Gloria's Revenge (Gloria Book 2)

by Nelle L'Amour

  “I’m so sorry,” I squeaked at my victim whose face was still buried in his WSJ.

  He flexed his leg muscles under my muscular butt, signaling me to get up, and then slowly lowered his newspaper. A smirk curled on his lips. Oh those lips!

  My heart leaped into my throat. Adonis!

  “Sit,” he said, motioning to the empty window seat next to his.

  “Um, uh, I’m in economy,” I stuttered, my eyes unable to leave his face, no matter how humiliated I felt. Up close, he was even more beautiful than I imagined with his chiseled nose, strong, angular jaw line, and piercing eyes the color of sapphires.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll handle it,” he said with a wink.

  Holy shit! Adonis had just winked at me!

  “Sit,” he growled, this time as if it were an order.

  With a powerful heave of his knees, he bounced me to my feet, forcing me to plop down next to him.

  Holy shit again! I was going to spend the next hour and a half sitting next to this gorgeous man—a man that existed in my dreams—and now I had no idea what to say. My heart pounded.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, in a coy tone that suggested he was daring me to answer.

  “Sarah,” I replied, pulling myself together in time to reply in a very business-like voice.

  “Saarah,” he repeated, his voice deep and sexy.

  The way he said my name, drawing out the first syllable with breathiness—sent a chill down my spine. I could not help thinking of my favorite song from one of my favorite movies, West Side Story. Yes, the soft way he said it was almost like praying.

  “Ari,” he said next, not giving me time to ask the obvious.

  A fitting name. Almost like Ares, the Greek god of war. This man was a warrior. A beautiful warrior. And I was soon to find out that conquest was his middle name.

  I held out my slender hand to shake his. Truthfully, I didn’t know what else to do. His long, tan fingers entwined mine. His grip was strong. Powerful. Slowly, he raised my hand to his lush lips. Blood rushed to my head as they pressed ever so gently against the back of my palm. One by one, he unfolded my fingers, sucking each one as if they were candy sticks. The wetness of his warm saliva glistened on my fingertips. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and wetness pooled between my legs. What the hell was he doing? And why the hell was I letting him do it?

  My heart was racing as fast as the Amtrak. I needed to stop this. Move to another seat. My eyes darted around the cabin, but still there were none to be had. No one seemed to notice what was going on; they either had their faces buried in newspapers or books, or were occupied with their smartphones, iPads, or Kindles.

  This was just not right. I was sitting next to a complete stranger and letting him suck my fingers. He could be a total whack job… molester… or serial killer. Who knew? Though my fear was fleeting, I made up a desperate clichéd excuse. “Um, uh excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” Actually, I really did. I needed to get away from this mysterious, seductive stranger and get a grip.

  “It’s right behind us,” said Adonis dryly, returning to his newspaper.

  I leaped up from my seat. Tripping over my bag, I caught a glimpse of Trainman’s bemused expression. He refused to move his long legs, forcing my butt to brush against them as I made my escape.

  The door to the unisex restroom located at the back of the cabin was locked. That meant someone was inside. I tapped my foot impatiently, my head filling with the image of the blond, blue-eyed Adonis sitting next to me. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? These kinds of things never happened to geeky me. They were the stuff of novels and movies. Not my boring all-work-no-play life.

  “Hi.” A familiar velvety voice catapulted me out of my thoughts, and a waft of warm breath blew across the nape of my neck. I spun around.

  My mysterious stranger. His crisp blue eyes burned into mine, making my temperature soar, and my legs turn to jelly. What was he doing here? I suppose he had to go. I couldn’t stop that.

  I turned my head away, and stared squarely at the bathroom door, praying silently that whoever was in there would hurry up. He blew hot air on my neck again and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me tight against his rock-hard body. A bulge pressed against my buttocks. I was getting sick to my stomach and might need the bathroom more than I’d originally thought.

  Finally, the door burst open in my face; a sour-faced, overweight matron barged out. Calling on every muscle in my body, I broke free of Trainman’s grip and hastily dashed into the stall and the stench she left behind. My hands shaky, I fumbled to slide the latch, but before I could get it through the lock, the door forcefully swung open.

