Stories From The 6 Train

By: Alexis Angel

Dedicated to Jess Bentley.


For 5 years, I lived in New York City. I woke up in my Midtown East one bedroom apartment in Beekman Place and went for a run along the East River. I got home at 6:45 and got ready for work and was on the 6 train at 51st Street and Lexington Avenue headed towards Wall Street. Five days a week. 52 weeks a year, minus any vacations.

To say I’ve seen some things during that time would be an understatement. I’ve seen the best and worst in people.

I’ve seen moments that touched my heart. And scenes that made me ashamed to be a human being.

But through it all, there was a common theme. An undercurrent.

For anyone who is familiar with my writing, one of the themes that run through it is my predilection to set the story in New York City.

There’s no other city in the world that takes the best in people, combines it with the worst and creates a melting pot of absolute gritty perfection.

Like a wealthy, unshaven, well-dressed, handsome, man. A hint of danger. A touch of familiarity. A sense of being part of something greater than anything else. Feeling part of history just by walking the streets. As if you’re in the center of the world. Crossroads of humanity.

This is a book of love stories in multiple forms. Love stories between man and woman. Between various professions and statuses. And between me and the city I love where I spend 6 months of my life each year.

These stories are pre-Alexis Angel. They were written by me when I lived in New York City. They were never published. Until today.

I hope you enjoy them.



Adrienne & Reese



“Are you freaking kidding me?”

I practically snarl the words over my shoulder as I elbow my way past the sweaty, greasy man in front of me. My new—and now equally greasy—red Louboutins hit the platform at the bottom of the stairs leading into the Thirty-third Street station, and I keep up my pace, not bothering to listen to the offensive words spewing from his mouth.

I don’t have time for this. My boss already kept me late in the office going over my new position as an executive marketing consultant at Dover Street Market. Normally something I’d be totally cool with. But today I have an appointment to view a new apartment and I cannot be late. It’s a good one, guaranteed to be snatched up if I miss my appointment. And with my current lease ending in a matter of days, I need to grab it fast.

I swipe my metro card through the turnstile and break into a run—not an easy task in my impractical and now filthy designer heels. A stream of people is already pouring into the 6 Train. I manage to slip through the doors just before they slide closed and slump against the edge of the seat next to me.

“Well, that’s just perfect,” I mutter, bending down and examining my shoes. Mr. Greasy McNasty left a huge scuff on them in addition to the grease marks. I want to be charitable and accept that it was just an accident, that anyone could have lost their balance and almost knock me down the stairs in the crowded rush hour terminal. But then I notice that he somehow snagged my thigh-high silk stockings. There’s a giant rip going all the way from my ankle up past the hem of my pencil skirt. How the hell?

I stick my leg out as far as I can on the crowded train and trail my finger up the tear, lifting my skirt to see just how bad the damage is.

Dammit! All the way to the top where my garter belt is clipped onto it. This is how I’m going to arrive to try to score one of the best apartment deals on the Upper East Side that I’ve ever seen—Adrienne Rhodes, a complete and utter hot mess.

Not if I can help it!

Knowing this is the only chance I’ll get to undo some of the damage, I turn back toward the door and reach up my skirt and unfasten the clips on my right thigh. I glance furtively around, hoping no one is paying attention. Yeah, I’m on a crowded public train with my hand up my skirt, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when a killer apartment is on the line.

I slide the stocking down my leg and slip my foot from my damaged shoe, pulling the tattered silk off and stuffing it in my Prada bag. Just as I start to slide my shoe back on, the train jerks to a stop at Grand Central, throwing my already precarious balance way off. I grab for the pole next to me, but it’s too late.

I’m falling.

I’m about to land on my ass on the floor of a subway train. As if I don’t already have enough ruined clothing for one day.

Realizing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, I close my eyes and brace for the impact. But then they fly wide open.

Big hands grasp my hips, and I find myself shifting in a new direction, the impact of my fall broken by a lap that is suddenly right under my ass. A very hard, very erect lap.

