Clutching my Kindle in one hand and holding onto the
handrail for dear life with the other, I struggle to stay upright as the train
lurches from side to side. Wearing spike heels on the tube is far from
practical, but I can't bear to pair trainers with my suit skirt, even on my
daily commute. With a job like mine, I have to look good at all times – and
trainers stuck on the end of 40-denier legs stand out like a white dress on a
blue-lit dance-floor.
Plus, of course, you never know who you might meet...
Or rather, I know all too well who I might meet – another
reason I always dress to impress. I've been fantasizing about John Wood for
months now. Every morning on my journey to work, I reach the platform at Swiss
Cottage at 8.30 am on the dot.
Then, as my train hits the platform at St John's Wood, I
find myself peering eagerly out of the graffiti-scratched windows. It seems
John Wood – he needed a better name than Hot Tube Guy – is just as punctual as
me, and also automatically heads for the front carriage. Because, nine times
out of ten, I find myself smiling as I catch sight of his mop of jet-black hair
and the battered rucksack he has permanently slung over one shoulder of his
smart suit.
Of course, I'm far too British to do anything about it. As
soon as John Wood steps onto the train, I stare at my book and force my face
into a look of intense interest. I'm always grateful for the anonymity of
Kindles in those situations, seeing as mine is full to bursting with slushy
romances.
With the train always full, my preferred spot is standing
between the rows of seated passengers, ready to pounce if someone gets off.
John Wood usually stands by the doors, leaning casually against the glass – the
perfect spot for me to cast lustful glances his way. I notice every little
detail – his full lips, the way his dark hair curls over the collar of his
shirt, a glimpse of cobalt-blue silk suit lining.
I usually allow myself to indulge in a small fantasy, in
which I get off the train and hear running footsteps, then a voice behind me.
"I think you've forgotten something," JW says, holding out a piece of
paper. He smiles, showing two dimples – I've never seen him smile, but surely
he has them? – before pressing his number into my palm.
That's as far as I allow my imagination to travel. During
the day, at least. At night, when I've got time to indulge my fantasies, I
picture an entirely different scene. One in which the phone number leads to
drinks, which leads to dinner, which leads straight my bedroom.
There, John eases me gently but firmly onto the bed, pushing
his mouth, hard, onto mine. I explore his full lips, sucking, nibbling and
teasing, before his tongue slides urgently into my mouth, showing me without
words just how much he wants me.
My breathing becomes ragged as he looks me right in the eye
and slowly slides both hands across my shoulders, slipping them underneath the
straps of my top – then pulling them down roughly, making me gasp.
His kisses become tender as he slides his lips down my neck,
flutters them onto my chest and clamps them onto my nipples, which he takes in
his mouth one by one, teasing them with his teeth. Then, his tongue still
swirling around my left nipple, he looks up at me with a mischievous glint in
his eye.
Suddenly, he flips me onto my front in one deft move, grasps
each of my hands in his, and guides them onto the headboard. As I hold on
tightly, he kneels behind me, forcing my legs open with his knees and sliding
my skirt up onto my hips with both hands. Yanking my lacy black thong down to
my thighs, he takes a moment to drink in the sight of me.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, before plunging his head downwards, the feel
of his hot, soft mouth on my most sensitive spot making me groan with
pleasure...
None of which is likely to happen, of course. Not while I'm
too shy even to catch his eye. There's no reason to assume today will be any
different. As we reach St John's Wood, I see him standing there as usual,
examining the toe of a scuffed brown brogue. As usual, I smile, before
straightening my face as he slides into the carriage. Then... a distinctly
unusual wave of panic as, instead of taking up his usual position, JW strides
towards me.
As he makes his way down the carriage and squeezes next to
me, I draw in a sharp intake of breath. I've never been so close to him before.
What if he can smell the need pouring out of me? What if he can tell I've
already noticed how, even in heels, my head is the perfect height to nestle
underneath his chin? What if he can sense how instantly, utterly wet I've
become?
As the doors sweep shut and the train lurches away from the
platform, his smell hits me. Warm, raw and earthy. A scent that somehow smells
like home, but at the same time makes every synapse in my brain fire at once,
and my knees buckle at the thought of burying my head in his chest and
breathing in.
"Careful," JW laughs as I stumble towards him, my
legs barely able to keep me upright. I'm grateful, then, for the swaying of the
train – the perfect excuse to disguise the fact that I'm melting inside, lust
gripping my mind and body.
Glancing up at him as his firm hands cup my elbows, he's
still smiling – two dimples flashing in his cheeks.
"Thank you," I mutter, blushing bright, hot red.
"You want to be careful," JW grins, nodding at my
red stilettos as I ungracefully regain my balance. "You'll break an ankle
in those."
"Yeah, I know," I grimace, as his eyes glitter
with mischief. I almost think, then, that he can see into my mind and read my
thoughts. That he can see the scene playing out in my head, in which the
carriage is empty and we're both naked, my sweaty hands pressed against the
window as I straddle him, moaning, bucking, coming hard.
