The Morning Ride

By Delilah Devlin

From NEW YORK TIMES Bestselling and Award-Winning Author Delilah Devlin

 A New York commuter shares lustful daydreams with another subway passenger...

Note: This 5000-word short story was previously published in Passion, but has been revised and expanded. It may be short in length, but it's not short in passion!

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Excerpt:

Her doorbell rang and sent her heart racing. When she swung open the door, he was dressed casually in a long-sleeved, heather-colored Henley and jeans. In his hands were bags bearing the name of her favorite Thai restaurant.

His gaze slid down her skirt and silk blouse then back up. Heat glittered in his eyes. "I should have told you not to dress up. Sorry you went to the bother."

She shook her head and spun. "Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"Then it was worth the effort." She pointed to the single button at the side of her skirt. "That's all that's holding it up."

His chest rose. "Sophie, I'm trying to take this slow."

She cocked a brow as she took the bags and walked to her kitchenette. "Bringing dinner to my apartment where we can be alone, that's slow?"

He wrinkled his nose. "I was hoping to get to second base on the sofa."

She laughed and reached for his hand. "We'll eat after we've worked up an appetite." Then she walked backwards down the short hallway to her bedroom. A single light shone on the stand next to her bed. The covers were turned down. "I was hoping you'd get considerably farther than second base."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delilah Devlin
• Release date: Sep 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516350995

Delilah Devlin

Always a risk taker, Delilah Devlin lived in the Saudi Peninsula during the Gulf War, thwarted an attempted abduction by white slave traders, and survived her children’s juvenile delinquency. In addition to Saudi Arabia, she has lived in Germany and Ireland, but calls Arkansas home for now.

Book preview

The Morning Ride

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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, and then rose and sat again to rearrange her skirt beneath her. She pulled at the hem and 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