My breath whooshes from my lungs in a gasp that is half shock, half lust. A gasp that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Because oh my god, I am totally sitting on some random stranger’s raging hard-on. And it feels really damn good.

The people around us move, some getting off the train, some shifting to make room for new passengers.

The hands on my hips clench as the train moves again, fingers digging into me, and I’m mortified to find myself wriggling, some naughty part of me hoping I might move just the right way to relieve some of the sudden pressure that’s quickly building between my legs.

“You okay?” The deep, gravelly voice should pull me to my senses, but instead the sexy rasp only makes me wetter than I already am.

Pull it together, Adrienne. Am I really getting off to some guy I haven’t even seen? Almost as if my body has a mind of its own, I twist slightly on his lap, the movement making my breath come faster as it pushes me harder against his dick.

Then my eyes lock on his, dark, depthless and smoldering.

Oh my god. It’s him.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly, unable to move. Unable to think.

Because it’s my train guy. The guy I’ve been eye-fucking for the past two months on my ride home after work.

“Need some help?” he says, a smirk on his full lips that makes me want to dive in and suck them right into my mouth, bite down hard and then lick them better.

“What?” I shake my head, not comprehending his words. Nothing making sense past the sudden throbbing in my pussy.

He leans down and grabs my forgotten shoe, sliding it slowly onto my foot. His eyes never leave mine as he trails his fingers up my bare leg.

I swallow hard, wondering if I’m dreaming. Because every late-night fantasy I’ve had lately stars this guy right here. This dark-haired mystery guy that I see on the train two or three times a week, his stubbled jaw inciting thoughts of what it might feel like scraping against my thighs as he licks me to orgasm.

Oh yeah, I’m totally dreaming. Because when his hand reaches the bottom of my thigh, it travels over to the other leg to continue its journey upward. His eyes go impossibly darker before they drop down, and I follow his gaze.

Somehow in my struggle to remove my stockings and my subsequent fall, my skirt got hiked up. Way up. I can see the lacy top of the other one where it is still held in place by my garter clips.

His fingers trail higher still, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he deftly unclasps the hook. Hooking a finger inside the thin silk, he drags it down my leg, removing and replacing the other shoe after he bares my legs completely.

I can’t look away. This is probably the most erotically charged moment of my life, and it’s happening on an overcrowded rush hour train.

“That better?” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck, and I swear I feel him get even harder beneath me.

I nod. But it’s not. I’m so wet that I wonder if even my skirt will be soaked through when I stand up. The only thing that would make me better right now is for him to do something about the fierce need taking over my body, making me lose all sense of propriety.

The next span of time passes in a blur as the 6 Train flies through the dark tunnels of New York. I want so badly for him to touch me, to slide his hand back up my skirt. But he doesn’t. He keeps his hands firmly in place on my hips, though, not letting me leave the torturous pleasure of the hardness of his lap.

When the train finally pulls into my stop, I remain seated, not wanting the moment to end. But somewhere in my mind I find my motivation. The apartment. Right.

Staggering to my feet, I give my train guy one last regretful look. I can only hope we end up on the train together again tomorrow. Because I need to see where this could go.

Almost as much as I need this new apartment.



I drag a hand over my face as I emerge from the Seventy-seventh Street station. What the hell was that?

I almost want to cancel my appointment and hunt her down. But it’s certainly too late. She took off and was lost in the crowd before I could even get off the train. I scan the street and don’t see a trace of her anywhere.

That’s fine, I think as I make my way down the street. There’s always tomorrow. After seeing one of the most intriguing women on the 6 Train a couple months back, I made a point of seeing if it was a chance encounter, or if she rode at that time regularly. It was the latter. Maybe it’s kind of creepy, but I try to time my afternoon commute with hers.