  “I couldn’t wait,” Trainman growled, pushing me against the cold metal sink basin. He thrust his hips tight against mine. I was trapped.

  He leaned in close to me. A mix of his warm, minty breath and expensive cologne rushed into my nostrils, eradicating all traces of the fetid odor. His eyes narrowed, turning into collectible slivers of blue sand glass. His mouth descended onto the right side of my neck then slowly trailed upward to my earlobe. He clamped his warm, moist lips on the cartilage, alternating between nipping and sucking it. Oh my God! I didn’t know my earlobes could feel so much. The last time they felt anything was when I got them pierced in eighth grade. And that was pain. Pure pain. Now what I was feeling was joy. Pure, tingly joy… and the sensation was coursing through my entire body.

  Still pressing me hard against the sink with his hipbones, he pinched my dime-size nipples between his thumb and index fingers and then began massaging them in small counterclockwise circles, each rotation harder than the one before. Magically, the buds elongated and hardened beneath my navy cotton t-shirt. A new I-want-to-burst-out-of-my skin sensation gathered in the triangle between my legs. I moaned softly.

  “You don’t wear a bra,” he murmured in my ear.

  I rarely wore a bra because I really didn’t need one. My boobs never got past a small A-cup, the size of old-fashioned champagne saucers. Before I could say a word, that is if I could utter a word, he whispered, “Sexy.”

  Moi, Sarah plain and tall, sexy? And this coming from this gorgeous beast? Pinch me. I must be dreaming this entire fantasy. As if on cue, he pinched one of my nipples again. My sex roared silently in delight. No, this was real. And it was happening to me. Sarah Greene. Art school graduate. Aspiring toy designer. Twenty-five-year-old virgin.

  I stared at his beautiful face. His eyes were tilted downward. A sly smile tipped to the left made me nervous. In a good way.

  While one hand continued to twirl a nipple, the other slid down my torso past my tight, twisted abdomen and under the elastic waistbands of both my skirt and pantyhose. His hands felt like hot velvet as they explored my inner thighs.

  “Hmm,” he moaned. “No panties?”

  I never wore panties with pantyhose. Why bother? They were called pantyhose for a reason. And I confess, not buying expensive panties—and bras—saved me a lot of money—money I needed desperately to visit my sick mother.

  “Very sexy,” he said, enunciating each syllable, as his fingertips made their way to the triangle between my legs. They stopped to caress my patch of hair, stroking it as if were a beloved pussy… cat.

  “So soft and silky,” Trainman purred as if I were auditioning for one of those look-at-my-gorgeous-hair product commercials.

  After a tug of a curled clump, his fingers plunged lower to the smooth folds between my legs. They explored this new territory eagerly like someone who was searching for gold. And then he discovered it. The nugget. Greedily, he rubbed the pad of this thumb around his discovery with intense little circles that were driving me insane. A loud moan escaped my lips.

  “You’re so wet,” he crooned.

  That was an understatement. I was swimming in my own juices. My eyes caught a glimpse of him. A wicked smile crossed his face, and his blue eyes glistened.

  He squeezed the tender folds of my labia together and then
used his fingers to spread them apart.

  “I want you,” he moaned, his voice all hot and breathy.

  And despite myself, I wanted him. More than anyone or anything. Well, except for my mother getting well again.

  Still massaging my clit with his thumb, he plunged his long middle finger into the cavity between the folds. I gasped, not prepared for the shock of penetration. Shockwaves spread throughout my body as his finger glided up and down the soaked, spongy walls. In and out, each thrust deeper than the one before.

  “Baby,” he moaned. “You’re so hot.”

  I gasped again, still not sure this was really happening. My core was aching for more. Desperate for it. Why was I not resisting?

  “I’m going to take you now,” he growled.

  Take me where? I didn’t want to be anywhere, any place but here in this cramped bathroom with this mysterious sorcerer who was doing his magic on me.

  Using his free hand, he yanked down both my skirt and hose. My eyes glanced down at my skirt puddled on the floor and my pantyhose scrunched up above my combat boots. His hand made its way back upward, and I heard him unzip his fly. My gaze stopped short at a massive hunk of pink, veined flesh that was aimed at my crotch. Yowzer! I was ready to surrender. Yes, take me now.

