Taxi Rank Temptation

The taxi rank at 2 AM was survival of the fittest. Drunk people shoving, hen parties screeching, and never enough cabs for anyone.

I'd been waiting forty-five minutes when she appeared.

"Share a cab?" she asked, no preamble. "I'll split the fare. We're going the same direction."

"How do you know where I'm going?"

"Estate clothes, estate shoes." She shrugged. "Takes one to know one. I'm Block C."

"Block D."

"Perfect. We sharing or what?"

The cab came ten minutes later. We piled in the back, gave our addresses, and fell into comfortable silence.

She was fit—properly fit. Curvy in a way her going-out dress made the most of, dark hair loose around her shoulders, makeup slightly smudged from a long night.

"Good night?" I asked.

"Shit, actually." She laughed. "Mate pulled within an hour. Left me with her friends who I don't know."

"That's rough."

"You?"

"Mate's birthday. He threw up on me at midnight." I gestured at the stain on my shirt. "Hence going home early."

"Lovely."

"Right?"

We watched the streetlights pass. The cab driver had the radio on low, some late-night phone-in about conspiracies.

"I'm Amber, by the way," she said.

"Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake." She moved closer. "Can I be honest?"

"Go on."

"This night was a total waste until right now." Her hand found my thigh. "You're fit, we're going the same way, and I haven't pulled in months."

"Forward."

"Life's too short for subtlety." Her hand crept higher. "You interested or not?"

The cab driver's eyes flicked to the mirror. Amber's hand didn't move.

"Interested," I confirmed.

"Good." She leaned in, whispered. "My place. I'll tip him extra to not watch."

Her flat was smaller than mine but better decorated—fairy lights, actual furniture, the smell of something floral.

"Drink?" she offered, already heading to the fridge.

"I'm good."

"Me too." She turned, walked back, kissed me. "Very good."

She tasted of the cocktails she'd been drinking and something sweeter underneath. Her hands were already working at my shirt—the stained one.

"Let's get this off. Criminal evidence."

The shirt hit the floor. Her dress followed—one zip and it pooled at her feet. Underneath, matching black underwear that looked deliberately chosen.

"Like what you see?"

"Very much."

"Show me."

I dropped to my knees, kissed her stomach, her thighs. Pulled down her underwear and buried my face between her legs.

"Fuck—yes—"

She grabbed my hair, steadied herself against the kitchen counter. I ate her like I was making up for her shit night.

"Right there—don't stop—gonna—"

She came fast—clearly needing it—shaking and gasping. Before she'd recovered, she was pulling me up.

"Bedroom. Now."

The bedroom was the same as the rest—nice, comfortable, a bed that could actually fit two people. She pushed me onto it, climbed on top.

"Condom?"

"Nightstand."

She found one, rolled it on herself, sank down in one smooth motion.

"God yes. That's what I needed."

She rode me with abandon, all curves and moans and determination. I grabbed her hips, matched her rhythm.

"So good—harder—"

I gave her harder. She threw her head back, her tits bouncing.

"Close—already—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed while she rode. She came with a cry, clenching around me.

"Your turn—inside—"

I came hard, pulling her down, feeling her shake.

We collapsed together, breathing hard.

"Well," she said eventually, "that was better than the club."

"Much better."

"Stay the night?" She was already pulling the covers over us. "It's cold and you're warm."

"Twist my arm."

I stayed. And the night after.

Block C and Block D weren't so far apart, really.