps outlined beneath the material of his dark shirt. They’re the kind of arms that cradle babies on black and white posters, or play guitars to packed stadiums in rock bands, or row their victorious team to an Olympic gold medal.

  I swallow hard and squeeze my thighs together because I’m fighting the urge to crawl over the table into his lap to be held by those arms right now.

  ‘Tropical,’ I say, because I’m clammy, despite the fact that there’s frost on the outside of the windows and I’m down to my flimsy chiffon blouse.

  ‘Is there a beach in your kingdom, Stacy?’

  I lean forward and prop my elbows on the table, my chin resting in my hands. He’s looking right into my eyes now, and I’m close enough to see the ridiculously long fringe of dark eyelashes around those pretty eyes. I pick up the spiced scent of him, shower fresh and sexy, and I wonder if he can smell the miracle shampoo I paid well over the odds for on payday. I sweep my hair slowly over one shoulder to make it more likely. Jude’s eyes follow the movement, unhurried.

  ‘I think you’d tie your hair up on the beach.’ His eyes flick to the slender black hair tie I put around my wrist in the bathroom this morning because I always get pissed off with my hair come lunchtime and snatch it back.

  Jesus, he’s observant. I feel as if he knows all there is to know about me and then some. I realise he’s waiting for me to tie my hair up at the same moment I realise I want to tie my hair up for him, and I unsnap the tie from my wrist and gather my hair into a mess
y bun at my nape.

  ‘Better?’ he murmurs.

  I’m not sure if he’s asking me or telling me, but either way I nod. It’s better.

  This has all gone his way up to now; it’s time to turn the tables a little.

  ‘Tell me about the rules in the kingdom of bad intentions, Jude.’

  I drop one of my hands onto the table, my fingertips dangerously close to skimming his wrist. ‘Is it… balmy there too?’

  Interested, he nods almost imperceptibly.

  ‘The rules?’ he pauses for thought the same way I had a couple of minutes back. ‘There are no rules. It’s totally lawless.’ He drops his voice and the intimacy level between us ratchets up. ‘We can do whatever the fuck we want on my beach.’

  His kingdom suddenly sounds infinitely more interesting than mine.

  ‘Are there cocktails?’ I ask, reminded by the blue of his eyes.

  A smile tugs at the edges of his full mouth.

  ‘I make them myself,’ he says. ‘For you, I’d use…’ he trails off, narrowing his eyes at me speculatively, as if deciding on my perfect blend. He lowers his hands to the table, covering mine, making me startle. Christ, he’s warm. His eyes lock with mine and I see the same spark there, the flash of awareness, the turned on, off the scale level of chemistry that I don’t think either of us have anticipated.

  ‘What, Jude? What would you use?’ If I sound breathless, it’s because I am. He’s stroking the back of my hand with his thumb, slowly back and forth, and I feel as if he’s taken my bra off and is thumbing my nipple.

  ‘I’d start with a measure of gin in a champagne saucer, because you’re a classy girl,’ he begins.

  I soak the compliment in, whilst privately thinking that I’m not all that classy after a few gin and tonics on a night out with the girls.

  ‘Did you know those glasses were modelled on the shape of a woman’s breast?’ he asks, almost conversationally. ‘Maybe I’ll add a cherry into the base, something ruby and ripe, like your mouth.’

  He snakes his tongue along the inside of his top lip; I can feel his breath on my mouth and I badly want him to kiss me. There is no hint of soup beard or bad morning hair about this man on the train. His chestnut dark hair brushes his open collar, and I can practically hear every follicle begging my fingers to rifle through it. He is a-fuckin-donis, and for some unknown reason he’s been gifted to me, and I want to unwrap him far more than I wanted to unwrap my lacklustre Christmas gifts a few weeks ago. God, I can absolutely imagine how good he’d look naked. I cross my legs out of fear that my knickers will slide down of their own accord and do the can-can on the table.

  He stares right into my eyes, and then he subtly lifts my hand and places it over my breast. I’m so shocked I can barely breathe, and I daren’t look away to see if anyone has noticed. They probably haven’t, and thankfully it is at least my hand nearest the window, but I can’t be completely certain and I’m too invested in what’s happening to check. For the briefest of moments, Jude leaves his hand over mine and I feel the scorch of his fingertips through the scant material of my blouse. His eyes darken a little, turquoise to azure, and I know he wants more right before he lowers his hand back to the table to cup my other elbow. My chin is still balanced on my hand and my nails dig into my jaw when he touches me, so hard that I don’t think even Touche Éclat will hide the marks when I get into work.

  If I get into work.

  I have no idea what stop we’re at, or if we’ve been onboard for two minutes, two hours or two days. This train has become the goddamn Tardis in my head, or maybe the back of the wardrobe portal to the faraway kingdom of Jude. I’m a voracious reader, I get through whole books in a day, but I don’t think I’ve ever read a more hypnotically sexy male lead than the one sitting opposite me this morning. Magnetic doesn’t cover it. Nor does charismatic. I mean, he is both of those things of course, but so much more, too. When he speaks, he delivers his lines in a quiet, authoritative way, and the timbre of his voice is rich and low. It makes my blood vibrate.

