The Commute (Regular Sex Issue 1) by Kitty French Read Free Book Online

 
     
    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