When she could dedicate her full attention to the subject, she thought she should thank God for leading her to her current career—for this point in time alone. Who cares about the new babies her touch soothed? Screw the women whose pregnancy aches she’d eased, or the sports stars she helped get back onto their respective fields of play. It was all about finding an innocent means to a sexy end with a man she didn’t know from Adam.
Now it was about the Actually-An-Artist Surfer Boy on the train with her. Rhea began with his neck. He tensed at her touch, or maybe it was from the jostling of the train as it continued its journey to Chicago. She slid her fingertips into his short hair, massaging from the base of his skull to his crown.
“Oh,” he groaned, “this is so much better than what my barber does.”
“And it doesn’t hurt that it’s a woman doing it to you?”
“My barber’s a woman, too. The difference being she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing without her clippers in hand.”
Rhea gave him a long caress down the back of his head for the flattery.
“And although she’s pretty, I’m not wildly attracted to her.”
Rhea paused.
“. . . That was a compliment.”
“I know,” she whispered. After a hard swallow, she added in an even tinier voice: “Thanks.”
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess your ex wasn’t the complimentary type.”
Rhea’s hands traveled to Surfer Boy’s shoulders where she transitioned into a deep tissue massage. He groaned, bracing himself against the seat. She otherwise failed to acknowledge his statement. She preferred to leave Mark out of this.
Unlike last night, Rhea watched what she touched, the way his T-shirt pulled and puckered over his skin. She clenched her jaw, making a conscious effort to keep her arousal at bay. But—as they both demonstrated previously—blood was apt to flow wherever it damn well pleased. Her core throbbed despite her efforts to repress it; the best she could do was to focus on him with what little concentration she had to spare.
She alternated between deep tissue and Swedish massages, at times doing nothing more than running her hands over his muscles and lamenting he hadn’t taken off his shirt first.
“God you are so good,” Surfer Boy murmured. “But . . . my thigh’s really cramped.”
“Oh, sure, sure, I’m on it. Face me again.”
He repositioned himself so he was sitting in the seat the way its designers intended. Rhea leaned forward and rested her hands on his knees, her V-neck T-shirt gapping away from her chest. When Surfer Boy inhaled, she saw his eyes locked onto her exposed skin. “That’s . . . swell,” he breathed.
Her gaze dropped to his crotch: That was swell, too. She smiled. Maybe last night’s hard-on wasn’t as accidental as he pretended. “So which muscle is giving you grief?” Her hands slid along the length of both thighs, stopping so close to his crotch that she felt the fabric of his shorts straining over his erection.
“That one.” Surfer Boy nodded to his left leg.
She slowly assessed his muscle spasm with both hands, her smiling broadening. “You are aware I can totally tell you’re faking your cramp.”
“Well how else was I gonna get you to touch me there and still look cool about it?”
“You don’t need to play these games.” Her thumb slid across his zipper. He pushed back from beneath it. “I’m alone in a confined space with you already. You closed the door and the curtains and I didn’t protest either.” Rhea raised her eyebrows pointedly with a smirk.
Surfer Boy lifted her face by the chin, meeting her gaze. “Kiss me.”
She leaned in, pressing her lips to his; she swore there was a spark between them, but it was equally possible the result of static electricity. Albuquerque—or the air aboard the train, anyway—was dry.
He tilted his head, gliding a hand up the nape of her neck. Rhea sighed and she felt him smile against her lips.
“. . . What?” she asked, pulling away.
“I liked that sound. I wanna hear you make it again.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of ways to make me sigh. Or . . .” Rhea bit her lip. “To get me to make even better sounds.”
“Is . . . that . . . an invitation?”
Oh just screw me already! She chose a more diplomatic reply instead: “As a general rule, I don’t touch my clients’ willies.”
“As a general rule?”
“Allow me to translate . . . I’ve never done that.” With a coy little smile, she added, “I also don’t go around kissing strangers. You’re the exception to all those rules, so . . .”
