The Touch Of Night (Teaser)

Her legs wouldn’t stay still.

No matter how she crossed or uncrossed them, how she adjusted the angle of her hips, the throbbing between her thighs only pulsed louder. Like her own body was chanting against her will. Arousal hot and coiled, rising in waves that left her restless.

She tried to breathe through it. Tilted her phone. Scrolled something mindless. Switched apps. Rechecked her music queue she hadn’t pressed play on. Nothing worked.

Her brain was swamped with heat. The ache at her center was relentless, refusing to be ignored.

She glanced sideways.

The man was still across the aisle. Still angled just slightly toward her. She bit her bottom lip.

The thought came fast and without invitation: You could just go to the bathroom. Lock the door. Get a few minutes. Relief.

She immediately recoiled at herself. No fucking way. Overnight bus bathrooms were piss-stained coffins, too small to move in. The stink alone would wipe out the fantasy in seconds.

So.

Plan B.

Her eyes dropped to the rolled-up jacket stuffed between her bag and the seat. Maybe…

She laid it carefully across her lap. Tucked it just high enough to cover her waist, but low enough to look casual, like she was settling in for sleep. Normal.

She shifted her hips and slowly, carefully, unfastened the button of her pants again.

The pressure released, and her body surged forward into the barest promise of contact. Her eyes fluttered shut. Then snapped open again when she caught movement in her peripheral vision.

His gaze was on her.

Sharp this time.

No hesitation.

Maya froze in calculated stillness.

He blinked. Looked away. Adjusted in his seat, maybe trying to play it off. Maybe not.

She waited.

One minute.

Two.

Let time stretch, let the air settle. Let him think she was just adjusting something. Just tired. Just nothing.

Her heart pounded, and she felt that strange cocktail of defiance and desire bloom again. The daring to continue. The thrill of maybe being seen. The illusion of control.

She slid her hand beneath the jacket.

Slowly.

Fingers grazing her abdomen, inching lower. She reached the waistband of her underwear, hooked her fingers beneath it, and, God—