She was conscious only of the book in her hand and the steady passage of stations until she felt the prickling sensation of eyes upon her. Glancing up she was suddenly aware of how empty the carriage was. Looking left or right, there was only her, and the boy.
She'd noticed him when he'd got on just after King's Cross, then had forgot about him as the rumble of the train and the soft cadence of her inner reading voice shut everyone else out.
Now he was sat just across from her. Staring.
She was used to stolen glances from men on the tube. She was young, had good legs, firm, high breasts. She wore her assets well so it was to be expected. But usually men only gave her furtive looks. Pretending to notice something just beyond her. The boy was different. Wanton.
She was thinking boy, but he was probably nearer twenty. Now he was closer she could see a tattoo through the short bristle of his close cropped hair and make out more ink scrawled around his wrist and forearm. That and the football shirt with the knock-off trainers screamed bad news. Still. He wasn't bad looking.
His eyes were trailing over her thighs and lingering at the dark swatch shadowed by her skirt. He was aware she'd caught him looking, but he just smiled and kept his eyes on the space between her legs.
A wicked flicker within made her shift position, letting her dress ride up as her knees slipped further apart.