“So.” Surfer Boy brushed back her hair, sliding his hand down her neck to her collarbone. Further down he went until he cupped her left breast through her shirt and squeezed it with restraint.
She moaned, her head tipping back. “Yes.”
“Oh that is a better sound.” Surfer Boy kissed the side of her neck. His kisses turned to sucking and she leaned into him with a deeper moan.
Rhea was having the inarguable need to be free of her underwear; not so much from her desperation for sex, but because the growing wet spot was uncomfortable. With a fleeting glance, she saw he was having a similar pre-cum issue. And the sight of the small dark circle on his shorts brought with it an obnoxious realization. “Oh.”
“O—oh?” He frowned.
“I’ve got an IUD, but—and I’m sure you’re clean, please don’t be offended—I don’t have a condom, and—”
“I do?” Surfer Boy fished around in his right pocket and produced a wrapped Trojan. “The Kit Kat wasn’t the only thing I bought at the 7-11.”
Rhea blinked. “You just knew you were gonna get into my pants, didn’t you?” She tried to sound offended at his cockiness.
“What can I say?” He returned her feigned offense with an aloof shrug. “I’m an optimist.”
“Or I’m that easy.”
He answered firmly, “I’m. An. Optimist.”
“Fine. Whatever. Want help on with that?” Rhea flicked the Trojan packet.
“Are—” Surfer Boy faltered. “Are you ready? That was fast.”
“Hey. I’m easy.” With a playful smile, she unzipped her jeans and pushed them below her butt. She took the fingers of his left hand and guided them along her panties, his fingers dipping between her lips through the damp fabric.
If there was any bit of Surfer Boy left unaroused, that action vanquished it. His voice was husky and starved: “Fuck, babe. I need you.”
She shimmied the rest of the way out of her denim while Surfer Boy opened his fly and manipulated his swollen cock out of his boxers.
Rhea’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of it. What for the love of all things sacred am I doing?
She was opening the condom packet and unrolling the rubber down his shaft, that’s what she was doing.
She was marveling at his firmness, that’s what she was doing.
She was smiling at the way it seemed to beckon her as she encircled it with her hand.
Surfer Boy grabbed her around the waist, pulling her toward him. She straddled him on his seat, sliding against the length of his erection with her slit. Her panties still being on made the sensation even better. They moaned in unison.
Rhea rubbed up and down him, emulating as best she could the lap dances she’d seen at strip clubs. She probably looked ridiculous but he wasn’t watching anyway; his head was pressed into the seat padding behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. The tip of his cock was spreading her lips through her underwear’s fabric. “Do you like this?” she whispered.
“God yes.”
“Do you want me?”
“So fucking much, please.”
She chuckled. “I could be a tease.” And she was teasing herself at least as much as she was teasing him. Her desire was palpable and she slipped the soaked crotch of her underwear off to the side.
“I’m willing to bet you’re not. Teases don’t go this far for spor
t.” Surfer Boy squeezed her thighs and ran his hands along them, grasping her butt. “Your ass is divine.” He manipulated her hips and thrust into her.
She gasped.
“Oh—shit—! Did I hurt you?”
“No, no.” Rhea lifted most of the way off him before lowering herself again. The fabric of her underwear slid against her clit, shooting sparks all through her body.
“You’re so tight.” He exhaled. “I wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Shut up and screw me already. Please!”
Surfer Boy kissed her hard as she gyrated against him. If only she had the soundtrack to go with releasing her inner adult film star. Rhea’s moans and panting would suffice where porn groove lacked.
When he didn’t respond with an explosive climax within a minute of penetrating her, Rhea went still.
He grunted. “Why’d you stop?”
“You—you liked that? Why haven’t you come yet?”
His brows furrowed. “Because we just got started? You’re gonna have to work me harder than that, Sunshine.” He yanked her to his chest, whispering in her ear, “I’m gonna make you ache.” Surfer Boy rested his hands on her hips, guiding her motions.
