The Commute (Regular Sex Issue 1)

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 messy 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.