Strangers on a Train I

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  SEDUCED BY THE PARK AVENUE BILLIONAIRE

  Part 1: Strangers On A Train

  Nelle L’Amour

  SEDUCED BY THE PARK AVENUE BILLIONAIRE

  Part 1: Strangers On A Train

  Copyright © 2012 by Nelle L’Amour. All rights reserved.

  First Kindle Edition: December 2012

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedicated to those who dream…

  Sometimes a single encounter can stay with you forever…

  1

  I’M GOING TO MISS MY train! That was all I could think of as I dashed through the stately entrance to Philadelphia’s majestic 30th Street Station. My best friend Lauren, with all her connections, had scored a bunch of coveted tickets to the Black Eyed Peas concert in Central Park, and I was among those she had chosen to be among her entourage… so I had to be home by seven, shower, and get dressed. I rushed past the tempting food court toward the information center. The old-fashioned flip-letter Amtrak Train information board made a ticking sound as it updated arrivals and departures. I glanced up. Shit! My train to Penn Station was leaving in five minutes from Gate 5. My eyes darted around the elegant art-deco station for the escalator leading down to the train platform. Despite how many times I had been in this vast station over the past several months, I never knew where I was going. My sense of direction was nothing to be proud of.

  My eyes bounced from the famous Angel of the Resurrection statue to another bronzed statue. A god. A 6’2” golden-haired Adonis perched on the VIP mezzanine. Even from this distant vantage point, I could I could tell he was wearing one of those super-expensive custom- tailored beige suits that New York’s tycoons donned once Spring hit. It made a stunning contrast with his St. Tropez tan, the kind wealthy Manhattanites sported all year round. With his expensive designer glasses perched on his perfectly blown flaxen hair, he looked like he was right out of GQ.

  I couldn’t get my eyes off him. The sight of him made my knees weak and my heart hammer. I had dreamt of men like this, but they were way out of my league. The chance of ever meeting one was unlikely. Make that never. I was a geeky, recent college who, after several false starts, had finally landed an entry-level job at Ike’s Tikes, an established New York City toy company, and was struggling to make ends meet. Beautiful men were just not in my cards. They never had been. But my mom had always told me it was okay to dream. And for a minute, as Adonis pivoted his head in my direction, I imagined his eyes burning across the station into mine.

  A booming voice put an end to my reverie—and the pulsating I felt between my legs. “Last call for Amtrak 148 to Penn Station boarding at Gate 5.” In a blink of an eye, Adonis was gone. Out of my life and dreams forever. My heart rate accelerated as my eyes flickered around the expansive station for the gate sign. Finally, I found it and began to run, my messenger-style leather bag flying behind me. The escalator descending to the train platform was out of order. Thank goodness, I was wearing my trusty combat boots. At breakneck speed, I clambered down the daunting three flights of stairs, praying that the train wouldn’t leave without me.

  “Wait!” I screamed as the automatic doors of the sleek silver train were closing. I skimmed through one of them, narrowly missing being a smooshed sardine.

  Breathing heavy, I staggered through the car, desperately searching for a seat. Nothing. It was rush hour and every seat was taken. Maybe I would have better luck in the next car, I thought as I wobbled across the connecting bridge, the train rolling into motion. I so needed to sit down, catch my breath, and relax. I was exhausted and rundown. Not just from my sprint to the train, but from months of juggling my Manhattan-based job as the assistant to a demanding female executive with visits to my ailing mother who was receiving experimental cancer treatments at the world-renowned Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Seeing my mother in her weakened state, hooked up to IV’s and machines, never helped no matter how cheery she was when I came to see her.

  As the train picked up speed, I struggled to keep my balance and open the sliding door to the next car. Using all the muscle power I could, I finally yanked it open and tumbled into the cabin. This car was different than the one before. It was far more spacious and deluxe. Roomy pairs of rich brown leather seats lined the aisles, and the well-dressed occupants were sipping cocktails in real glasses and toying with the latest electronic gadgets. This was obviously business-class. I sure as hell did not belong here wearing my T.J. Maxx midi skirt and Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. Oh yeah, and my worn out combat boots, a treasured gift from my mom. This was the cabin where Louis Vuittons, Jimmy Choos, and Chanels mingled with other LVs, Jimmies, and Cocos. No, I didn’t belong here. Not one bit.

  Fighting the speed of the train and my embarrassment, I clumsily zigzagged down the aisle, occasionally grabbing onto the corner of a seat for balance. Like the previous cabin, every seat was taken. No one seemed to notice me, but truthfully, I wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible. As I neared the rear end of the car, the train jerked, sending me flying into the lap of a Wall Street Journal-reading commuter to my left.

  “I’m so sorry,” I squeaked at my victim whose face was still buried in his WSJ.

  He flexed his leg muscles under my muscular butt, signaling me to get up, and then slowly lowered his newspaper. A smirk curled on his lips. Oh those lips!

  My heart leaped into my throat. Adonis!

  “Sit,” he said, motioning to the empty window seat next to his.