Rhea, comfortable against his wall of muscle, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and marveled in the friction between them. How great it was to be on top for once!
Surfer Boy kissed her shoulder and peppered kisses on the side of her neck, Rhea turning her head when they reached her jaw; their lips met. She beckoned him inside with coy flicks of her tongue and rewarded his reciprocation with a deep moan.
He guided her to ride him harder and faster while the train slowed into a depot. And as it stopped, Rhea’s climax gained momentum at break-neck speed. So he kissed her harder, muffling her moans.
People rummaged about in the luggage area on the other side of the roomette door, loud chatter leaking into Surfer Boy’s cabin.
“Oh God I’m coming,” she panted against his lips. “I can’t stop—” Rhea’s back arched, her head kicking back with an elated cry.
Surfer Boy’s climax followed hers; he burrowed his face between her breasts and moaned into her shirt.
They fell silent, catching their breath.
The loud chattering didn’t seem so loud anymore.
“Wow . . .” he whispered. “You’re a hellion.”
Rhea glanced toward the roomette door, realizing it was closed but unlocked. Thank God nobody walked in on them. “You think anyone heard us?”
“Well . . .” Surfer Boy frowned. “If we can hear them . . .”
“Oh my God.” She hoisted herself off him, slipping the uncomfortably wet crotch of her panties in place with a grimace while he tended the used condom.
“No reason to freak out . . . Maybe the folks outside were elsewhere all this time. Maybe anyone who could’ve heard us got off in—” He checked his smartphone before zipping his shorts. “Lamy, I guess.” Surfer Boy looked at Rhea, still without her pants. “You’re really a massage therapist?”
“Yes I’m really a massage therapist.” She perched on the seat across from him so the wet spot wouldn’t rest on the cushion; not for sanitary reasons as much as for her comfort. Rhea considered how miserable it would be to put her jeans on with wet underwear beneath them. She needed a change regardless of who was outside the roomette and what they had to think of her. “Why? Didn’t I prove myself to you? Or are you hunting for another free massage?”
“Oh—no—I wouldn’t imagine massage therapy would be so great for your physique. You could be a model with curves like those.”
A plus-sized model. Even in her fittest or leanest times, she would have been considered plus-sized. It wasn’t a negative thought, just a factual representation of that industry. “Yeah, well, how does an artist look the way you do?”
Surfer Boy smiled. “I work on the beach. Running over sand, playing beach volleyball . . . Excellent work-outs, pretty much every day. Can’t beat nature with a gym, if you ask me.”
Rhea nodded. “I can see it. And for what it’s worth? Give deep tissue massages eight hours a day, five days a week. See what that does for your body.”
“Any chance I could?”
She watched his expression, trying to decipher an ambiguous statement. Is he asking for a work-week-long massage or—
“I’ll bet your tits are magnificent, we’ve got about twenty-five more hours before Chicago, and I’ve got two more condoms.”
Rhea’s eyebrows jumped.
He flinched. “I . . . realize how that must’ve sounded. They came in a three-pack. Dammit, I’m sorry—”
Rhea got to her feet, teetering with the swaying of the train. “I need to grab something from my luggage.”
“You’re not coming back, are you? I wouldn’t blame you.”
She bit her lip. “. . . Surfer Boy . . .”
“Surfer Boy?” he asked with a crooked smile.
“That’s what I figured you were before you told me you’re an artist. I’m sure you’ve got a name for me.”
“Sunshine.”
Rhea snorted.
“What?”
If she decided to give him her email address after all, he’d understand why she snorted. “I’ll be honest with you. That was the first orgasm I had that wasn’t the direct result of my own hand.”
“—since . . .?”
“Ever.”
“Since ever?” Surfer Boy gasped. “Whoa.”
