The train hummed beneath her, the steady vibration traveling up through her seat, a rhythmic reminder of just how close she was to finally seeing him.
Two years. Two years of stolen late-night conversations, whispered fantasies shared in the dark. Two years of his voice in her ear, coaxing pleasure from her with words alone. Two years of teasing, of breathy confessions, of video calls where restraint crumbled and bodies ached across the distance.
And now--no more screens. No more miles between them.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the page of the book in her lap, the one he had sent her, pages creased where she had already lingered too long. He had chosen it carefully, knowing exactly the effect it would have on her, knowing she'd read it and think of them. Of him. Of the things they'd whispered about but never touched. Not yet.
Her pulse was already quickening.
The woman in the story was having an affair. A slow, smoldering, all-consuming kind of thing. And now, she was pressed against a wall, hands braced against cold stone, her lover's breath at her ear, voice thick with unspoken promises.
"You want this," he whispered to her in the book. "Don't pretend otherwise."
A slow exhale left her lips as she imagined herself in that moment, felt the press of strong hands at her hips, the sharp contrast of soft lips and raw, insistent need.
Her thighs clenched together instinctively, heat blooming low in her belly.
The train rocked over the tracks, and she let her eyes drift shut, just for a moment.
She pictured it--the crowd around her thinning, the space between them tightening. She imagined him finding her here, pressing her back against the cool steel of the train doors, his body against hers, holding her there with nothing more than presence and intent.
"Two years," he'd murmur against her skin. "Two fucking years, and you think I'll let you go now?"
She swallowed, shifting slightly in her seat, as if the movement would dispel the heat pooling between her thighs. The ache was unbearable, a deep, insistent throb that made her fingers grip the edges of her book too tightly.
What if he were here?
What if, right now, he was beside her, fingers trailing lightly over her thigh beneath the shield of her coat, teasing the hem of her skirt higher with each slow, agonizing second?
She imagined it--his touch barely there at first, featherlight, teasing, until her breath hitched, until anticipation coiled so tightly in her stomach that she had no choice but to react.
The idea of it, the risk, the unbearable tension of needing to stay composed in a train full of oblivious strangers, sent a shudder down her spine.
A couple across from her glanced up, their eyes lingering just a moment too long, as if they sensed something. She licked her lips, the thought sending another delicious shiver through her.
No one knew.
No one saw how wet she was beneath the lace of her underwear, how her body burned with want just from reading the book he had chosen for her, from knowing that in less than an hour, she would see him for the first time.
And what then?
Would he be patient? Would he take her hand and lead her somewhere quiet, whispering that they had all the time in the world?
Or would he claim her the moment she stepped into his space, pull her close and let all those years of tension unravel in a desperate, unrestrained collision of mouths, hands, bodies?
The train slowed.
Her body, still humming from the fantasy that had unraveled in her mind, was painfully aware of itself. Of the heat between her thighs, the throb of need that hadn't faded, and the pulse pounding at her throat.
She shifted in her seat, exhaling sharply, forcing herself to pull back from the edge of her own thoughts. The book in her lap felt heavier now, like a secret exposed. She snapped it shut, pressing her palms flat against the cover as though that would somehow steady her.
Because now, it was real.
This wasn't just another night of whispered words through a phone, of teasing messages sent in the dark, of video calls that always ended with both of them breathless, desperate, but still separated by miles.
No. This time, there was no ending the call. No turning off the screen. No space between them.
She was minutes away from him.
The platform came into view, and the carriage lurched slightly as the train pulled into the station. People around her stirred, shifting their bags, preparing to disembark, their movements so ordinary, so unaware of the storm brewing inside her.
Her fingers curled around the edge of her coat, a futile attempt to steady the tremor in her hands. The anticipation had her chest tight, her stomach fluttering in a way that was almost unbearable.
How would it feel to finally see him? To stand in front of the man whose voice had unraveled her night after night, whose words had made her body ache in ways she never thought possible?