I’ve never approached her because she doesn’t really look like my type. All prim and proper and cool perfection with her designer clothes and perfectly applied makeup. Long blond hair that gives the impression she’d be upset if a hair was out of place. And I definitely want to mess up all that perfect. Tangle my fingers in her hair as I smear her bright red lipstick all over my cock.

I like my women a bit on the wild side. Up for anything. She doesn’t seem like the type to be down with getting dirty, so as much as I enjoy watching her watch me over the top of the Kindle she pretends to read on her commute, I just haven’t gone there.

I thought I had her figured out. Now I’m rethinking everything. The last thing I expected was for there to be a sexy little minx under those designer clothes. But fuck, when she reached her hand up under her skirt and I caught a glimpse of that lingerie, all I wanted was to drag her off the train and see if there was a hidden little sex kitten dying to come out and play.

My cock is aching by the time I get home, and I glance at the clock, cursing when I realize I don’t have much time to do anything about it. I change out of my suit quickly, unable to resist taking my throbbing dick in my fist as I remember the way she wiggled that sweet ass on top of me, imagining what it would have been like to slide inside of her right there on the train.

I’m so fucking close already that it won’t take much, but I bite out another curse when the doorman buzzes.

“Yeah?” I grit out through the intercom after I throw on jeans and a roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt, removing my tie and unbuttoning the collar.

“Your appointment is here.”

“Send him up.”

I glance around the apartment, satisfied that the maid service did a good job today. I really hope this Adrian guy is a good fit. I don’t need a roommate, but I get bored easily being alone all the time. Yeah, I have plenty of women to keep me company, but they’re only interested in what I can give them. I just want someone around to keep the apartment from feeling less lonely. A guy that I don’t have to worry about trying to get to my bank account by way of getting into my pants.

When the knock sounds, I stride over and open the door. The friendly smile falls in an instant as I struggle to comprehend how she is standing outside my apartment.

My sexy as hell closet freak.

She looks just as confused, her perfect mouth opening and closing a few times, her eyebrows drawing together.

“Reese?” she finally says, doubt in her voice, and a hint of something else. Wariness?

How does she know my name?

“That’s me.” I give her a grin that should disarm her, but instead her eyes widen and she shakes her head.

“Oh my god.” She closes her eyes. “I’m Adrienne.”

Adrienne. A name that’s just as sexy as she is.

“Well, how can I help you, Adrienne?” I have a few ideas.

It’s almost a whisper, and I lean in closer. “I’m here to tour the apartment.”

Shit. Adrienne. Not Adrian.

My assistant booked the appointments and screened the candidates. Right now I’m wondering if I should fire her or give her a raise. Because how the hell did she not know it was a woman?

I should be pissed. I don’t need another woman trying to edge her way into my life. But all I can think about right now is that I’m one damn lucky bastard. Because this woman living in my apartment? My mind goes straight to her prancing around in her underwear, late night movies turning into late night fuck fests. Because that’s totally what coed roomies do. Right?

My irrational fantasies are shot down real fast when she backs up, shaking her head. “I thought Reese was a girl. I’m sorry. I’ll just go.”

Adrienne turns, her face stricken, and I move before I think.

“The hell you will.”

I grab her elbow and pull her toward me, into my apartment, and push the door shut, backing her against it.

Her mouth falls open, blue eyes wide, and her breath hitches before resuming at a faster pace, her breasts heaving beneath the demure silk blouse that I want to rip off of her.

I stand for a minute, pinning her between my arms as I rest a palm on either side of her face. All I know is that everything in me is screaming not to let this woman walk away.

Lowering my head, I lean in to whisper in her ear, sensing the shudder that runs through her as my breath skates across her skin. “Now that I have you here, there is no fucking way you’re leaving.”

Adrienne swallows hard. “I should leave.” Her tongue darts out nervously to moisten her lips, and I’m done. “But I don’t want to.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing left to say. Everything that built up on the train just a little while ago is hanging right there between us, and I’m about to fucking do something about it.

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