Isobelle coyly purses her lips, repeats his name. They lapse into a silence punctuated by the movement of the train. About to alight at his usual stop
“I'll take you to dinner. I'd like that.”
He doesn't take her number and after he's gone, without the heat of his gaze, she knows bereavement.
Later, Isobelle expresses herself in her lounge. She daydreams of his possessive stare and his taut, lean, torso as she kneels on the floor, wracked by longing. She splashes scented oil on her breasts and rubs each nipple dry. Her hips undulate with erotic slowness. She can feel her juices maddeningly begin to collect at the juncture between her legs. Each pink nipple stands proudly to attention, thighs trembling.
She roughly clips a budded breast between her thumb and index finger, forcing a noise in her throat. Isobelle half- crawls across the coarse carpet, enjoying the burn on her knees, the feel of a breeze on her lush pussy. She' s heavy with juice, ready. Isobelle listens to her breath, how it changes. At last, she hauls herself up on her haunches, circling her ample breasts with the palm of only one hand. The other nestles in her desperate folds, building towards her release.
On the train the following morning Ezra is nowhere. Isobelle finds herself searching.
He appears as usual on the home-ward ride- His brazen stare laced with ridicule. Did he sense her relief? Standing beside her, the weight of peak-hour bodies closing the distance between them as though intimate friends, Isobelle thrills. This is what life is all about. Her body vibrates and she struggles for breath. Mistakenly glancing up at him, his chocolate irises are dilated, seductive, fixated.
“I haven't been able to stop thinking of you”.
Isabelle's mouth falls open. She has nowhere safe to look. In a rush of brazen heat she meets his eyes.
“I want you too”
She feels warmth of shame through her body. His expression darkens. Talking in low tones they exchange numbers. All too soon he leaves their train.
After dinner she stares at the blank tv. Shaking fingers toy with her phone. It rings five times before anyone makes it to the receiver.
She breathes, he chuckles. The mirth fills up the phone, breaks the ice and descends into her body like whiskey.
Isobelle parts with her address. She fidgets in her front room and stares at where she has sunk to her knees and parted her sex for him over the last few days.
Finally they are about to meet.