Stories From The 6 Train 1(8)

I scoff. Right. “If only. But seriously. Spill.”

“Well, you have to wear a skirt, obviously.”

I look down at my leather miniskirt. Check. “If it were that easy, I think I’d be a pro by now.” Short skirts and boots are kind of my thing.

“It also helps if the train is crowded.”

I lift my eyebrows, staring at her as if she’s lost her mind. “You’re joking. And here I thought you were a good girl. Who knew you were a closet exhibitionist.”

She bites her lip. “Well, if you’re one of just a few people in the car then it’s kind of obvious if you’re moving around on someone’s lap. When it’s crowded, you can play it off that there’s nowhere else to sit.”

We break into a fit of giggles. Just…wow. Who would have thought that my prim and proper ex-roomie has a wild streak that puts me to shame?

“I’ll have to remember that,” I joke, though the idea of me having sex on a train is about as far out of the realm of possibility as me hitting the jackpot in Vegas. I’m having a bit of a dry spell lately. Which is why I have to live vicariously through Adrienne.

We have a few more drinks over the next couple hours as we catch up. I notice the time and sigh. “I hate to ditch this party, but I have an early morning tomorrow.”

I’m the event director at a conference center in Midtown, and tomorrow is going to be huge. We’re hosting one of the biggest bike shows of the year. I’ve been working my ass off for weeks, and the last thing I need is a hangover on the big day. Especially since I’m hoping I might make some connections that will get me out of the generic conference business and more specifically into the bike show arena.

We say our goodbyes, and I make my way outside and head east. Just as I’m approaching the subway, I see a freaking huge guy in a black leather jacket pacing by the stairs that lead underground.

But it’s not the look of pure rage or the stream of profanity spewing from his mouth that stops me in my tracks. Nope. That would be the hit of straight up lust that comes out of nowhere as I take in this insanely hot male specimen.

Too-long jet black hair that falls over his forehead into eyes that are nearly as dark. A sharp, angled jaw, so defined that it isn’t obscured by the scruff covering it. And lips that were made to sin. The filthy words coming out of them as he kicks the tire of a motorcycle only make it that much sexier.

I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat as I drag my eyes down his body. I’m not the least bit surprised that his black shirt and dark jeans cling to him, highlighting the fact that his bulk is made up of pure muscle.

Sexy as fuck biker man spins around again, then stops, his eyes locking on mine. And oh my god. Is it crazy to say that my knees feel weak? Because the heat in his stare is enough to make me swoon. Especially when that mouth curves up in a knowing smirk.

I jolt out of my lust-filled stupor, trying to jump start my brain. There is no way this guy doesn’t know I’m totally checking him out. And why wouldn’t I? He’s everything my inner wannabe biker chick fantasizes about.

So I do exactly what I always do. I take off.

Ripping my gaze from his, I fly down the stairs as fast as my four-inch boot heels will carry me, knowing that he’ll be the one I think about tonight when I’m alone in my bed.

You know, when I’m wishing I had the nerve to be like Adrienne and do something wild and crazy for a change.





7





Blaze





I don’t stop to think about it. I don’t even care if it’s a bad idea. All I know is that chick was hot as fuck and she just took off down the stairs into the metro station.

I grind my teeth as I look at my bike, broken down yet again on the side of the road. Then I throw it into neutral and push it over to the stairs, straddle it, and let gravity do its thing as I tip the front wheel over the first step.

Shocked gasps and curses hit my ears as I maneuver through the handicap access gate and toward the train platform, my eyes scanning for that bright red hair. A smirk crosses my mouth as I see her, and I coast straight into the car of the train she’s in and park my bike. I stay sitting on it, leaning forward on the handlebars as she turns toward me, green eyes wide.

“What the hell?”

I laugh. She almost looks indignant. Like my bike on the train is offensive. Shrugging, I let my eyes roam her body. Black boots, black skirt, faded t-shirt that hugs her like a second skin. Hot.

The flush that travels up her pale neck makes me want to rake my teeth across that perfect skin and leave marks. And when I see the edge of some intricate ink peeking out of the low neckline of that shirt, all I want to do is rip it off her and see what else is hiding under there.