Chapter 2: Train station
The chip bag crinkled, a absurdly loud sound in the tense silence between them. Chloe stared at it, unseeing, every atom of her being focused on the heat of Liam’s hand, the deliberate pressure of his fingertips so close to the heart of her.
“Liam,” she breathed, a warning and a plea all in one.
“Say it again,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm, sending shivers down her neck. “I dreamt about you saying my name.”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans and her underwear, pulling them away from her skin just enough for his thumb to find the damp, hot seam of her.
Chloe jolted, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. She slammed her own hand down over his, under the tray, pinning it there. Her eyes flew to Agnes. The old woman was peering out the window, a soft, almost wistful smile on her face, but Chloe couldn’t be sure she hadn’t heard.
“We can’t,” Chloe hissed, her voice tight.
“We are,” Liam countered, his own voice rough with want. He didn’t move his hand away. Instead, he began to move his thumb, a slow, maddening circle over the thin cotton of her panties. The friction was exquisite, agonizing. “This is just a hello. A proper hello.”
Every rational thought screamed at her to stop him. They were in public. Agnes was right there. Someone could walk down the aisle at any moment. But her body was betraying her, arching subtly into his touch, a soft, wet heat blossoming under his thumb. The train rocked, a consistent, rhythmic sway that felt like it was pushing her against his hand. The clack-clack of the tracks became a pulse, a drumbeat syncing with the throbbing between her legs.
“Look at me,” Liam said, his voice low and commanding.
She turned her head, her blue eyes wide, pupils dilated. He held her gaze, his own dark and burning, as he slowly, deliberately, pushed the fabric aside. The cool air of the train car hit her exposed flesh for a second before his finger found her, skin to slick skin.
“Fuck,” he murmured, the word reverent and filthy. “You’re soaked for me. Already.”
He traced her, learning her all over again, from the stiff, aching peak of her clit down to her opening, which clenched around nothing, desperate. Chloe bit down on her lower lip, hard, to stop a moan. The world outside the window—the fields, the fading light—smeared into an Impressionist painting. All that was real was the rough texture of the vinyl seat beneath her, the sterile scent of the recirculated air mixed with salt from the forgotten chips, and Liam’s finger sliding through her folds, painting her with her own wetness.
“Please,” she whimpered, not knowing what she was asking for.
“Tell me what you want,” he teased, circling her entrance but not entering. “You have to say it.”
She shook her head, embarrassment and desire warring. Across the aisle, Agnes cleared her throat and began rummaging in her tapestry bag. The sound was a bolt of lightning, a reminder. Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“Liam, someone will see,” she managed, even as she pressed herself harder against his hand.
“No one’s looking,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “They’re all in their own worlds. Just like us.” He finally pushed a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. “Now tell me.”
The stretch, the fullness, however slight, broke her. “More,” she gasped, the word torn from her. “I need more. Now.”
That was all the permission he needed. He sank his finger deep into her, a smooth, claiming stroke that made her eyes roll back. He added a second almost immediately, the stretch delicious, filling her exactly as she needed. He fucked her with his fingers, slow and deep at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of the train, his palm grinding against her clit with every thrust.
Chloe’s knuckles were white where she gripped the armrest. She turned her face into the cool glass of the window, her breath fogging it. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, a spring wound to its breaking point. The sounds were obscene—the wet, slick noise of his fingers moving in her, his low grunts, her own ragged, choked breaths. She was painfully aware of the public space, the danger, and it twisted the pleasure, making it sharper, more illicit.
“Come for me, Chloe,” Liam growled into her ear, his words hot and urgent. “I want to feel you come on my hand. I want to taste it later. Do it.”
His thumb found her clit again, pressing hard, circling relentlessly as his fingers curled inside her, hitting a spot that made her see stars.
The climax ripped through her with violent, silent intensity. Her body locked, every muscle taut as a bowstring. A soundless scream opened her mouth as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, radiating from her core out to her fingertips and toes. She pulsed around his fingers, a frantic, rhythmic clutching, her hips bucking against his restraining hand.
He held her through it, his movements gentling, prolonging the spasms until she was a shuddering, boneless heap against the seat, utterly spent.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers. In the shadowed space below the tray, he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, his eyes locked on her flushed, dazed face. The obscene gesture sent a fresh, weak jolt of desire through her.
“Fucking perfect,” he said, his voice thick.
Reality seeped back in, cold and sharp. The sound of a child laughing a few rows back. The ping of a text message from someone’s phone. The scent of coffee from a passing attendant’s cart. Chloe fumbled with shaking hands, pulling her jeans and underwear back into place, the denim now feeling rough and confining against her sensitive skin.
She dared a glance across the aisle.
Agnes was looking directly at her. There was no disapproval in her gaze. Instead, there was a profound, weary understanding, a lifetime of memory in her milky blue eyes. She gave the faintest nod, so slight Chloe almost missed it, before returning to her novel, her gnarled fingers smoothing a page.
Shame, hot and sudden, flooded Chloe. She looked at Liam, who was wiping his hand on his jeans with a look of primal satisfaction.
“You’re insane,” she whispered, but there was no heat in it, only awe.
“For you,” he said, leaning back in his seat. The frantic energy that had gripped him was gone, replaced by a deep, sated calm. He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers on top of the snack tray, in full view of the world. “Just wait ‘til we get to your empty apartment.”
The train announced its approach to a small town station, the intervoice crackling with static. The world outside was now fully dark, their reflection a ghostly double in the window. Chloe leaned her head on his shoulder, the coil of desire in her belly already beginning to tighten again, anticipatory and new. The journey wasn’t over. It had just begun.