#public stuff

You had no idea why he was even riding the subway. Every day he wore a different suit coat, made from materials that looked way too out of place on the dingy public transport route. His slacks were always perfectly pressed, and a different tie circled his thick neck every morning. The buttons on his jacket clung to each other for dear life. Keeping your mind from the gutter was almost impossible when his entire person screamed with thickness.

It began some time during the first week. After a few days of shared intimate moments of eye contact, you were trapped. You had to know him. With each passing day, you grew more emboldened, moving through the thick crowd of people a little closer to him. Some days, the crowd was so bad that you had to move your head around to try to look for him while at the same time, trying not look like you were moving your head to try to look for him.

And two weeks later, here you were. Standing in front of him, your back to his chest as you planned a way to start a conversation.

Man, socializing with hot people was harder than you anticipated.

You smoothed your skirt down over your thighs anxiously with one hand, clinging (just barely) to the handle attached to the roof of the car with the other. Every stop, it seemed, more people got on than got off, packing the sardine can of a subway tighter and, more than once, causing you to bump back against him. You’d mutter an apology when this happened, and shimmy forward. You glanced down at your watch.

According to your past observations, you had about five minutes left on this damn thing. Who knew how much longer he’d be here, out of place in this stuffy car that reeked of morning breath?

Suddenly, the car jolted to a stop and the metal ring you were holding slid out from your fingers. Before you could make a fool of yourself, most likely tumbling to the ground and taking a couple others around you down with you, two sturdy hands wrapped around your waist.

You fumbled back and, instead of falling on your ass, you fell back against a solid chest. You hands flew to cover the two holding your steady.

“Careful.”

Warm breath washed over your neck, tickling your ear. You looked up, the back of your head barely brushing against his pectorals. Whatever you were going to say died in your throat as you got your first up-close look into his eyes. They were downright gorgeous: a deep hickory, as rich as the earth’s soil. His irises glimmered with flecks of gold, the color of filtered sunlight on carpet.

And oh, God, he smelled intoxicating. Hints of fresh soap and a masculine cologne played around your nose, drawing you further into his grasp. There was almost an underlying sense of musk that made you want to bury your nose in his suit coat and never leave.

You fumbled around in your head for information on closing your jaw while he quirked an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. Something wicked glinted in his eye.

Some time during your distraction, the subway had started moving again. His hands had not. Though you weren’t sure if that was because your own hands were still atop his, or because he simply hadn’t wanted to move them. You prayed it was the latter.

Finally, some semblance of self-respect crawled back into your head. You jerked your hands off of his, and he took the hint. He dragged his hands off of you, his fingertips lingering in a way that made you fight openly shivering. Immediately, you missed the pressure on your hips. You looked back down as a heat flooded your face, turning your cheeks a rosy pink.

“S- uh, Sorry. About that,” you mumbled. A soft chuckle sent a wave of goosebumps down your arms. You crossed them quickly.

“No problem. Really.”

The subway stopped again; this time you managed to snag the handle without toppling into the stunningly gorgeous man behind you. A muffled voice on the overhead claimed it was your stop.

You paused.

Were you supposed to tell him goodbye? God, no. You shut that idea down quickly. If you looked back, you might not have been able to keep from throwing yourself on him.

Hot breath washed over your neck, the smell of fresh mint curling in your nose.

“A woman in a skirt is a dangerous thing.”

You couldn’t stop the shudder that stole down your spine this time, the only acknowledgement you would give to his… compliment? Warning?

With only a small stumble, you pushed through the throng of people and stepped out of the car, taking the first full breath since you’d gotten on the damn subway.

The encounter with your mystery man ran through your head all through work and on the subway ride home. You couldn’t even look at the place you’d been pressed against him without a blush overcoming your features.

Once home, you threw leftovers in the microwave, ate, caught a (cold) shower, and slid between your sheets, wondering what it would be like to slide between his. The thought drove a frustrated groan from your lips. You flicked out the lamp, turned on your side, and dreamt of his hands on your hips and his breath on your face all over again.

You found yourself tapping your foot and shifting your weight impatiently. The subway was running late. You crossed your arms. Then uncrossed them. Then smoothed the skirt of your dress down, tugging at a loose thread.

Anxiety curled in your belly like a cat. It had taken you fifteen minutes of chewing your lip and turning the same two thoughts over in your head in order to pick which outfit to wear. With a glance at your clock and the realization that you only had about ten minutes before you had to leave, you grabbed the dress in one hand and jetted off to change. You never got the chance to ask what he meant by his skirt comment. Now, you would find out for sure.

The subway screeched to a stop in front of you. The doors opened painfully slowly.

And there he was.

Today, he sported a jet black suit coat and beige slacks, with shiny dress shoes. A red tie sat pressed against his chest, pinned to his shirt by a silver tie clip. A wad of spit gathered in your mouth. He looked absolutely divine.

And those damn eyes of his were on you in an instant, drawing you near to him as your slid past at least six different people. The subway was more crowded than usual today. The smell of armpit filled your nostrils. One rather birdlike old woman perched on a plastic seat sent you a nasty glare when you nearly tripped over her foot.

You held his eye until you were right in front of him, and turned around. Your back was mere inches from his chest. You could practically feel his eyes tracking down your frame. A dark chuckle sounded somewhere behind you. A smile slid over your lips.

The subway doors closed and the car took off. An elbow dug into your ribs, and you shot the scrawny guy next to you a pointed look. He shrugged his shoulders, muttered an apology, and looked out the window.

That’s when you felt it.

A rough, warm hand wrapping around the front of your thigh. A shaky exhale fell from your lips. Four fingers pressed into your skin, the fifth drawing small circles against the fabric on your thighs.

“You didn’t listen to me.”

His voice was a purr in your ear, lulling you to lean back. The scuff of a shoe somehow caught your ear amidst the din of the subway. Then his chest was pressed against your back, his nose barely ruffling your hair while he scrutinized you.

Your heartbeat pulsed in your ears. Just as you were about to open your mouth to say something, his thumb slipped under the hem of your dress, his hand sliding dangerously up your thigh.

You failed to stifle a whimper, a pathetic little sound barely audible over the noise of the subway. The chest at your back rumbled with silenced laughter. The pads of his fingers were warm against your skin as they drifted closer to your pantyline.

“Do you know how hard it’s been?” his breath stirred the hair tucked behind your ear. “To keep my hands off you for so long?”

A shudder stole over your whole body. You reached back to fist your hand into his khakis. The timber of his deep, breathy baritone shot a jolt of liquid arousal into your core. Your nerve endings crackled with desire.

Something akin to shame simmered in the back of your mind; you didn’t even really know this man. But here he was, his hand under your dress, his fingers skirting just under the hem of your panties, all in front of the crowd on the subway. Yet, you couldn’t find it in yourself to stop him.