Chapter 11: On The Bus

Marlee wore a pale-yellow chiffon blouse with a black pencil skirt that morning. Her long legs, sheathed in sheer nude stockings, caught the light, and white strappy heels clicked against the floor with each jolt of the bus. The look was both sensual and polished, and I stood so close I could catch the trace of her perfume. As the crush of commuters swayed with every lurch, my hips kept brushing the curve of her butt through her skirt. Part of it came from the bus. Part of it came from me. In a crowd this tight, you might bump into someone, but you don't end up glued together, unless that's the plan. Heat gathered, straining the front of my loose track pants. When I pressed in again, Marlee seemed to feel it. Color climbed her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She ducked her head, too flustered to meet my eyes, and tried to edge forward, only to be pinned between me and the cold stainless-steel bar. There was nowhere left for her to go. Delight spiked through me. After what she had done with her hand yesterday, I hadn't expected another chance to get this close so soon. So I leaned in again, without a second thought. The front of my track pants was clearly tented. When I used a touch more pressure this time, her face flushed deeper, blooming with heat. At last, she lifted her chin and managed a frown. I put on my most contrite face and said, "I'm sorry, Ms. Casson. The bus is just too crowded." My apology sounded sincere enough that some of the tension left her shoulders. "How's your injury?"  "Thank you for asking, Ms. Casson. It felt much better overnight. Walking doesn't hurt at all." "That's good." She turned her face toward the window again, shutting me out. I tried a friendly tone. "Commuting on a packed bus is pure misery. If Ezra isn't too busy, he should drive you to work." She said nothing, but her face fell, and I couldn't tell why. I wondered if something had happened between her and her husband. If we weren't on a bus, I might have hacked into her phone to see what could be learned. Time was tight. The hospital stop was only a few stops away, and she would get off soon. I couldn't let the chance slip by. We fell silent. I kept grinding against her, each press confirming how soft and full she felt beneath her skirt.  Marlee didn't react, which felt like permission. She stared out the window, cheeks flushed, resignation and embarrassment battling across her face. My boldness grew with her silence. I glanced around. Passengers who stood were bent over their phones or gazing out at the city sliding past. Many who had seats had their eyes closed, dozing. A wall of bodies shielded us from view. I drew a steadying breath and let my hand drift to the swell of her hip, then the curve below. She shivered, a small tremor running through her. Still, she did not stop me. I smiled inwardly. I figured I had a pretty good read on her by now. I squeezed, feeling the curve of her body. Her blush deepened to the roots of her hair, and her chin dipped. I knew she didn't have the courage to look back at me. Greedy, I let my hand slide lower, along the smooth line of her stockinged thigh. A feverish thrill tore through me, tight and almost painful. With no protest from her, my hand slipped under the hem of her skirt, fingers exploring where they had no right to be. All I felt was the warm, thin fabric and her wetness. A small involuntary sound escaped her. She caught herself and bit down on her lip, eyes still fixed on the window, terrified of being noticed. Her reaction pleased me. I kept rubbing her through the fabric, light and insistent. Her legs drew together, trapping my hand.  As I moved, she became even wetter. I looked down and noticed her liquid trickling down her thigh and staining her stockings. It was so captivating that I almost wanted to force myself on her then. But what thrilled me the most was that she didn't try to resist while I touched her. Perhaps she was deeply torn and struggling, yet afraid of being noticed by the passengers on the bus, so she dared not make a sound. I closed the distance, my chest against her back, my other arm circling her waist. Her whole frame went taut. Fear and confusion sharpened her features. While one hand worked beneath her skirt, the other climbed and settled on her chest, grasping the fullness through blouse and bra. Even through the fabric, she felt soft and responsive. I began to move both hands at once. She kept her head down and whispered, "Don't…" Her voice was barely audible, as if she were afraid of anyone hearing. At that distance, I caught every word. "Don't what?" I breathed against her ear, fingers quickening. She bit her lip again, as if the sensation pained her. She reached back blindly, catching my wrist. "Don't do this…" I ignored her and slid my fingers past her underwear. When I touched skin that was soft, yielding, and far too intimate, her breath hitched and she let out a sharper sound. The woman quickly covered her mouth. Yet, it was loud enough that a few men nearby glanced over.  I snatched my hands back at once. My pulse hammered. Her face went beet red.  At that moment, the bus jerked to a stop. The doors hissed open. Even though the hospital was only one more stop, she grabbed her bag and fled, stumbling onto the platform. Frustration burned through me. I had been one step from getting what I wanted. Three stops later, I reached the office building where my interview was scheduled, Hertz Tower. I stood at the entrance, took a few deep breaths, tried to put what happened on the bus out of my mind, and walked in. The company was called Swiss E-Commerce Corp, on the seventeenth floor of Hertz Tower. They sold children's goods and clothing online and ran their own shopping platform. My interviewer was a tall woman with short hair, dressed in a sleek black suit. We sat across from each other on the couch in the reception area, and I couldn't help studying her. Her skin was fair, her features fine, her eyes bright with a cool self-possession. Her neat short hair was tucked behind her ears, giving her a crisp, capable air. The fitted blazer and white blouse were paired with a black pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her long legs, crossed at the knee in sheer black stockings, drew the eye. "Introduce yourself," she said after glancing down at my resume, her face unreadable.