The bus's rumble was a dull roar beneath the storm of Jason's pulse, pounding in his ears, drowning out the hum of strangers' chatter and the creak of shifting seats.
The crowd pressed in tight, a mindless swarm of bodies, oblivious to the sin unfolding in their midst.
His hand trembled as he drew it back, fingers slick with her warmth, glistening with the evidence of her desire.
It should have been the end—a reckless moment to bury, to never unearth again.
But the pull was too strong.
His cock throbbed, a relentless ache in his jeans, each heartbeat stoking the fire in his veins.
Stella's heat, mere inches away, was a gravitational force, her scent—jasmine, vanilla, and something primal—coiling around him, tethering him to her.
And she hadn't stopped him.
Not once.
His hand moved again, deliberate now, the motion too fluid, too hungry.
His fingers found the torn slit in her jeans, that secret breach hidden in the shadow of her thighs.
He slipped past the denim, past the delicate string of her thong, into the molten heat of her. She was drenched, her folds slick and yielding, hotter than before.
Her thighs clenched faintly as he worked her, his middle finger teasing her slit, pressing upward, then circling her clit with slow, tight strokes that made his own breath catch.
Stella shifted, subtle but deliberate.
Her legs parted an inch wider, her ass pressing back into his hips, the contact sending a jolt through his core.
Jason bit his tongue, the sharp pain grounding him as he stared at the route map overhead, pretending it held the key to salvation.
He curled his finger, a calculated press, and felt her body jerk.
A sharp gasp slipped from her lips, quickly masked as a throat-clearing cough.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
Emboldened, he pressed harder, his palm cupping her mound through the torn fabric, fingers relentless in their exploration.
Her body trembled, tiny spasms rippling through her thighs, her hips rocking forward in a barely perceptible rhythm.
Each stroke sent a current through Jason's spine, her walls fluttering around his finger, tight and needy, her cunt practically begging for more.
She was dripping, her arousal coating his hand, slick and undeniable.
He felt her tense, every muscle taut, her breath caught in her throat, thighs clenching around his hand.
Her orgasm hit like a silent detonation.
She shuddered, her body quaking as she fought to stay upright, her pussy squeezing his fingers in rhythmic pulses that marked her climax.
Jason felt every wave, his soaked fingers trapped in the twitching heat of her, the intimacy of it searing into his soul.
She came right there, in the middle of a crowded bus, surrounded by strangers who saw nothing.
Then—she turned.
Slowly.
Her breath was ragged, her cheeks flushed a deep, fevered rose, her chest heaving beneath the tight red crop top, nipples straining against the fabric.
Her sunglasses were gone, tucked away, leaving her eyes bare—dark, smoldering, locked onto his.
Jason froze, his heart a wild thing caged in his ribs. Every thought, every excuse, evaporated under the weight of her gaze.
They stared.
Her lips, parted and glistening, held no trace of anger.
No fear.
Only something raw, electric—surprise laced with hunger, recognition sparking in the depths of her eyes.
She knew.
He knew.
They both fucking knew.
And in that moment, with the bus swaying and the city blurring past, the line between them wasn't just crossed—it was obliterated.