***
I’D MANAGED TO GET SORAYA out of my head somewhat the following day, but two mornings later, the obsession came back in full force.
The morning train was particularly crowded, and I didn’t get a seat. Hanging onto a metal pole for balance, I looked around me. I almost never actually paid attention to the people on the train, and now, I was reminded of why.
Fucking freaks.
At one point, my eyes wandered to the ground, to a woman’s foot diagonally across the aisle. My heart pounded furiously as my eyes landed on the same feather tattoo as Soraya’s. The toes of this foot were also painted the same shade of red.
Holy fuck.
It was her.
She took the same train! That must have been how she found my phone.
I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to be disappointed. It would be much better to just keep the fantasy going without actually having to face reality.
But God, I had to. I had to know what she really looked like.
Counting to ten slowly, I let my eyes slowly travel up the length of her legs that were crossed. Black leather skirt, leopard-print purse at her side, bright purple low-cut shirt showcasing in the flesh the rack I’d been fantasizing about. Then, my eyes landed above the neck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
She was looking straight ahead. Silky, straight black hair, dyed blood red at the bottom, tied back into a ponytail, displaying a long, delicate neck. Bright red lips in the shape of a perfect bow. Pinned-up nose. Big brown eyes like saucers. What do you know, the devil had the face of an angel. In fact, Soraya Venedetta was a bombshell. My dick twitched in excitement. If I was trying to forget her before, it was going to be impossible now.
When she turned and noticed me looking at her, our eyes locked. Unsure of whether she knew who I was, my heartbeat accelerated. Then, she simply looked away unaffected toward the train window.
Did she not know what I looked like?
I wracked my brain. There were only a couple of pictures of me in the phone, ones where I was dressed casually while visiting my grandmother. Maybe she hadn’t gone through the photos. No, Soraya Venedetta would have definitely opened her big mouth if she recognized me.
She didn’t know.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I continued to stare at her beautiful face in awe that this was the same person who had turned my life upside down the other day. A vacant seat caught my eye, so I sat down, took out my phone, and scrolled down to her name.
This was going to be fun.
Graham: Is your hair long or short?
It was the most innocuous thing I could think of to say. I figured if I’d started off telling her what I fantasized about in the shower this morning—oiling up those big, incredible tits and slipping my cock in and out—she might not respond again.
Soraya: Do you have a preference?
Graham: Long. I love a woman with long hair.
I couldn’t look in her direction, but I realized if I looked out the window I could watch her reflection. Her head lifted, and she glanced my way before looking back down at her phone.
Soraya: Short. I have very short hair.
Liar.
After she sent the text, a sly smirk tempted at her lips. I’d fix her.
Graham: That’s too bad. I had a recurring fantasy all day yesterday about you having hair long enough to tie around my waist.
I got a thrill watching that sly smirk disappear. Her lips parted, and I was certain if I were closer I would have heard a sharp intake of breath. She fidgeted in her seat for a minute before responding.
Soraya: Sorry. No can do. I’m under strict instructions not to engage in any oral activity for a while.
What the fuck?
Graham: From who?
Soraya: Whom. From whom would be the proper phrasing.
Graham: Proper text etiquette from a woman who sends porn to strangers.
Soraya: I don’t send porn to strangers. You just pissed me off. I wanted to show you what you were missing refusing to step down off your throne and see me.
Graham: If that’s the result, I plan to piss you off again. Often.
She stared out the window for a while. It was getting close to my stop. This woman had a way of getting under my skin, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on my eight o’clock meeting with her oral activity restriction comment hanging in the air. So I caved.
Graham: From whom?
Soraya: Delia
Fuck. Was she a lesbian? That thought had never even crossed my mind. What kind of a lesbian sends skin shots to a man?
Graham: You’re gay?
The train slowed as we pulled into my stop. If I didn’t have an important meeting, I would have stayed on just to see where she got off. Against my better judgment, I let my eyes wander to her before I stood to leave. Her head was down as she texted, but there was a smile on her face. A gorgeous, real smile. Not one of those plastered, practiced-in-the-mirror smiles that most of my dates seemed to perfect. No. Soraya Venedetta really smiled. It was a little crooked and a lot fucking beautiful.