The Last Train – Short Sensual Story
The Last Train: A Steamy Reunion in St. Pancras Station
The Last Train – Sensual Short Story
The Last Train
The rain streaked the arched windows of London’s St. Pancras International Station, turning the grand station into a shimmering cathedral of light and shadow of steam trains and Eurostar departures. I adjusted my newly bought Rolex watch – fifty-eight minutes until my Eurostar departed for Paris, it was the last train. Another business trip, another empty hotel room waiting. Or so I’d thought.
Then the scent of her perfume, channel No5 cut through the station’s stale coffee and damp wool coats, that unmistakable blend of vanilla and something darker, more dangerous. Instantly registering, my breath caught before I even turned.
It was Claire.
She stood near platform 12, one knee slightly bent and her black leather boot resting on a well-worn Louis Vuitton suitcase. It had been five years, the time had only sharpened her beauty and the shorter honey-blonde hair that curled just below her jawline and the way her fitted trench coat hugged every curve. She tapped her iPhone screen impatiently, that familiar crease between her eyebrows appearing as she bit her plush lower lip.
I should have kept walking. I Should have boarded my train to Paris and left the past where it belonged. Instead, my feet moved of their own accord until I stood close enough to see the rapid pulse in her throat.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I murmured.
Her head snapped up. For one unguarded moment, her blue eyes widened with shock, then something far more interesting, There was a hunger. “Well,” she breathed in husky tones, that voice like whiskey and smoke. “If it isn’t my favourite mistake.”
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The Champagne Bar
Have you got time for a drink? We claimed a shadowed corner booth in the first-class lounge of the Champagne Bar, where the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses created a cocoon of privacy. She ordered a dirty martini, extra olives and surprisingly she still remembered how I liked my whiskey neat and no ice.
“Brussels,” she said, swirling her drink. The ice cubes clinked like tiny warnings. “Just overnight. Then on to Prague for a client meeting.”
I watched her fingers trace the stem of her glass, remembering how those same fingers had once touch me. “Paris for me,” I said. “Three days of mind-numbing contract negotiations.”
Her foot brushed against mine beneath the table, it was not accidental and certainty not subtle. “Remember that weekend in Barcelona?” she asked, her pink tongue darting out to catch a drop of gin from her lip.
Christ, did I remember that weekend. The penthouse suite with floor-to-ceiling windows. Her naked body pressed against the glass as I took her from behind while the city lights spread out beneath us like fallen stars, it was something you couldn’t forget.
“Every. Damn. Bloody Day,” I growled.
Her lips curved as she leaned closer, the neckline of her dress gaping just enough to reveal the lace edge of her bra. “Prove it.” Clair blurted.
The Private Lounge
The attendant barely glanced up as I swiped my platinum card for access to the exclusive members’ area. Claire followed silently, her black louboutin heels clicking a deliberate rhythm on the marble floor that made my jaw clench.
The first-class shower suite door locked with a decisive click.
Then she was on me, she was like a woman possessed, her back slamming against the tiled wall as my mouth crashed down on hers. She tasted like gin, olives and memories I’d tried too hard to forget. My hands found the zipper of her dress as hers fumbled with my belt, both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon before even starting.
“Still so fucking impatient,” she gasped as I yanked the lace aside of her knickers and gentle circling her clit, your so damn wet pushed my finger inside her demanding pussy.
I silenced her with my mouth, swallowing her moan as I lifted her onto the vanity. Her legs wrapped around my waist with practiced ease, her nails scoring down my back as I thrusted my desperately wanting cock deep inside her. I pounded and pounded her wet pussy, as cried harder.
The mirror became misted with our breath as she arched beneath me, her wet pussy tightening around me with every thrust. “Right there,” she begged against my lips. “God, just like that, just like-“
Her body went rigid, her pussy pulsing around me as she came with a cry I muffled her lips gently with my palm. Feeling her warm cum spurt over my cock, it dragged me over the edge moments later, my groan lost in the sweat-damp curve of her neck.
The Aftermath
We dressed in silence, stealing glances in the steamed mirrors as we frantically tried to straighten our clothing. Her lipstick was ruined, my shirt hopelessly wrinkled. Outside, the tannoy was announcing final boarding for Brussels.
We both rushed to the door, she turned, her expression unreadable. “This was just a coincidence, it was nothing” she said, adjusting the strap of her dress. “Nothing more.”
I caught her wrist, pulling her close enough to feel her racing pulse. “Liar.” I said.
For one fleeting second, her mask slipped and it revealed the same wild hunger from before. Then she was gone, her Channel perfume lingering like a ghost. I felt the pit of my stomach wince at the thought I would never touch her again. I wondering off still arranging my jacket to grab a quick coffee before the last train to Paris was announced.
The Postcard
Six months or so later, an unmarked envelope arrived at my Paris office. Inside, a single Polaroid – it was Claire posing, her back to the camera in just a lace thong, she was knelt on a Venice Simplon-Orient-Express bed, I knew exactly what this picture meant, I know her so well. Scrawled on the back of the Polaroid in her familiar handwriting:
“Terminal 5, Heathrow. Private lounge. Noon. Don’t be late this time.”
I felt a grin appear and with a sharp intake of breath, my fingers instantly got to work opening my dairy and with a raised eyebrow from my assistant who found me clearing my calendar before the ink had even dried, the date was marked.
Thanks for stopping by.
Until next time,
Sue -❤️-
Why not take a moment to read another story:
Sue’s After Dark Diaries, Episode 1 – Dan and I, A Late Night Tale
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