Her Stranger's Hands in the Rain

I was a 28-year-old woman stuck at the train station after missing the last train home on a stormy night. Rain hammered the platform like it wanted to punish me for my tardiness, soaking through my thin summer dress until the fabric clung obscenely to my breasts and hips. I hugged myself against the chill, cursing under my breath, when a tall stranger in a long black coat stepped beside me.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply opened his umbrella and angled it over both our heads. The gesture was so smooth, so presumptuous, that I looked up sharply. His eyes were dark, almost black in the flickering station lights, and they dragged slowly down the front of my drenched dress before rising again to meet mine. A low, rough voice cut through the rain. “You’ll catch pneumonia standing here like that.”

The sound of it—deep, confident, edged with something hungry—sent a jolt straight between my legs. I should have said no. Instead I stepped closer, letting his umbrella shelter me. His coat brushed my arm, and even through the layers I felt the heat of him. My nipples tightened painfully against the wet cloth.

We started walking without discussion, as if it had already been decided. The downpour worsened, turning the streets into rivers. He guided me with a hand at the small of my back, steering me toward the darkened park two blocks away. Every time our bodies touched, electricity crackled. His fingers flexed against my spine when I slipped on the wet pavement, steadying me with a strength that made my thighs clench.

Halfway there, the words tumbled out of me before I could stop them.

“It’s been over a year since anyone touched me.”