Lemonade and Summer-Sky Eyes

The bus depot was a twenty-minute walk from his flat, and Andrew had long ago perfected the art of leaving exactly early enough to stop at The Crown and Anchor for a quiet drink before his shift. Not a pint—never a pint before driving a double-decker through London’s night streets—but a lemonade, something cold and fizzy to mark the boundary between the quiet of his empty flat and the roar of the engine.

The pub was nearly empty when he pushed open the heavy oak door. Last orders had been called ten minutes ago, and the few remaining patrons were shrugging into coats, draining the dregs of their bitters. Andrew nodded at old Mr. Chen, who was always there on Tuesday nights, and made his way to the bar.

And then he saw her.

She was new. God, she was new, and she was magnificent. Tall, with long auburn hair that caught the amber light of the wall sconces and seemed to smoulder. Her dress was black and cut so low that Andrew felt his mouth go dry. The fabric clung to her like a dare, plunging deep between her breasts, revealing a cleavage so perfect it seemed almost obscene. Her legs—long, shapely, endless—disappeared beneath the bar, but he could see the outline of them, the way she shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

She looked up, and her eyes were the colour of a summer sky.

Stunning blue. Arresting. The kind of eyes that made a man forget what he was about to say.

Andrew approached the bar, his heart doing something peculiar in his chest. He was sixty years old, portly, with hair that had gone grey at the temples and was steadily marching toward white. He was not the sort of man who caught the attention of women like this. He knew that. He had made peace with it years ago.

“What can I get you?” she asked, and her voice was warm, unexpectedly soft.

“Lemonade, please,” Andrew said. “Just a lemonade.”

She smiled, and the smile reached those incredible eyes. “Designated driver?”

“Bus driver, actually. Night shift.”

“A man who takes his responsibilities seriously.” She reached for a glass, and Andrew watched her fingers curl around it. Long fingers, elegant, the nails painted a subtle pink. “I like that.”

She set the glass on the bar and poured. The lemonade fizzed and sparkled. Andrew reached into his pocket for his wallet, and when he held out the note, her fingers brushed against his.

It was deliberate. It had to be deliberate.

Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. The touch lasted only a moment, but Andrew felt it travel up his arm, across his chest, down into something deeper. He looked at her, and she was looking back at him with those blue, blue eyes.

“I’m Natalie,” she said.

“Natalie.” He said it slowly, tasting the name. The syllables rolled off his tongue like a prayer. “That’s beautiful.”

She tilted her head, and a strand of auburn hair fell across her cheek. “I like the way you say that.”

Andrew felt heat rise to his face. “I’m Andrew.”

“Andrew.” She smiled again, and it was different this time—slower, more intimate. “I’m glad you came in tonight, Andrew.”

She leaned forward, just slightly, and her fingers came up to brush that strand of hair back from her face. But she didn’t stop there. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, tracing down the side of her neck, over her collarbone, and then lower. Her fingertips grazed the swell of her breast, the deep valley of her cleavage, and Andrew watched, transfixed, as she traced the edge of the fabric.

He couldn’t breathe. The pub was empty now—Mr. Chen had shuffled out, the door had clicked shut, and they were alone. The silence was thick, charged.

“You’re so, so beautiful,” Andrew whispered. “Natalie.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if savouring the sound. “Say it again.”

“Natalie.”

“Again.”

“Natalie.”

She opened her eyes, and there was something in them now—something hungry, something tender. She reached across the bar and took his hand. Her grip was firm, certain.

“Come with me,” she said.

She led him around the bar, through a door marked Staff Only, into a small back room. It was dimmer here, quieter. There was a worn leather sofa against one wall, a cluttered desk, a coat rack. The smell of cleaning fluid and old beer hung in the air, but Andrew barely noticed. All he could see was her.

Natalie turned to face him. She was taller than him by an inch or two, and she looked down into his eyes with an expression that made his knees weak.

“You’re different,” she said. “The men who come in here on Saturdays—they’re all the same. Jack-the-lads, full of themselves, grabbing and leering.” She touched his cheek. “But you’re kind. I can see it. Gentle. Tender.”

Andrew swallowed. “I’m just a bus driver.”

“You’re more than that.” She leaned in, and her lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, exploratory. Her mouth was warm, tasting faintly of cherry lip balm. Andrew’s hands found her waist, and she pressed closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue traced his lower lip, and he opened for her, and the world narrowed to the heat of her mouth, the scent of her perfume, the soft sounds she made in the back of her throat.

She pulled back, breathless. “Sit down.”

