With a schedule more predictable than the subway train she waited on, Sophie’s chest constricted as though a cinch slowly tightened around her ribs. Left breathless every morning as she waited on the platform beside the tracks, her odd affliction only intensified once she boarded. The journey never varied, beginning in Upper Manhattan and continuing southward. Her body had acquired the habit, reinforced not by some psychological disorder, but by the need for one specific miracle to occur every morning as she took her usual seat along the far wall of the car.

She sat, then rose and sat again to rearrange her skirt beneath her. She pulled at the hem, and then slid it just high enough to attract attention but not so high she looked like a slut. She ignored the low “mmm-mm” from the college-aged boy with bed-head who sat beside her.

Her attention remained focused on the stations. “125th Street.” She straightened her back and took a deeper breath, hoping to quell the heat entering her cheeks. “59th Street”. She unwrapped her fingers from around her purse straps because her knuckles were whitening. When the car slid to a stop at 42nd, she held her breath and averted her glance from the sliding doors, watching instead from the corner of her eye as passengers stepped inside, sought their seats and settled in for their morning commute.

She saw him, or at least from the knee on down. Shiny black loafers. Knife-edged creases on his charcoal trousers. Sweeping her gaze upward, but still not looking directly, she eyed his tall, lean body, embracing the quickening tattoo of her heart. Dark hair, still glossy from his shower curled close to his scalp. The scent of aftershave, spicy and fresh, followed him, and she inhaled sharply to catch it. When he took his seat along the opposite wall and two seats down, she let out the breath she’d held, the pinpricks of darkness that had narrowed her vision to a tunnel, fading back. All was right in her world again.

Never mind, she’d spent another restless night, fighting the blankets and the dreams that left her so hot and frustrated she’d retrieved the vibrator from under her bathroom sink to take off the edge. Last night had been the best, or the worst, depending on whether she wanted to sink into the dream or cry over the fact she was tired. Even now, the potency of the dream was so strong, the details so vivid, it was easy to slide back into the moment when she’d stumbled against him as they both debarked at Chambers Street and he’d slid his hand around her waist to steady her…

He’d caught her against his chest, and she’d been forced to glance up, staring into his face fully for the first time.

When he pulled away, he scooted down until he could bend to kiss her mouth. “Baby, that was so goddamn hot.”

The dream had ended there with his wet cock digging into her belly—before they’d shared names, before they’d agreed to see each other again. Not the sort of dream she’d ever had before—or at least not so long and detailed. Like a scene from a smutty romance novel, rose petals and all.

Still, she’d been left wet, aching, and the dildo hadn’t filled the empty space inside her. If only she had the courage to approach him. Maybe he’d be as sexy, well-endowed and skilled as her dream-lover—or maybe he’d be a complete dick.

Either way, she’d bring an end to this wanting.