  ‘Vintage champagne,’ he says now, topping up my signature cocktail. I can’t complain about the addition. I’d happily bathe in bubbles in one of those stripper size glasses given the chance, although in truth my pay cheque would barely withstand me bathing in Lambrini, let alone the real deal. A girl can dream though, right? Not that I want to right now. I pride myself on having a great imagination, but I don’t think I’ll ever get over it if this is a dream and I’m awoken by my alarm clock any time soon.

  ‘And then cassis, maybe,’ he murmurs. ‘To turn it blush pink.’ His gaze drops to my chest and then back up to my eyes again. ‘Are your nipples blush pink, Stacy?’

  The smallest of tiny gasps pops out of my mouth, and the smallest of tiny smiles touches his in response.

  ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘Pink, and painfully hard right at this minute.’

  He nods slightly, as if he knew that already.

  ‘You look sensational in your bikini on my beach, but I want to see you topless, so I’m going to unfasten your bra now, okay?’

  I swear to God I can feel his fingers between my bare shoulder blades, and he flicks the catch of my bra top open in one easy, assured move.

  ‘Better?’ I whisper, repeating his earlier phrase because by now my vocabulary skills are down to pilot light.

  ’So much fucking better,’ he says, and there is a background hint of urgency to his measured delivery now that makes me cross and uncross my legs just for the pleasurable friction.

  ‘Touch your tits for me,’ he whispers, and my hand clasps firm over my breast until I squeeze my nipple through my clothes.

  ‘I’m going to push you back on the warm sand now and suck your rosy nipples deep inside my mouth, Stacy,’ he says, and then for the merest millionth of a second he moves forward to touch his lips against mine and lets the tip of his tongue slide inside. When he moves away a little he’s staring into my eyes again.

  ‘You taste sexy,’ he whispers, savouring me. ‘Like sun cream and champagne.’

  God, I want him to kiss me again, more deeply, more tongue, more, more, more. I can feel the sun-warmed sand, sugar soft against my skin.

  ‘You’re overdressed for the beach,’ I say, my words quiet into his mouth. ‘Hot as you look in this shirt, it needs to go right now.’ I move my hand from cupping my own jaw to cupping his. I don’t give a fuck what anyone else on this train thinks anymore. There’s no one here but us.

  ‘Can you feel me unbuttoning your shirt, Jude? I’m going to slide my hands inside now.’

  He closes his eyes for a second, and I know he can feel my hands on his chest as surely as I can feel the gentle tug of his teeth on my nipples.

  When he opens them again, the dark filth I see there thrills me.

  ‘Your bikini bottoms tie with strings on your hips,’ he says, and this time when he kisses me he lingers long enough to open my lips with his own and whisper into my mouth. ‘Can you feel my hands on your hips, Stacy? I’m tugging on those strings right now, and they’ve just fallen open. I’m going to slowly drag the material between your legs so I can see you glorious and naked for me.’

  Fuck, I truly can feel it. My knickers slide against me as I uncross my legs beneath the table, and I whimper, actually fucking whimper because I want this to be real so very much.

  Jude sits back a little, putting mere inches of space between us. It’s probably a good thing, because if he’d deepened the kiss instead I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. I wonder if that’s why he’s moved back, and I both admire and resent his control. Then he pauses, reaches for his jacket and extracts an expensive-looking silver pen. I’m confused, and about to panic and yell 'Christ, don't stop now,' because I don’t want his number, I want an orgasm, and then he slowly pushes the pen across the table towards me and folds my fingers over it. I’m still confused, until he leans in and turns my jaw gently with his fingers so he can whisper in my ear.

  ‘I want you to slide
this inside your knickers right now,’ he mouths, smooching the screamingly sensitive skin just below my ear. ‘Open yourself and make sure you position it right against your clit, then give me your hands on the table top again.’

  I’m shaking, and then he turns my face back to his and kisses me again, his thumb stroking my bottom lip between our mouths. ‘Do it right now, Stacy. My cock is so fucking hard for you.’

  I’m uncharacteristically desperate to do as I’m told, and I risk a glance around to make sure no one is watching.

  ‘No one’s looking at you but me,’ he says. ‘Do it now, and then tell me how it feels.’

  I swallow painfully hard in my dry throat, and then I clasp the metal pen and move slightly so I can slide my hand inside the waistband of my skirt. I almost falter because somewhere in my brain I know this is wrong, but I also know that nothing in my life has even felt more right, so I move my hand inside the top edge of my knickers and sink the pen down between my lips. I suck in air sharply as the cold metal touches me, hard and intimate where I am overheated and soft. I close my eyes, overcome with the need to leave my hand there and touch myself.

  ‘Now open your eyes and give me your hands.’

  Jude’s voice makes my eyelids snap open, and I find him looking at me with those hot, turned on eyes, his lips slightly parted, his breathing pattern a little shallower than it had been a few seconds before. He takes my hands when I offer them to him across the table, his grip warm and firm, his thumbs massaging over the pulse points of my wrists.

  ‘Tell me how it feels, Stacy.’

  The regular jolting motion of the train has never been more welcome.

  ‘It’s cold, Jude, and I’m so very hot,’ I whisper. ‘And it’s hard, and pressing into me.’

  His thumbs draw firm circles on my wrists.

  ‘Cross your legs,’ he tells me, watching me carefully. ‘Feel it sliding against your clit.’

  I press my mouth into a straight line to hold the gasps in as I do as he says. The pen moves in my slickness.