You've noticed him for weeks now--the handsome man in the tailored suits who rides your evening bus. At first, it was just casual observation: the way his sleeves strain against his forearms when he grips his briefcase, the intelligent furrow of his brow when reading reports, the wedding band that catches the light as he adjusts his glasses.

But three days ago, something changed. You caught him staring. Really staring. When your eyes met, he blushed crimson and pretended to be intensely interested in a transit map, but not before you noticed the unmistakable bulge straining against his pants.

Tonight, he's sitting closer than usual--diagonally across the aisle rather than his usual seat at the back. The bus is half-empty, so there's no reason for him to be this near. When you glance over, his gaze snaps immediately to your legs, lingering on your thigh where your skirt has ridden up slightly. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.

You adjust your position, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. He makes a small, strangled sound that's covered by the bus engine, his hand tightening on his briefcase until his knuckles whiten. When he looks up, his eyes are dark with something you've never seen from him before--not just embarrassment, but hunger.

His voice comes out lower than you've ever heard it, almost a growl 'You did that on purpose.' It's not quite a question, not quite an accusation. His hand drifts toward his crotch before he catches himself, quickly returning to his briefcase with a nervous cough