  “Sit on the sink,” he ordered.

  I was in no condition to argue. I plunked my buttocks down on the edge of the steely basin. The cold metal gave me goose bumps all over. He pulled off my boots and the hose.

  “Now, spread your legs.”

  Yes, sir.

  He placed both hands on my boyishly narrow hips to anchor me. An intensity washed over his face. Like an artist who was contemplating painting his masterpiece.

  “Now, take me and insert me where you want me.”

  Holy shit! He wanted me to touch that monstrosity? Cradle it in my hands? Our eyes met, mine wide-eyed with fear and excitement, his hooded with determination and desire.

  Hesitantly, I wrapped my slender fingers around the pillar of flesh, surprised that they could circle around it despite its diameter. I’d never felt a man’s cock before. The touch beneath my fingers was hot, velvety, and pulsating. I knew exactly where I wanted it. The hollowness inside me was crying out for it. I need to be sated by him. Totally consumed.

  Gently, I angled it upward toward the opening between my legs. I slid the tip inside. He gave it a sharp thrust, jettisoning his erection deep inside me. The initial pain and shock of the hard fullness was enough to make me almost fall off the sink, or into it, but as my muscles relaxed, it felt good. Like it belonged and had found its home sweet home.

  “Oh baby, you’re so tight.” Rolling his tongue over his lips, he gripped my hips and lifted me off the sink basin so that we were almost face-to-face. My feet dangled like a rag doll’s, not touching the floor below.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, pressing his hard body close to mine.

  In no condition to argue, I did what he said, wrapping my long legs around his lean torso like a pretzel. He gripped my thighs. My arms swung around his neck, and I squeezed him tightly, clasping the rich fabric of his suit jacket between my fingers. This was one ride I did not want to fall off.

  Pressing me firmly against the bathroom wall, he thrust his stone-hard cock deeper into me, and I gasped with a mixture of shock and ecstasy as the tip rammed against a hypersensitive spot. He groaned. He slid his rod down and then thrust it upward again, this time even harder against the bull’s eye. I moaned. He groaned louder. He repeated the pattern, speeding it up with every in and out. How could that giant thing between his legs fit so easily and comfortably inside me? Every thrust elicited a moan from me, louder than the one before, and a groan from him, deeper than the previous. I moved my arms to his buttocks, folding them firmly around the rock-hard cheeks under his trousers, and fell into the rhythm of his in-and-out movements. Our breathing grew ragged.

  “Oh baby, what you do to me,” he groaned, his voice an octave deeper, and sexy beyond belief.

  “Don’t stop,” I pleaded, my voice breathy, my mouth dry.

  “Don’t worry.”

  He planted his thumb back on my clit and massaged it vigorously as his greedy length glided up and down my flooded tunnel, hitting that mega-spot again and again. My temperature was rising. Sweat was pouring out of every crevice of my body. Squeezing my legs tighter around him, I closed my eyes to savor the unbearable pleasure this gorgeous beast was giving me.

  “Are you on birth control?” The words drifted through my head, not expecting them. I managed a throaty “yeah” as he thrust his member once again into my tunnel of joy. I had been on the pill for several years due to my irregular cycle.

  “Good, baby,” he murmured in my ear. He yanked back my head by my ponytail and rolled his hot, velvety tongue up my neck. So, this was my reward for the right answer. The sensation drove me crazy. I felt like a puppy being scratched in her favorite spot.

  He accelerated his pace, of both the banging and massaging. Whimpering, I didn’t think I could take it anymore. My sex throbbed as a wildfire raced through my body, shamelessly kindling every nerve inside me, from my head to my toes. I was about to implode.

  Without warning, I felt him exploding. “Oh, Saarah,” he groaned, drawing out my name. I convulsed around him, my own deep explosion sending waves of ecstasy throughout me. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I wasn’t sure if I was saying the words aloud or screaming them silently in my head. What was happening to me? I’d never had such a mind-blowing experience.

  Slowly, he pulled out of me. I was surprised at how big and rigid his now glistening cock still was. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, cleaned himself up, and then adjusted his pants over his thick length. I don’t think he was wearing underwear either.