  “Um, uh, I’m in economy,” I stuttered, my eyes unable to leave his face no matter how humiliated I felt. Up close, he was even more beautiful than I imagined with his chiseled nose, strong angular jaw line, and piercing eyes, the color of sapphires.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll handle it,” he said with a wink.

  Holy shit! Adonis had just winked at me!

  “Sit,” he growled, this time as if it were an order.

  With a powerful heave of his knees, he bounced me to my feet, forcing me to plop down next to him.

  Holy shit again! I was going to spend the next hour and a half sitting next to this gorgeous man—a man that existed only in my dreams—and now I had no idea what to say. My heart pounded.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, in a coy tone that suggested he was daring me to answer.

  “Sarah,” I replied, pulling myself together in time to reply in a very business-like voice.

  “Saarah,” he repeated, his voice deep and sexy.

  The way he said my name drawing out the first syllable with breathiness—sent a chill down my spine. I could not help thinking of lyrics from my all-time favorite movie, West Side Story. “Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.”

  “Ari,” he said next, not giving me time to ask the obvious.

  A fitting name. Almost like Ares, the Greek god of war. This man was a warrior. A beautiful warrior. And I was soon to find out that conquest was his middle name.

  I held out my slender hand to shake his
. Truthfully, I didn’t know what else to do. His long, tan fingers entwined mine. His grip was strong. Powerful. Slowly, he raised my hand to his lush lips. Blood rushed to my head as they pressed ever so gently against the back of my palm. One by one, he unfolded my fingers, sucking each one as if they were candy sticks. The wetness of his warm saliva glistened on my fingertips. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and moisture pooled between my legs. What the hell was he doing? And why the hell was I letting him do it?

  My heart was racing as fast as the Amtrak. I needed to stop this. Move to another seat. My eyes darted around the cabin, but there were still none to be had. No one seemed to notice what was going on; they either had their faces buried in newspapers or books or were occupied with their smartphones, iPads, or eReaders.

  This was just not right. I was sitting next to a complete stranger and letting him suck my fingers. He could be a total whack job… a molester or serial killer. Who knew? Though my fear was fleeting, I made up a desperate clichéd excuse. “Um, uh excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” Actually, I really did. I needed to get away from this mysterious, seductive stranger and get a grip.

  “It’s right behind us,” said Adonis dryly, returning to his newspaper.

  I leaped up from my seat. Tripping over my bag, I caught a glimpse of Trainman’s bemused expression. He refused to move his long legs, forcing my butt to brush against them as I made my escape.

  The door to the unisex restroom located at the back of the cabin was locked. That meant someone was inside. I tapped my foot impatiently, my head filling with the image of the blond, blue-eyed Adonis sitting next to me. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? These kinds of things never happened to geeky me. They were the stuff of novels and movies. Not my boring all-work-no-play life.

  “Hi.” A familiar velvety voice catapulted me out of my thoughts, and a waft of warm breath blew across the nape of my neck. I spun around.

  My mysterious stranger. His crisp blue eyes burned into mine, making my temperature soar and my legs turn to jelly. What was he doing here? I suppose he had to go. I couldn’t stop that.

  I turned my head away and stared squarely at the bathroom door, praying silently that whoever was in there would hurry up. He blew hot air on my neck again and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me tight against his rock-hard body. A bulge pressed against my buttocks. I was getting sick to my stomach and might need the bathroom more than I’d originally thought.

  Finally, the door burst open in my face; a sour-faced, overweight matron barged out. Calling on every muscle in my body, I broke free of Trainman’s grip and hastily dashed into the stall and the stench she left behind. My hands shaky, I fumbled to slide the latch, but before I could get it through the lock, the door forcefully swung open.

  “I couldn’t wait,” Trainman growled, pushing me against the cold metal sink basin. He thrust his hips tight against mine. I was trapped.

  He leaned in close to me. A mix of his warm minty breath and expensive cologne rushed into my nostrils, eradicating all traces of the fetid odor. His eyes narrowed, turning into collectible slivers of blue sand glass. His mouth descended onto the right side of my neck then slowly trailed upward to my earlobe. He clamped his warm, moist lips on the cartilage, alternating between nipping and sucking it. Oh my God! I didn’t know my earlobes could feel so much. The last time they felt anything was when I got them pierced in eighth grade. And that was pain. Pure pain. Now what I was feeling was joy. Pure tingly joy… and the sensation was coursing through my entire body.

  Still pressing me hard against the sink with his hipbones, he pinched my dime-size nipples between his thumb and index fingers and then began massaging them in small counterclockwise circles, each rotation harder than the one before. Magically, the buds elongated and hardened beneath my cotton t-shirt. A new I-want-to-burst-out-of-my skin sensation gathered in the triangle between my legs. I moaned softly.

  “You don’t wear a bra,” he murmured in my ear.

  I rarely wore a bra because I really didn’t need one. My boobs never got past a small A-cup, the size of old-fashioned champagne saucers. Before I could say a word, that is if I could utter a word, he whispered, “Sexy.”

  Moi, Sarah plain and tall, sexy? And this coming from this gorgeous beast? Pinch me. I must be dreaming this entire fantasy. As if on cue, he pinched one of my nipples again. My crotch roared silently in delight. No, this was real okay. And it was happening to me. Sarah Greene. Art school graduate. Aspiring toy designer. Twenty-five-year-old virgin.