Luckily there are only two more stops before I have to get
off the train. Two stops pretending to concentrate on my book. Two stops
straining to identify the tinny tune coming from the headphones JW has pressed
into his ears. Two stops willing my legs not to fail me as I catch his
delicious scent time and time again.
In my head, the carriage is empty and we're both naked, my
sweaty hands pressed against the window
At last, we reach Bond Street and, screwing up my courage, I
nudge him goodbye. "I like Kings of Leon too," I smile as he takes
the buds from his ears. In fact, I'm fairly convinced that my sex really is on
fire...
"Yeah... and I'm a huge fan of Daisy Finds Love In
Manhattan," JW grins, nodding at my Kindle as I blush my reddest yet. So
much for my dignity.
Heading to the shoe boutique near New Bond Street where I
work as a manager, I can barely concentrate on my work. All I can think about
is JW. Pressing me against the tube train doors, my legs wrapped around him as
he thrusts me harder and harder against them. Sliding his hand slowly up my
thigh in the rush-hour crush, slipping his fingers deftly inside me. Watching
me intently as I kneel between his spread legs, taking him deep into my throat,
the vibrations of the train helping him shudder to orgasm.
"Excuse me? I said, do you have these in a 37?"
The voice of an irritated customer shakes me out of my oh-so-pleasant daydreams
and I get my head down and back to work.
But that night, grabbing my Rabbit and some lube, I replay
every scenario in my head again, adding layers of delicious detail, bringing
myself to a climax over and over again, until I'm exhausted.
When
The next morning, red-eyed but satisfied, I don't know how
I'm going to face JW. I've had such deliciously rude thoughts about him all
night it fells almost like I've invaded his privacy. No wonder my heart thumps
more wildly than ever as we pull in at St John's Wood.
Ducking down to peer through the window, I'm mortified when
JW catches my eye and holds my gaze for a beat, before breaking into that
knicker-melting smile of his.
"Shit," I mutter, my hands shaking as I try to focus
on my Kindle.
"Morning Daisy," JW grins as he sidles next to me.
"Morning.... you," I smile back, barely stopping myself from giving
away his nickname.
"Found love yet, then?" he asks, peering over the
edge of my Kindle. "I suppose Manhattan is as good a place as any to find
it."
"Better than the Jubilee Line," I reply – before
blushing bright red again. It's becoming a bad habit. But JW just laughs. As he
tilts his head back, I stare at the smooth skin of his throat, which is flecked
with stubble. You can tell he's shaved this morning, but is fighting a losing
battle against testosterone. A fleeting thought that causes an instant, urgent
throbbing between my legs.
"Nice shoes," he says, glancing down at my purple
platforms. "Wildly impractical. But nice."
"Thanks," I grin. "Nice suit. Is it
Burton's?" Coming from a fashion background, I can tell just from the
lining that it's Savile Row's finest, but I'm not about to let him know that.
I'm not interested in his money – although what I am interested in is nestled
pretty close to the wallet I can see bulging in his front trouser pocket.
"Something like that," JW replies, his mouth
twisting into a seriously sexy sideways smile. My mind refusing to keep things
clean, I wonder if slowly shedding my clothes in front of him might produce a
similar reaction. My thoughts carry on wandering in an entirely unsuitable
direction until JW suddenly nudges me.
"Er, isn't this your stop?" he asks, pointing
through the window. "Shit! I mean bollocks! I mean, yes!" I stammer,
flinging myself towards the doors to the sound of his low laughter. Damn, he's
sexy. And I'm a tongue-tied idiot.
Stumbling out of the carriage, I throw my Kindle into my
Mulberry before slinging it over one shoulder and half-running towards the
exit. Glancing at my watch, I realize I might have time to grab a coffee before
work, so I walk up the escalator, trying not to get my spike heels caught in
the metal slats.
I manage fine – I am a high-heel pro, after all – until I
reach the top, where my left heel jams in the ridges. As I step off the
escalator, I carry on walking, but my heel stays put. I yelp as I fall forward,
my foot twisting painfully out of my shoe as I hit the ground.
"Ow," I grimace, shuffling myself away from the
top of the escalator as a woman, wincing in sympathy, hands me my shoe.
Clutching my ankle, I prod it gingerly. It already looks bigger than the right
one, and is throbbing like mad.
"Are you okay, love?" a voice above me asks,
before its owner – a grey-haired tube worker with a kind face – crouches down
next to me. "We'd better get you an ambulance."
I sigh. I'm going to be very, very late.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm in an ambulance, swinging into
the entrance of a hospital. "JW was right," I think glumly, looking
at what's left of the mangled heel of my favourite Prada stilettos. "The
tube is no place for high fashion."
After being examined by a nurse in A&E – who eyes my
shoes hungrily like they're a tub of Ben & Jerry's – I'm ushered into a
side room to wait for a doctor. "You get VIP treatment today, love,"
she smiles. "Cubicles are all full, so you get a room to yourself. Doctor
won't be long – he just needs to check it's no more than a sprain."
