I suck in a breath. “Do I look that bad?”
“You look tired, and I know you had these clothes on yesterday because I remember peeling them off.” His lips inch closer as he speaks, and his breath finds my neck, sending tingles down to my core as he sucks at my flesh, trailing kisses along my jaw. His stubble grazes my skin, and I relive the memory of yesterday.
“Do you still have your big knickers on?” he whispers, then licks below my ear.
I giggle, and before I can confirm or deny, his fingers tease their way under the elastic of my leggings, and he roams the cotton fabric of my underwear with a big cheesy grin on his face.
“Go on, say what you want to say?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“I know you’re dying to say something about my big knickers.”
“Me?” He laughs. “I wouldn’t.”
“Just tell me what’s funny?”
“Okay. It just reminds me of that phrase you always said, something about food pickers and big knickers.”
I smile. “Fridge pickers wear big knickers.”
“There it is.”
I swat his chest. “You weren’t complaining yesterday when you took them off. If you don’t like them, go back to Miss World. You could probably floss your teeth with hers.” I fold my arms over my chest, stick my chin out, and turn my head in a huff. “That’s if she’s even wearing any underwear.”
He nuzzles into the crevice of my neck, his hands still under the fabric of my leggings, and he squeezes my arse cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” His hot breath swathes my skin as he laughs and continues to nip and suck my neck, making me giggle. “I still have your red lace ones,” he whispers.
“Please tell me you washed them.”
He lifts his head and grins.
“You washed them, didn’t you?” My brow wrinkles, waiting for him to respond.
He laughs.
“You sicko.”
He laughs harder. “Course I fucking washed ‘em. I was gonna give ‘em back, but I forgot. I was only teasing you about keeping them.”
“Oh. Where are they now?”
“I packed them with the rest of my stuff that reminds me of you.”
“In your mum’s attic?”
“No. They’re in a suitcase with your book and photo, coming to Australia with me. I like to have them to hand when I think about you.”
“When you?” I cough and my eyes widen.
He nuzzles my neck and whispers, “Yes, Steph. When I fuck myself, I rub them against my cock and think about you in your stockings and imagine your wet pussy wrapped around me and your big tits bouncing in my face.”
My eyes are as wide as the O on my mouth. His words are making my temperature rise. It’s already way too stifling on this train.
“Tell me, Steph. What do you think about when you touch yourself?”
I swallow the lump, but it won’t budge. Glancing around the carriage, I check for other passengers. A man sits a few seats down with headphones on, his baggy joggers wafting as his leg taps to the music.
“Tell me, baby.” His stubble grazes against my shoulder as his lips brush my neck, and his words are like a symphony to my ears, stimulating every cell in my body.