As if in response, he dropped his hand from her hip to close against her cheek, spreading his fingers softly against the jersey and closing them, bringing with each one a small wave of her. She hummed slightly, tilting her head into him. The Parisians in front were kissing lazily with the boredom of the wait. In response, a few anxious conservatives began studying the screens before returning to the comfort of their phones. Her humming moved to a murmur as his spreading fingers rose slightly to find the opening they had inserted in her dress. All of their clothing now had such an entrée cache, a closely tailored seam that flowed with contours and patterns but allowed a hand, at least, to find its way towards skin and flesh underneath. And this, his hand, now did. Fingertips brushed against smooth skin, bare beneath the jersey. They found the crest of her crack, and stroked the soft v of where her cheeks began. In front of her, she too now found refuge in a study of her phone, as. My confidence grew as Iencountered no further embarrassing moments. Occasionally, She wouldlead me over to a shop window and point out a dress or other femininegarment that she liked, and ask my opinion of it as if I would like towear it. I couldn't decide whether this was teasing, or a deliberatemove to put me more at ease.We eventually reached Marble Arch, and Jenn led me into the tubestation. She decided that it was too long a walk back to the car, so wewould ride the tube back to Oxford Street station, from where it wouldbe a short walk back to the car. We got our tickets and descended to theCentral Line platform. It was crowded, and when a train arrived, we hadto stand in quite a crush. I hung onto a strap, and once the train wasmoving, I felt a hand stroking my bottom through my mac. I turned slowlyin the direction of the hand, and found that a middle-aged man waspressed up against me in the crush. He gave no sign of embarrassment,but I was sure that he was 'feeling up' either.
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