Ignoring the 'No Mobile Phones' signs plastered around the
room, I tap out an apologetic text to my boss, then log onto Facebook. I'm busy
composing a hilarious update about my predicament when the door to my room
swings open. "Sorry," I mutter, hastily finishing my post and hitting
'send.'
I look up. And suddenly, it's not just my foot that's the
problem. Because I think I'm about to have a heart attack.
"Hello, Daisy," JW grins, looking annoyingly happy
to see me in such an undignified position. "Or should I say…."
Grabbing my notes, he scans them. "Eva Simon. Nice to meet you. I'm
Doctor James Ward," he smiles, holding out his hand.
"JW," I murmur, a smile playing on my lips as I
shake his hand.
"I won't say I told you so," James says,
"But, well…"
Perching on the end of the bed, he slides his hand under my
swollen ankle. Lifting it, he gently turns my foot this way and that.
"It feels better now," I say sheepishly, wiggling
my toes.
"It certainly does," James says, his voice
lowering. Taking my ankle in both his hands, he starts massaging it, stroking
my ankle, each time reaching slightly higher.
"Is this part of the treatment?" I ask, surprised
at how husky my voice has become within seconds of him touching me.
"If you want it to be," James says, holding my
gaze with a look filled with want.
"Yes," I manage, leaning forward and gently
tugging the end of his tie. In seconds, he's at the door, lowering the blind
and twisting the lock. Ignoring the dull throb in my ankle, I kneel up on the
bed, and a moment later he's there, leaning over me, his lips an inch from
mine.
"If you could only see into my mind, see what I've been
thinking these past few days," he whispers, his breath hitting my lips.
Then his are on mine, as hungry as I'd imagined, our tongues snaking into each
other’s mouths, exploring lips, teeth, and tongues.
Pushing me backwards onto the bed, he slips a hand up my
skirt. His fingers tease my clit through my knickers, his urgent kisses not
letting up for a second as the flimsy black lace is immediately soaked through.
Shoving the material aside with expert fingers, he dips into
me, stroking my clit with a firm thumb while his fingers seem to fill every
inch of me. His other hand slides up my waist, gently skims my breast, then
reaches my throat, where he grips it – firm yet gentle – steadying me as he
devours me, pressing his mouth harder and harder against mine.
Pushing me backwards onto the bed, he slips a hand up my
skirt, his urgent kisses not letting up for me to participate much.
Suddenly, he's yanking my knickers off with the hand that's
almost brought me to orgasm already, and for the first time, he stops kissing
me and stares deep into my eyes, his breathing fast and ragged. "I'm going
to have you," he tells me – a fact, not a question. "I'm going to
take you now, exactly how I've imagined."
Throwing his white coat on the floor, he takes a condom from
his wallet and undresses in seconds. Then, he's leaning over me again, tearing
my blouse open and ripping my bra down before burying his head in my chest. I
groan, bucking my hips and clutching handfuls of his thick dark hair as he
kisses the delicate skin, darting his tongue over my nipples.
Sliding my skirt up over my hips – exactly how I'd imagined
all those times – he slides his hands round to grip my bum, before suddenly
lifting me from the bed. Still gripping his hair, I arch my back and wrap my
legs around his waist.
With a grunt, he slams me against the wall, kissing my neck,
my chest, my face, one hand holding me up, the other twisting his fist into my
long brown hair. "I need you in me now," I snap, lust making me unrecognizable
even to myself. Pulling my hair to tilt my face upwards, James takes my lower
lip between his teeth, gently tugging and sucking.
Then, reaching his hand down so my bum is cupped in both his
hands, he holds my gaze for a beat, then thrusts forwards. As he fills me up in
one smooth movement, huge and hard, I worry I might pass out. "Oh
God," I gasp, as the first waves of an orgasm build – then crash over me
again and again as James rocks his hips back and forth, slowly at first, then
harder, faster, desperate.
I struggle to catch my breath and feel dizzy – but James
isn't finished. His delicious scent mingles with mine and fills the air as he
buries his face in my neck, pounding hard. I can feel he's nearly there – and
know that when it happens, I won't be able to stop coming again too.
The anticipation is blissful agony, but just a few moments
later, his face contorts, desperately containing his screams as he comes deep
inside me. He bucks against me, my thighs slick, and I can't stop another
orgasm overwhelming me, even bigger this time. I clutch hard fistfuls of his
hair, and arch my back against the wall as I try to take him deeper still
inside me.
As we both shudder and gasp, the waves gradually subside,
delicious ripples flowing through my entire body. As our breathing slows, we
stare at each other like we can't quite believe what we've found.
Finally, gently, James lays me on the bed, kisses my
eyelids, my cheeks, my throat. Then he grins, his dimples flashing, a tiny bead
of sweat gathering on a loose lock of dark hair hanging over his forehead.
"I take it back," he whispers, kissing me softly
on the mouth. "Wearing heels on the tube is the best idea ever."