Andrew sat on the leather sofa, and Natalie lowered herself beside him. She crossed her legs, and the movement was deliberate, slow. The hem of her dress rode up, revealing the tops of her thighs, the delicate lace of black stockings. She saw him looking and smiled.

“Do you like them?”

“God, yes,” Andrew breathed. “Natalie, you’re—”

She kissed him again, harder this time, and her hand slid down his chest, over the soft swell of his belly, lower. Her fingers found the zip of his trousers, and she worked it down with practiced ease.

Andrew gasped against her mouth. “Natalie.”

“I love that,” she murmured. “The way you say my name. It’s like you’re worshipping me.”

“I am,” he said, and meant it.

Her hand slipped inside, and then she was touching him, her fingers wrapping around his length. He was already hard, achingly hard, and she made a small sound of approval.

“So ready for me,” she whispered. “So eager.”

She began to stroke him, slowly, her grip firm but gentle. Andrew’s head fell back against the sofa, and he groaned. Her thumb traced circles over the sensitive head, spreading the moisture that had gathered there, and then she tightened her grip and stroked again, faster now.

“Look at me,” she said.

He opened his eyes. She was watching him, those blue eyes dark with desire, her lips parted. With her free hand, she guided his fingers to her chest, pressing his palm against the swell of her breast. The flesh was warm and soft, yielding under his touch. He cupped her, felt the weight of her, traced the deep line of her cleavage with trembling fingers.

“You can touch me,” she said. “I want you to.”

He did. He explored her with reverent hands, feeling the curve of her, the heat of her skin. She moaned softly and stroked him faster, her hand slick with his arousal.

“Natalie,” he gasped. “Natalie, I’m going to—”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

Her words pushed him over the edge. He cried out, her name on his lips like a benediction, and he spilled into her hand. She held him through it, her strokes slowing, gentling, until he was spent and trembling.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Andrew’s chest heaved. Natalie withdrew her hand, and he watched, dazed, as she reached for a tissue from the desk and cleaned her fingers with unhurried grace.

She stood, smoothing down her dress. “We should get back.”

Andrew blinked. Reality was seeping back in, the edges of the room coming into focus. The clock on the wall. The clock.

“Oh, Christ,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eleven.”

“I start at eleven. The depot—I have to go.”

He scrambled to his feet, doing up his trousers with clumsy fingers. Natalie watched him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Will you come back?” she asked.

Andrew paused at the door. She was standing in the dim light, her auburn hair a halo around her face, her dress still scandalously low, her legs impossibly long in those black stockings. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll come back.”

She walked him to the pub door, and he stepped out into the cool night air. His legs felt unsteady. His heart was still racing. The street was quiet, the sodium-orange glow of the streetlamps pooling on the pavement.

He turned back. Natalie was standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“Natalie,” he whispered, just to say it one more time.

She blew him a kiss.

Andrew walked to the depot in a daze. The night shift stretched ahead of him—the familiar route, the familiar stops, the familiar faces of the late-night passengers. But nothing felt familiar tonight. He felt transformed, remade. A woman like that, a goddess like Natalie, had looked at him and seen something worth wanting.

He clocked in with thirty seconds to spare. Frank, the depot manager, raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting it fine tonight, Andy.”

“Got held up,” Andrew said.

Frank grunted. “Well, bus seven’s fuelled and ready. Off you go.”

Andrew climbed into the driver’s seat of the double-decker. The engine rumbled to life beneath him. He adjusted the mirror, checked the indicators, and pulled out of the depot.

The streets of London rolled past. Passengers got on, got off. A group of students, laughing and loud. An old woman with shopping bags. A man in a suit, tie loosened, looking exhausted. Andrew drove them all, steady and careful, the way he always did.

But his mind was elsewhere. It was in that back room, on that leather sofa, with her hand on him and her name on his lips. It was in the way she had looked at him, the way she had kissed him, the way she had said I want to feel it.

At three in the morning, during his break, he sat in the cab and drank a can of lemonade from the vending machine. It wasn’t the same. Nothing would be the same again.

He thought about tomorrow. He would go back to The Crown and Anchor. He would order another lemonade. He would look into those stunning blue eyes and say her name, and she would smile that slow, intimate smile.

And maybe—just maybe—she would lead him to the back room again.

The thought made him smile, a private, knowing smile that no passenger would ever understand.

Andrew started the engine and pulled back onto the route. The city was quiet, the sky beginning to lighten at the edges. Dawn was coming. And somewhere, in a pub that was closed and dark, a beautiful barmaid with auburn hair was dreaming of a gentle bus driver who said her name like a prayer.

He whispered it one last time, just to feel the shape of it in his mouth.

“Natalie.”

And the night felt full of promise.