  “Sarah,” he said as he zipped up his fly, “do you still have to pee?”

  “Yes,” I stammered, as I pulled up the remains of my pantyhose and slipped on my skirt. I was shaking, dazed and drained from his plundering.

  Trainman rolled his eyes and then let me pee in peace. And privacy.

  After latching the door, I sat on the toilet longer than I needed to. Tremors tearing through me, I gazed down at the big rip in my pantyhose, in the so-called “reinforced” crotch area. A creamy substance coated my inner thighs. The events that had just happened reeled around in my head while orgasmic vibrations were still coming at me with the recklessness of a rockslide. Why did I let myself do this? Why? Neediness? Insecurity? Maybe a desperate escape from the anguish my dying mother was causing? Or just because this man was the sexiest member of the opposite sex I’d ever laid my eyes on? Finally, I tore off a generous piece of toilet paper and wiped by bottom from front to back just like my mother had taught me. A translucent layer of ruby-veined semen clustered on the soft white paper. I was bleeding. Reality hit me like a brick. I had just lost my virginity to a stranger on a train.

  In a state of mild shock, I slowly raised myself from the toilet, pulled up my damp, crotchless hose, and washed my hands in the sink that now held so many memories for me. I splattered a little of the cold water on my face and sipped some from my hands to quench my parched mouth. For the first time, I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection startled me. My hair was disheveled; my big brown eyes half-moons, and my full-lipped mouth locked in a parted pout. I was no longer the girl who, only minutes ago, had almost been squished by a pair of automatic train doors. I looked like a woman. A woman who had just been fucked. Big time.

  Hastily, I fixed my ponytail and splashed some more water on my face. I glimpsed at myself again in the mirror. Not too much better but, at least, better. Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the door and made my way back to my seat. My body was quivering. Especially the part between my inner thighs.

  Trainman smiled when he saw me staggering down the aisle I was shocked by how put together he looked, his golden hair neatly back in place and his blue eyes twinkling. Maybe he was a pro at this—having some n
ice, innocent girl as a meal ticket home.

  This time in true gentleman fashion, he rose from his seat and let me sidle to mine with a modicum of grace. We were back to sitting side by side.

  As the speeding train passed through different neighborhoods, from the poorest to the toniest, we shared a self-imposed silence. Whatever we were thinking in our heads was enough to keep us entertained. I wondered—who was this man… what did he do… why did he choose me? Words stayed trapped in my throat. I swiveled my head sideways and stared at his gorgeous, high-cheekboned profile that showed off his long eyelashes, strong chin, and fine Roman nose. What was he thinking? The impassive look on his face made his thoughts unreadable, and it frustrated me.

  The delicious, constant throbbing inside me would not die down, and in fact, intensified with the friction of the zooming train over the tracks. Overwhelmed with a mixture of bewilderment, awe, and a touch of guilt, my eyelids grew heavy. I set my comfy leather chair into a reclining position while Ari pulled out his iPhone from his briefcase and caught up on e-mails. His skilled hands moved quickly on the touch screen keyboard. God, he was good with those fingers! Unable to read what he was writing, I peered out the window and soaked in the scenery. Before long, I could no longer keep my eyes open and drifted off.

  “Last stop, New York Penn Station.” The loud announcement woke me with a startle. I blinked open my eyes, to find my head resting on Ari’s broad shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, collecting myself.

  “Don’t be.” He gave me a quick dimpled smile that rendered me breathless.

  He helped me to my feet. “Ladies first.”

  As I side-stepped past him and made my way to the automatic sliding doors, the sinking feeling that I might never see him again set in.

  Penn Station was stinking hot and bustling with commuters and tourists, and it wasn’t even summer yet. It tasted, smelled, and sounded like 30th Street Station’s ugly stepsister. Ari clasped my hand as we wove our way in and out of the bustling crowd of rush hour commuters and ubiquitous homeless. His hand was warm, the grip firm but not too tight. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, his stride a blend of grace and arrogance. He was clearly an expert on manipulating this oppressive swarm of people. Despite having lived in the city for almost two years and taking my share of subways, I had yet to master the ruthless New Yorkers always in a hurry to get where they were going.