Page 81 of For Real

“Yes, first class isn’t so much about extravagance as not being completely miserable.”

He grinned at me over our decadent table. “All the same, I’m still excited.”

“They’ll probably bring you a complimentary cup of tea in a bit.”

“High life, here I come.”

As we pulled out of Paddington, Toby leaned over the arm of his seat and peered down the aisle. There was a suited gentleman with a laptop at the other end of the carriage, and a woman who seemed to be, if not asleep, definitely on the verge of it, but otherwise the place was ours. Quiet but for the clatter and rumble of the train.

I wasn’t sure if Toby would be a talkative traveller, but he seemed content with his phone, and that suited me perfectly. I liked the emptiness of travel, peace and blank time, and there was something unexpectedly pleasant in sharing it with Toby. A companion in my silence.

My own phone was full of diversions—books I could have read, emails I could have answered—but instead I let myself gaze out of the window, partly at the greenish-grey countryside, but mainly at Toby’s wavering reflection.

I usually rationed my looking, not wanting to reveal too much of my foolishness, my fondness, but now I indulged. Revelled, even. He looked different in daylight, paler and brighter and sharper all at the same time, as though he was finally fully in focus. I could even see traces of the man he would become in the set of his jaw and the curve of his cheek. But for now, he was just Toby, my Toby—blue-sky eyes and fading acne, his generous smile, his slightly retroussé nose.

He was slumped right down in his seat, looking every inch the stereotypical teenager, but then his stocking-clad foot slid purposefully up the side of my calf.

I froze, swallowed whatever undignified sound I might have made, and turned away from the window.

Toby’s face was the picture of innocence as his foot crept higher.

“Open your legs,” he mouthed. I shook my head frantically.

“Open. Your. Legs.” Every silent word deliberately framed. Command. Undeniable. Irresistible.

I did it. Of course I did. And hidden beneath the table, Toby spread me wider, caressing with surprisingly agile toes the inside of my thighs and…oh God…the shaft of my helplessly hardening cock.

His eyes gleamed, intent on mine.

“Tickets from Paddington, please.”

I stared up at the ticket inspector, wordless, mindless. Toby stilled but did not pull away. Heat gathered between my legs, heat and the promise—or the threat—of his touch.

“Tickets from Paddington, please, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

My hands were shaking so badly Toby had to help me with my wallet. He offered up the tickets with a sweet and effortless smile. The inspector smiled back as she put the little paper stubs into her clicker, punched, and returned them.

And I felt…naked, Toby’s flushed and flustered creature, as though whoever I was the rest of the time—a careful, controlled, and competent man—was just a skin I wore.

“Would you like a complimentary tea or coffee?”

Toby was still smiling up at her. “I’d love some tea.”

The words blurred about me. Faraway sound. Close to meaningless.

“What about you, sir?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Orange juice? Water?”

“I’m really fine.”

I couldn’t hear my own voice properly. Did I sound impatient? Normal? As though I were nothing but a single point of contact, a star going supernova where Toby’s foot was resting?

She nodded, and continued down the aisle. Tickets from Paddington, tickets from Paddington, please…

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