I was waiting for the next bus to D.C. and couldn’t help but feel that I was in for another long, boring ride.

It was dark outside the bus depot. Dallas never looked so miserable.

As soon as I turned away from the window, a voice came over the intercom: “Schedule 1257 to Washington, D.C., now departing from Gate 9. Please have your tickets and reboarding passes ready.” I picked up my suitcase and carry-on and dragged them over to the entrance marked gate 9. I dropped them with a groan and blew my bangs out of my eyes.

“Bloody heavy pieces of junk,” I muttered to no one.

“You need help?” a voice asked from behind me in heavily accented English. I turned, and there stood an absolutely gorgeous man of Latin descent. I’d noticed him when I got on the bus back in California, and had done my best to avoid looking at him (let alone making eye contact), lest I get a bad case of the blushes. I couldn’t avoid him now.

“No, thank you. I’ve got it,” I said. I turned my back and heard him chuckle behind me.

Ten minutes later I dropped into one of the rainbow-striped seats with a sigh.

I let my mind wander, drifting off into fantasies of sexy Latino men massaging my back and rubbing oil into my body. “Excuse me,” came that voice again. I left my fantasy and lazily opened one eye to look at him. “May I sit by the window?” he asked. I glanced around and noted that, strangely, every other seat on the bus was now taken. The man had nowhere else to sit. So I nodded, moving to let him take the seat.

“I saw you get on in California. Where are you going?”

“North Carolina,” I replied, shoving the carry-on down under my seat.

“Oh. Then you’re going my way. I go to D.C.” He smiled brilliantly, teeth flashing in the dim light of the bus. I found myself smiling in return.

It wasn’t long before the bus pulled out of the depot, and Julio and I were chattering away in a mixture of English and Spanish like old friends. I found myself relaxing in the dark as he told me stories of his childhood and his family back in Ecuador, and how he’d come to America when he was 19 to learn English and study to become a translator for the United Nations. I closed my eyes and listened to the melody of his voice. Then he placed his hand on my leg, just above the knee. I froze, eyes opening wide in shock. His hand went still. I turned to look at him. His eyes glittered in the dark. I swallowed hard, just managing not to gasp. He grinned, sensing my thoughts. I frowned a little and turned back, facing straight ahead.

“Do you want me to move my hand, querida?” he whispered into my ear. I jerked at the sensation that his breath caused. His hand squeezed my leg gently, teasingly. I couldn’t bite back a moan. He laughed quietly and squeezed again, his hand inching up my leg. “Do you?” he asked. I shook my head, unable to speak. For half an hour we sat quietly in the dark as his hand moved slowly but steadily higher. My legs began to spread of their own accord. A fire was building inside me.

He leaned over and spoke into my ear again. “What do you want, querida? Show me what you want.” I couldn’t help myself. The heat between my legs had reached a fever pitch, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I reached down, unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled the zipper down harshly. Julio’s hand rested on my thigh, as though waiting. I grabbed it roughly and shoved it into my panties. He still didn’t move. A whimper broke from my lips, and I bucked my hips in hint and invitation. And still his hand remained unmoving.

Julio chuckled in the dark. “Is that what you want, querida? Mmm? Is that what you want? Tell me what you want, querida.” I shook my head, my cheeks blushing. “Tell me what you want,” he repeated. I moved my hips again, but his fingers stayed in place. Desperation welled up in me.

“I want you to finger me!” I whispered. “Please! I need you to finger me, Julio.”

He said, “As you wish, querida.” Before I could react, he plunged a finger inside me. I gasped loudly and bucked clear off the seat.

When my hips settled down, he began to finger me furiously. I felt the pressure begin to build and welcomed it, even as I was a little afraid of it. A series of small pleading cries tore from my throat as my hips rocked to the motion of his finger. Then he slowed the rhythm. I growled low in my throat. He laughed that dark and teasing laugh of his.

“You no like, querida? You want maybe — faster?” As he said it, he thrust his finger into me again. I cried out.

Briefly, it penetrated my brain that we were on a Greyhound bus, fooling around quite loudly, and that this was wrong. I turned my head to see if anyone was looking. Across the aisle sat a man. Our eyes met in the dark. I saw the lust in them. A wicked smile spread across my lips. So he wants a show, does he?

I’ll give him one that he won’t forget for a long time.

I turned back to Julio, my breath coming in ragged gasps. As my eyes locked onto his, he thrust another finger into me. My cry of pleasure was barely repressed.

“You’re so tight, querida,” he muttered into my ear. “So tight.” He eased the second finger out of me as he continued to tease and torment me with the first. I squirmed in my seat and turned toward him. I’m not sure when my shirt was pulled up, or by whom. But suddenly Julio was yanking my bra down, and the pad of his thumb was moving insistently over my left nipple. A shudder wracked my body. He bent his head and took my nipple into his mouth. His tongue laved over it.

“Julio,” I cried. “Julio, please. Por favor. Please. I need — ”

He pressed a finger across my lips to silence me. I sucked it into my mouth. His eyes narrowed. I could tell that he loved it, just as I did. He brought his face close to mine, inches apart. “What do you need, querida?”

“You,” I breathed. “I need you.” Our lips locked as his finger continued to fuck me. I could feel the wetness there, and the heat. A frenzied need came over me. I reached over and closed my hand over the hardness in his pants. His other hand moved mine aside and undid his trousers. Then he took my hand and pressed it against his bared cock.

I closed my hand around it and squeezed. He moaned into my mouth. I pumped him, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. He matched my rhythm with his fingers.

I tore my lips away from his and looked back across the aisle. The man there was still watching. He’d turned his back to the window so he could get a better view. He leered at me in the dark, and with my eyes I dared him. In response, he dropped his hand to his crotch and rubbed it, his eyes never leaving mine. I nodded encouragement, smiling wickedly. He unzipped his pants and took out his cock. It was hard and impressive looking, even in the dark, and I found myself longing.

I reluctantly turned back once more.

Incredibly, Julio seemed not to notice what had taken my attention away from him. He muttered several endearments in breathy Spanish, and I answered in kind. Then I pulled his head back down to mine with my free hand.

We came nearly in unison, moaning and gasping and grinning away like a pair of fools. He dragged my lips back to his for another hot, hard kiss. I wondered how he’d ever sensed this in me.

“Querida,” he murmured. “That was so good. Muy excellente, querida. Muchas gracias. Come to D.C. with me. Stay the night with me. Por favor, querida. I need you.”

I shook my head. “No, Julio, I can’t. I have to get off in Charlotte. My new roommate would never understand if I didn’t.”

“Then I get off with you in Charlotte. We’ll get a hotel room.”

“No,” I repeated, softer this time. “Julio, I’m engaged.” I invented the lie on the spur of the moment.

Julio pleaded with me again, but I held firm. He sighed, then gave a shrug. “As you wish, querida.” I blushed in memory of when he first said those words to me.

Our bus reached Shreveport, Louisiana, not too much later. Julio followed me into the depot, but I’d avoided him (just as I’d carefully avoided looking at the man from across the aisle) for the remainder of the journey, whether out of guilt or shyness, I can’t be sure.

I’m certain I made the right choice, but some nights I sit up in bed wondering what kind of lover Julio would have been, and I look back on the heat of that one night crossing Texas.