Dear God, did he just smile at her? He must be new in town, or a tourist. Didn't he know there was no smiling at 8:00AM in midtown Manhattan? Unless you were

a.) drunk b.) high c.) a nutter.

But something about him was familiar. He waited, gesturing for her to step up. Paula grabbed the thick strap of her hobo bag. "No, it's okay. You first."

Their eyes briefly met. A puzzled light cooled and steadied all that mysterious, twinkling green. For just a breath the shifting colors and shades were still, drawing her into the depths, concentrating. Almost hypnotic. A shiver stole through her body, radiating in all directions from somewhere inside her core, as if he'd touched her intimately—ran something warm and wet over her pussy, under her panties. A stranger. Or was he?

"Really," she added, blinking quickly. "Go ahead."

He stepped up into the bus, and she followed, clutching her bag tightly, keeping a careful distance. She had chocolate in that bag, for later. No way was anyone stealing it.

Why would he smile at her?

Must be guilty of something.

As he strode ahead of her down the aisle, she kept a wary eye on him. Long legs in relaxed jeans that looked as if he was born wearing them. Denim just rough and faded enough. Definitely in possession of a great ass. Round, tight but not too precious. As for his coat choice—meh—left something to be desired and he wore a grey hoodie under it. Not one of her favorite looks. But really, how could she criticize? It was a dreary April in New York, one of those months when you dressed in the morning for any multitude of occurrences. The winter's slush still lingered, and the air was eternally damp and lackluster. Most shots of color came from gaudy plastic Easter eggs hanging in store windows, although she had seen a welcome burst of red tulips that morning in the little patch of dirt optimistically referred to as "green space" outside the apartment building in which she was staying.

Nice Ass abruptly stopped in front of her and turned. She had no time to stop and walked into him. He grabbed her arms, but it was too late to stop contact with his hard body.

There was no more room in the aisle and no free seats. They were stuck. Paula tried turning to avoid staring into his chest, but her large hobo bag jammed between a pole and the shoulder of a very wide woman who took up an entire seat and half the aisle behind her. Helpless, trapped, her gaze wandered upward, over his shoulders, the strong contours of his chin, the lips pressed firmly together, the long, slender nose...and came to a dead stop when it met his eyes again.

In her left ear, Gwen Stefani sang, Been gettin' a little lazy, waitin' on you to come save me.

He was making her panties wet, just by looking at her. What was he? A fucking sex magician?

"Chocolate," he said. "You smell like a chocolate bar."

Fretting over that for a few seconds, she finally gave up searching for a reply. Frustrated, getting sticky and hot, she struggled with her bag again, battling against the big, immoveable shoulder of the spreading woman on the seat behind her. The bus jolted forward, and the people in the aisle were knocked about like bowling pins. Landing against him again she felt a suspicious bulge in his jeans before he shifted back a step. Hmm. Maybe she smelled like chocolate—to him, but to her he smelled like a hunk of man, freshly showered. Spicy.

"That's quite a piece of luggage," said Nice Ass, his glistening green eyes slowly holding her under water, sapping her breath.

Luggage? He was one to talk, carrying that thing around in his pants.