“And you’re telling me I have the chance for two more of those? I’m coming back.” Rhea slid open the roomette door and stepped out into the train corridor. Two women of advanced age sitting in the cabin at the end of the car had left their door open and watched her with utmost disdain. She slunk into Surfer Boy’s roomette and dropped to her seat with dark cheeks. Rhea slid the door closed with a heavy sigh. “They were listening. I’m pretty sure I even heard a ‘well I never!’”
“Well.” Surfer Boy grinned wickedly. “If they ‘never,’ I’m willing to bet they’re wildly jealous of you. That O sounded amazing. And hey. If you’re too embarrassed to go out, you’re welcome to stay here with me. I’m enjoying your company.”
The corner of Rhea’s mouth crooked upward. “Mind if I open the shades?” She tipped her head to the cabin window because opening the curtain on the roomette door wasn’t happening.
“Sure, sure. This area isn’t much to look at, though.” He spread open the curtains for her.
The New Mexico desert was unimpressive where the train was traveling: a few hills with sparse brush and nothing much else.
“Oh.”
“It gets better,” Surfer Boy promised, “going into Colorado.”
Rhea nodded, gazing out at the terrain. For a while, she watched, her mind going silent. When she snapped out of her meditation, she looked at Surfer Boy. His head was bowed, a book open on his lap.
Mark had never been into cerebral endeavors like reading; he preferred to fish with his friends or spend money at Barona without her. Rhea had no idea what he played at the casino but judging by their bank account after his trips there, he wasn’t much good at it. Thankfully he seldom went.
It crossed her mind on any number of occasions he could have been cheating on her. She hadn’t cared enough about him—or their union—to investigate. While her ex-husband had, ironically, missed the mark on a great many aspects of their relationship, Rhea hadn’t invested much effort either.
It was hard not to compare Mark with Surfer Boy. Well, what she knew of Surfer Boy, anyway.
Rhea wondered what the point of this whole exercise even was. She was happier now—on the train with a sexy stranger and without any ties to her life—than she had been for years in what masqueraded as domestic bliss. A twinge of guilt struck her; she should have at least missed her family.
Her companion remained engrossed in his reading and turned a page.
Was she staring at a chance encounter whose memory would always bring her a smile? Or was this the
beginning of a life-long friendship? Maybe he was even future husband number two.
Surfer Boy glanced up following the little peep Rhea hadn’t meant to make. He smiled. “I hope you don’t mind I was reading. You looked like you didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I, uh—” Rhea shrugged. “I was enjoying the scenery.” With a chuckle, she added, “The scenery being what it is. So whatcha reading?”
He flashed her the cover. “Stranger in a Strange Land. It’s one of my favorites. I always bring it with me on these trips.”
“Heinlein.” Rhea bobbed her head in appreciation of his choice. “Nice.”
“Don’t tell me. ‘S one of your favorites, too?”
“What are we, in middle school?” Her smile grew and she bounced in her seat like a first grader eating a chocolate cupcake. “Let’s say our favorite subject in school on the count of three!”
Surfer Boy stuck out his tongue. “It would have been cool to share tastes in literature. That’s all.” He muttered, “I’ve yet to find another person who’s as into Heinlein as I am.”
“I enjoy Heinlein, yes, and Stranger in a Strange Land is my favorite of his. I generally prefer lighter fare.”
“Romance?”
It startled Rhea there was no judgment whatsoever in his guess. Everyone sneered at the genre when she admitted to reading it. Of course, aforementioned ‘everyone’ didn’t know the full truth: “Erotica.” And she had no idea why she’d told him.
“You’re fun,” Surfer Boy surmised.
Nor did Rhea have any idea why she was admitting this: “. . . I like porn, too.”
He closed his book and set it aside, leaning in, rapt. “Tell me more!”
She laughed. It was a good, solid laugh: the kind from which it took several deep breaths to recover.
Surfer Boy smiled, though he asked, “What? It’s not every day I meet a girl who watches porn, let alone admits to liking it.”
She sobered. “I’m doing a lot of things I don’t do every day. Like . . . anonymous sex.”
Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1) Page 4
