Billionaire Stepbrother: Autumn (Our Forbidden Year Book 2) (6 page)

E
xhausted from a day stuck in a dank office complemented with peeling paint, I managed to catch the last bus home. I stared out the window and tried to relax. Sitting in the shadows at the back of the bus, I let my mind wander; I wasn’t really thinking about anything, just enjoying the occasional mechanical vibration coming from the juddering engine, which was amplified beneath my seat.

Directly above the rear wheel well of the bus were my favourite seats. Whenever the bus was stationary or in a low gear for too long, at a red light or at a drop off point, the idling tremors would gently shake my body with delight. With my eyes closed and the steady roll of my hips, I could easily melt into a rhythmic wave. And that was exactly what I planned on doing. Tied to my desk for the best portion of eight hours with an extra large helping of forced overtime (my boss was a bloody tyrant but one you dared not say no to), I was long overdue for a bit of me time. I was going to enjoy myself on the way home. The bus was practically empty anyway, and no one could see me. At least that’s what I thought.

I’d failed to correct the wayward material of my short black office skirt when I sat down. The tops of my thighs were clearly visible to anyone looking, and the silky sheen of nude tights clung to my skin. I shuffled into a more comfortable slouch as the harsh fabric of the seat, rough and sisal-like, prickled and bristled against the backs of my legs. The skirt climbed wickedly higher, and the majority of the black material bunched up and gathered just before the round of my bottom. I felt deliciously exposed.

I flicked my eyes open and was vaguely aware of a few people shuffling towards the front of the bus as it eased to a stop. I could hear muffled thanks being parroted to the driver as a new ripple of tremors coursed their way up through my seat, accumulating and circling beneath my knickers.

With the bus on its way again, I allowed my legs to part and began to rock ever so slightly in my seat, pausing when the chair let out a small squeak.

I clenched my butt. My breathing became shallow and irregular. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I needed to be careful, even though I knew the bus was practically empty. Sounds around me were amplified. I heard it all — the rustle of my clothes, the tiny whistle of air as it travelled through my wind-pipe, a deep rasping cough from an elderly gentleman sitting up front.

I desperately wanted to touch myself. To reach down between parted legs and rub my gloved fingers over my longing clit would be heaven.

I quickly glanced around. I couldn’t see anything but shadows near the back. The tall uprights of the seats gave me the privacy I desired. I looked to the front; the bus driver was too far away and was concentrating on navigating the road ahead. Intermittent illuminated buildings whizzed by in the dark night. There was hardly a soul braving the typical English weather outside. No one would see me. Even if they scanned the passing bus they’d just see a young woman with her head resting against the glass and her eyes closed. Sleepy perhaps from a long commute, on her way home after a hard day’s toil managing growing stacks of paperwork.

I moved my right hand that had been resting on the seat beside me and placed it gently onto my lap. One step closer to my intended goal. The soft leather of my gloved hand eked out a tiny squeak when it came in contact with my skirt. Trying not to be too eager, I paced myself. I reached with long fingers, careful not to move the palm of my hand, and gathered up the rising hem of my skirt.

The ache between my legs craved to be touched. I extended my finger further and came upon that magical hard button and sighed as I worked it over the layers of cotton and nylon. The temptation to be free of these restrictions grew. I moved my finger back and forth, in a circular motion, moderately at first but gradually increasing the speed and pressure, faster and harder. My chest rose and fell violently, and I bit my lip. My whole body urged me to move, to grind and squirm against the pad of my gloved finger. I wanted to rip through the crotch of my tights and slip a finger, or two, deep into my wet hole.

Without realising, I had slipped my left hand underneath my jacket and cupped my breast. Squeezing it firmly like a stress ball, I searched to find the tip of my nipple encased within my balconette bra. Once found, I clasped it hard between my thumb and forefinger.

Below, deep within me, I felt a steady rise and a sudden rush as the swelling between my two fingers, on either side of my clit, pulsed like a vein ready to burst. The warm glow accelerated through me like a driver speeding to the finish line, but it all came crashing to a halt as I heard the crunch of a dry newspaper falling upon the dirty, sodden floor.

My eyes flashed in the direction of the interruption, diagonally opposite and one row behind, and I caught the gaze of two cold light blue eyes peering out of the shadows, staring at me. His left hand was outstretched, frozen, midway to the wayward newspaper.

“Hi,” he said.

From his vantage point, I didn’t think he could see where my hands were placed, but needless to say, I moved them with lightning speed and pinned them rigidly to my sides.

However, I’m sure my face told a different story. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I could feel them burn and shine like red stop lights beaming in the night.

With some effort I pulled my eyes from his; I looked away, concentrating on my breathing and not passing out.

Had he been watching me the whole journey?

Continue reading -
Quiver: Enticed by Shadows

Copyright © 2014 by Emilia Beaumont

Published by Beaumont Erotica

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

All characters appearing in this work are fictious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Billionaire Stepbrother:Autumn

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Thanks for reading

Author Cross-Promotion

Quiver - Chapter One