The train rumbled beneath her, the rhythmic sway of the carriage creating a soothing lull that barely masked the racing of her pulse. The book lay open in her lap, fingers resting lightly against the spine, eyes scanning the words, but her mind—oh, her mind—was slipping into something far more dangerous.
The woman in the story had been waiting for him. A planned affair, sneaky moments pressed between obligations and guilt. She had been trembling with anticipation, knowing exactly what she wanted. No soft whispers, no gentle prelude—just the sheer, undeniable force of need.
"He found her against the wall, her breath sharp, body taut with expectation. His hands framed her face, his lips devouring hers before she could speak, before she could deny what they both already knew. There would be no slow unraveling tonight, no careful seduction. Just raw, unapologetic hunger. She wanted to be fucked against the wall, hard enough to feel it for days, to be claimed in a way that words never could."
Her fingers tightened around the pages, breath hitching as the words painted themselves across her imagination. Heat pooled low in her stomach, the ache settling deep. She shifted slightly in her seat, pressing her thighs together beneath the dark fabric of her skirt, a futile attempt to contain the sensation unfurling inside her.
The train rocked again, the hum of conversations around her fading into a distant murmur. The couple seated across from her had no idea, nor did the man typing furiously on his laptop beside her. To them, she was just another commuter, immersed in her book, nothing more than a woman passing time.
But inside, she was coming undone.
Her skin prickled with awareness, as if sensing a phantom touch tracing down her spine. The story wrapped around her, every word drawing her further into the scene, her mind conjuring the heat of a firm body pressing her against a wall, the roughness of fingertips skimming over bare skin, the sharp, intoxicating contrast of soft lips and bruising need.
A breath. A pause.
Her fingers twitched, the urge to shift, to adjust, to do something almost unbearable. She imagined it—being pinned, the cool surface of the wall against her back, the undeniable force of another body caging her in, leaving her nowhere to go except closer.
"He held her there, one hand wrapping around the delicate curve of her throat, the other sliding down, claiming, taking. She arched into him, the slow drag of his mouth along her jaw a stark contrast to the unforgiving grip of his fingers at her hip. The first thrust stole her breath, sharp, unrelenting, the kind of pleasure that burned through hesitation, through reason. She gasped, nails sinking into his shoulders, surrendering to the force of it—the undeniable, consuming need of being fucked without apology."
She swallowed hard, forcing her focus back to the present, back to the steady hum of the train. Her fingers curled tighter around the book, knuckles white, as if the physical hold on it would somehow keep her tethered.
The heat between her thighs was unbearable now, an ache that had settled deep, insistent and demanding. She shifted again, exhaling slowly, forcing composure she no longer truly possessed.
When the train slowed for the next stop, the doors sliding open with a sharp hiss, a new figure stepped into her line of sight.
Him.
Her breath caught.
The same knowing smirk. The same eyes that had burned into her only hours before at the station.
He hadn’t planned to sit next to her—there had been no need for words—but when he did, the space between them felt electric. His thigh brushed hers as he settled, a deliberate press of heat that sent a shiver up her spine.
He glanced down at the book in her lap, then back at her, his smirk deepening just slightly.
He knew.
And suddenly, the wall wasn’t just in the pages anymore. |