  I stared at his beautiful face. His eyes were tilted downward. A sly smile tipped to the left made me nervous. In a good way.

  While one hand continued to twirl a nipple, the other slid down my torso past by tight, twisted abdomen and under the elastic waistbands of both my skirt and pantyhose. His hands felt like hot velvet as they explored my inner thighs.

  “Hmm,” he moaned. “No panties?”

  I never wore panties with pantyhose. Why bother? They were called pantyhose for a reason. And I confess, not buying expensive panties—and bras—saved me a lot of money—money I needed desperately to visit my sick mother.

  “Very sexy,” he said, enunciating each syllable, as his fingertips made their way to the triangle between my legs. They stopped to caress my patch of hair, stroking it as if were a beloved pussy… cat.

  “So soft and silky,” Trainman purred as if I were auditioning for one of those look-at-my-gorgeous-hair shampoo commercials.

  After a tug of a curled clump, his fingers moved to the smooth folds between my legs. He explored this new territory eagerly like someone who was searching for gold. And then he discovered it. The nugget. Greedily, he rubbed the pad of this thumb around his discovery with intense little circles that were driving me insane. A loud moan escaped my lips.

  “You’re so wet,” he crooned.

  That was an understatement. I was swimming in my own juices. My eyes caught a glimpse of him. A wicked smile crossed his face, and his blue eyes glistened.

  He squeezed the folds of my labia together and then used his fingers to spread them apart.

  “I want you,” he moaned, his voice all hot and breathy.

  And despite myself, I wanted him. More than anyone or anything. Well, except for my mother getting well again.

  Still massaging my nub with his thumb, he plunged his long middle finger into the cavity between the folds. I gasped, not prepared for the shock of penetration. Shockwaves spread throughout my body as his finger glided up and down the soaked, spongy walls. In and out, each thrust deeper than the one before.

  “Baby,” he moaned. “You’re so hot.”

  I sucked in air between my teeth, still not sure this was really happening. My core was aching for more. Desperate for it. Why was I not resisting?

  “I’m going to take you now,” he growled.

  Take me where? I didn’t want to be anywhere, any place but here in this cramped bathroom with this mysterious sorcerer who was doing his magic on me.

  Using his free hand, he yanked down both my skirt and hose. My eyes glanced down at my skirt puddled on the floor and my pantyhose scrunched up above my combat boots. As they made their way back upward, I heard him unzip his fly. My gaze stopped short at a massive hunk of pink, veined flesh that was aimed at my crotch. Yowzer! I was ready to surrender. Yes, take me now.

  “Sit on the sink,” he ordered.

  I was in no condition to argue. I plunked my buttocks down on the edge of the steely basin. The cold metal gave me goose bumps all over. He pulled off my boots and the hose. “Now, spread your legs.”

  Yes, sir.

  He placed both hands on my boyishly narrow hips to anchor me. An intensity washed over his face. Like an artist who was contemplating painting his masterpiece.

  “Now, take me and insert me where you want me.”

  Holy shit! He wanted me to touch that monstrosity? Cradle it in my hands? Our eyes met, mine wide-eyed with fear and excitement, his hooded
with determination and desire.

  Hesitantly, I wrapped my slender fingers around the pillar of flesh, surprised that they could circle around it despite its diameter. I’d never felt a man’s penis before. The touch beneath my fingers was hot, velvety, and pulsating. I knew exactly where I wanted it. The hollowness inside me was crying out for it. I need to be sated by him. Totally consumed.

  With growing confidence, I angled it upward toward the opening between my legs. I slid the tip inside. He gave it a sharp thrust, jettisoning his member deep inside me. I let out a shriek. The initial pain and shock of the hard fullness was enough to make me almost fall off the sink or into it, but as my muscles relaxed, it felt good. Like it belonged and had found its home sweet home.

  “Oh baby, you’re so tight.” Rolling his tongue over his lips, he gripped my hips and lifted me off the sink basin so that we were almost face to face. My feet dangled like a rag doll’s, not touching the floor below.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered, pressing his hard body close to mine.

  In no condition to argue, I did what he said, wrapping my long legs around his lean, torso like a pretzel. He gripped my thighs. My arms swung around his neck, and I squeezed him tightly, clasping the rich fabric of his suit jacket between my fingers. This was one ride I did not want to fall off.

  Pressing me firmly against the bathroom wall, he thrust his stone-hard member deeper into me, and I gasped with a mixture of shock and ecstasy as the tip rammed against a hypersensitive spot. He groaned. He slid his rod down and then thrust it upward again, this time even harder against the bull’s eye. I moaned. He groaned louder. He repeated the pattern, speeding it up with every in and out. How could that giant thing between his legs fit so easily and comfortably inside me? Every thrust elicited a moan from me louder than the one before and a groan from him, deeper than the previous. I moved my arms to his buttocks, folding them firmly around the rock-hard cheeks under his trousers and fell into the rhythm of his in-and-out movements. Our breathing grew ragged.