The F-train rattled into West 4th just as the morning sun hit the platform windows. Jonah leaned against the pole, one AirPod in, the other dangling. His charcoal slacks did nothing to hide the heavy sway between his legs when the car lurched. Across from him, a woman in a navy pencil skirt and white blouse (early forties, wedding ring glinting) let her gaze drop to the outline of his cock, then flick back up to his eyes. She smiled, small and polite, the universal NYC signal: *interested, but not desperate.*
The train hissed to a stop. She stood, smoothing her skirt. Jonah followed her out of habit more than plan. The platform was half-empty: commuters scrolling, a busker strumming something soft. She paused by the stairs, glanced back. He gave the tiniest nod.
They ended up in the far corner behind the token booth, the one with the busted light. She leaned against the tiled wall, palms flat, skirt riding just enough to show the lace tops of her stockings. No words. Jonah stepped in close, the heat of her body cutting through the station chill. He could smell her perfume (something expensive, floral) and beneath it, the faint musk of a woman who'd been wet since 14th Street.
He traced one finger along the inside of her thigh, slow, asking. She parted her legs. His knuckles brushed damp silk. A soft exhale escaped her (not a moan, not yet). Just acknowledgment. He hooked the fabric aside, found her slick and swollen, and pressed two fingers in to the second knuckle. She clenched, breath hitching.
Jonah leaned in, lips near her ear. "Safe word?"
"Red," she whispered.
"Good."
He freed himself with one hand (zipper down, cock heavy in his palm, already shining at the tip). She watched, pupils blown, and reached to guide him. The head nudged her entrance, parted her, sank in an inch. She bit her lip. Another inch. Her hips rolled forward, greedy. He gave her the rest in one smooth glide, bottoming out with a soft slap of skin on skin.
They stayed like that for a long beat, joined, breathing. Then he started to move (slow, deliberate strokes that dragged along every ridge inside her). Her hands found his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt. The station noise faded: announcements, footsteps, the busker's guitar. All of it background to the wet, rhythmic sound of her pussy taking him.
Minutes stretched. He kept the pace lazy, almost conversational, letting the pleasure build in layers. She came first (quiet, shuddering, face buried in his neck). He felt her pulse around him, kept moving, drawing it out until her knees buckled. Only then did he speed up, hips snapping, chasing his own edge. She whispered something filthy against his skin; he answered with a low groan and spilled deep, pulse after pulse, until he was spent and she was overflowing.
He eased out, tucked himself away. She straightened her skirt, wiped a thumb across her lower lip, and smiled (genuine this time).
"Have a good one," she said, voice husky.
"You too."
She disappeared up the stairs. Jonah checked his watch: 8:27. Plenty of time for coffee.
---
**Later, 11:03 a.m. – Open-plan office, 14th floor**
Jonah's cubicle faced the window. Across the aisle, Priya from accounting leaned over her desk, blouse gaping just enough to show the lace edge of a plum-colored bra. She'd been watching him since he walked in, legs crossed tight under her desk. When their eyes met, she didn't look away.
He saved his spreadsheet, stood, and crossed the four feet between them. No one blinked; half the floor was on noise-canceling headphones, the other half pretending not to notice. Priya pushed her chair back, skirt riding high on her thighs. She wore no panties (company policy allowed it, encouraged it on Fridays).
Jonah knelt, hands on her knees, spreading her open. She was already glistening, dark curls trimmed short. He licked a slow stripe up her center, savoring the taste (coffee and cardamom). She sighed, fingers threading through his hair. He took his time: tongue circling her clit, two fingers curling inside, stroking that spot that made her thighs tremble. When she came, it was with a soft gasp, hips rocking against his mouth.
He stood, wiped his chin, and she was already turning, bending over her desk, ass up. Papers scattered. Jonah entered her in one thrust, her heat enveloping him like a glove. He fucked her slow again, letting the friction build, letting her feel every inch. Colleagues walked by (one gave a thumbs-up, another asked if they needed water). Priya laughed breathlessly, pushed back to meet him.
Round two took longer. He pulled out once, made her suck him clean (her lips stretched wide, eyes watering), then bent her over again. When he finally came, it was with her hand between her legs, rubbing herself to a second orgasm that left her trembling.
They cleaned up with tissues from her drawer. She kissed his cheek. "Lunch?"
"Roof deck," he said. "1:15."
---
**1:15 p.m. – Rooftop, 30 floors up**
The city sprawled beneath them, all glass and sunlight. A yoga class was finishing up in the corner; a few women lingered in downward dog, leggings sheer with sweat. Jonah found a shaded bench. Priya arrived with two iced coffees and a wicked smile.
They didn't talk much. She straddled him, skirt hiked, his cock sliding into her with practiced ease. The breeze carried her moans across the rooftop. A redhead from marketing watched, fingers in her own waistband. When Priya came, she muffled her cry against Jonah's shoulder. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, filling her again.
After, they sipped coffee, legs tangled.
"Drinks later?" she asked.
"Always," he said.