Bus Shelter Beauty

The 147 was late. Again. Typical.

I huddled under the bus shelter on the edge of the estate, watching the rain hammer down like God had a personal grudge against this postcode. The shelter's roof leaked in three places, the plastic seat was held together with duct tape, and someone had drawn a cock on the timetable.

Home sweet home.

Then she appeared—running through the rain in a pink hoodie that was already soaked through, tiny shorts that belonged to a summer that had abandoned us months ago, and white trainers that would never recover.

"Fuck!" she shouted, diving under the shelter. "Fuck fuck fuck."

She was dripping wet and absolutely beautiful. Small—five foot nothing, maybe—with dark hair plastered to her face, big green eyes, and a body that her wet clothes clung to like a second skin. The hoodie was thin enough that I could see her bra through it. Purple.

"Just missed it," I said, gesturing at the disappearing bus lights.

"Course I fucking did." She wrung out her hair, sending water everywhere. "How long till the next one?"

"Half hour. Maybe more."

"Fuck."

She sat down on the duct-tape seat, shivering. Up close, I could see the goosebumps on her bare legs.

"Cold?" I asked.

"Freezing me tits off." She looked at me properly for the first time. "You got a fag?"

I handed her one, lit it for her. Our fingers touched around the lighter.

"Cheers." She took a long drag, exhaled slowly. "I'm Chloe."

"Liam."

"Nice to meet you, Liam. Shit circumstances though."

I shrugged off my jacket—dry enough, barely—and held it out. "Here. Before you catch something."

She looked at it, then at me, suspicious. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just can't watch someone freeze."

She took it, wrapped it around her shoulders. "Thanks. Most blokes round here would want something for that."

"Who says I don't?"

She laughed—surprised, genuine. "Alright, what then?"

"Your number. For when you're not looking like a drowned rat."

"Charming." But she was smiling. "And what if I wanted to give you something now? For the jacket?"

The rain hammered harder on the shelter roof. No one else stupid enough to be out in this.

"I'm listening."

She stood up, my jacket falling to the seat. Stepped closer until we were sharing air.

"Body heat," she said. "That's the scientific way to warm up, right?"

"Something like that."

She kissed me—cold lips warming fast, rain still dripping from her hair onto my face. Her body pressed against mine, small and shivering but insistent.

"You're mad," I muttered against her mouth.

"Always have been." She pulled me to the corner of the shelter, furthest from the road, hidden by an advertising board for a solicitors' nobody used. "Live a little, yeah?"

Her hand found my jeans, worked them open with surprising skill for fingers that were half-frozen. I returned the favor, sliding under her wet hoodie, finding her skin cold but her kiss getting hotter.

"Fuck, your hands are warm," she breathed.

"Everywhere's warm."

"Prove it."

I slid my hand down, past the waistband of those tiny shorts, found her—warm, wet, and not from the rain.

"Been thinking about this since I sat down," she admitted, gasping as my fingers explored. "Saw you standing here looking all moody and fit. Thought, 'that'll warm me up.'"

"Happy to help."

I worked her with my fingers while she stroked me, both of us hidden in the corner of the shelter, rain covering any sounds we made. She was tight, responsive, her breath hitching every time I hit the right spot.

"Need more," she said. "Got a condom?"

"Wallet."

"Get it."

Thirty seconds later she was against the shelter wall, one leg wrapped around my hip, my jacket spread beneath her to protect from the worst of the graffiti. I pushed into her slowly, felt her gasp.

"Yes—fuck—that's it—"

The rain was our soundtrack, the leaky shelter roof our ceiling. Anyone could have walked past. No one did.

She was tight and hot and desperate, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt.

"Harder—please—"

I gave her what she wanted, each thrust pushing her back against the wall. She bit her lip to stay quiet, but little moans escaped anyway, lost in the storm.

"Gonna come—shit—already—"

She shuddered around me, her whole body tensing. I followed close behind, burying my face in her wet hair, breathing in rain and cheap shampoo and sex.

We stayed like that for a moment, catching our breath. The rain started to ease.

"Well," she said eventually, pulling back with a grin, "that was better than the bus."

I laughed, helped her straighten her clothes. "Much better."

She pulled out her phone, tapped it against mine. "There. Me number. For when I'm not a drowned rat."

"You scrub up alright?"

"Cheeky." But she was still smiling. "See you around, Liam."

"Count on it."

The next bus arrived ten minutes later. We got on together, sat at the back, her head on my shoulder the whole way.

My new favorite bus route.