Freya hammered on the glass door, but still the bus driver refused to let her in. Almost screaming in frustration, she watched him drive off when the lights turned, certain he had a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

The pounding of footsteps made her turn. A man with long black hair ran up to the stop urgently, waving his hands as though it would help, then cursed as the vehicle roared away. He paused a moment to catch his breath, and Freya said angrily, "Don't worry, he wouldn't have let you on anyway."

She began to pace the path, knowing she was stuck there for another twenty minutes. It was not a situation she favoured. Alone in the city at night was not the safest place to be, despite her best efforts at self-defence training.

"Weren't you just at the concert?" She jerked her head up, aware that the deep voice could only be speaking to her. He leant on the shiny yellow sign as if it were an old friend, regarding her disgruntled mutterings with curious dark eyes and a half smile on his well-sculptured, interesting face. She noticed a scar above his right eye, like a faint raised eyebrow.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to speak to this man, but there was something compelling about his body language. His stance was relaxed, his leather-jacket-clad arms crossed casually over a large chest, and his gaze was mesmerising. When she didn't answer he said, "Yeah, you were about six people across from me, when everyone ran up the front. That was great wasn't it?"

Recalling the adrenaline explosion of the last part of the concert, Freya's eyes lit up. "I got so close! My seat was miles away from the stage and I thought it would be really passive, with everyone sitting down, and then we just went for it!"

The stranger smiled, recognition crinkling his expression. "I must have crushed three people, it was so thick at the front."

"Yeah but it was worth it!"

"You been a fan for long?"

She smiled, warming to what seemed like a kindred, albeit scary-looking, spirit. "Ages. From the first album. I've waited half my life to see them live."

"I saw them in Europe, when I was there last year. Brilliant."

She raised her eyebrows. "You've been to Europe?"

He scrunched his nose. "Business trip. I'm an accountant."

Freya laughed out loud. She'd taken him for the worst type. "Accountant? Well, not to worry." At first he didn't seem to get the joke, but then he smiled and it was like summer rain. She realised she had to know more about him. "My name's Freya Smith." She reached out to shake his hand.

He took it strongly, his hands smooth and warm. "John Keats."

"Like the poet?"

He rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Yes, like the poet."

And then they were talking like school friends, comparing notes on the band, the concert, the merchandise and the sound. She discovered he lived only one block from her, in a ridiculously expensive apartment, and that he had a cottage in the country. He talked about his desire to climb his office block without ropes. She told him about her sculptures, and her job as a librarian. He listened intently, his curious eyes studying her face as she talked. She felt increasingly attracted to him as the minutes passed, and wondered if his thoughts mirrored hers.

"Look at us!" he grinned. "According to our jobs, we're the most boring people on the planet!"

"But we both go to heavy metal concerts," she smiled.

His voice was quiet. "And you seem far more interesting than you imply."

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed by his subtle complement. The arriving bus saved her from making further comment.

Save for an old, unshaven man at the front, the bus was empty. They sat together on the back seat, comparing notes about school bus excursions and long coach trips interstate. The city steadily grew smaller in the window behind them as their talk progressed from pet hates to religion, and then on to favourite movies and TV. Everything they said seemed to mesh like the crossed fingers of a prayer. Even when disagreement occurred, it was with an interest in the other side of the argument. Freya found herself captivated by the handsome stranger. She could barely turn her eyes from his face to check their location. As the suburbs raced by, their bodies unconciously moved closer.

"Did you ever watch the X-Files?" he asked casually.

"Oh, I loved it!" she replied. "But I only watched it in the hope that Scully and Mulder would get together."

"Ah, you were a 'shipper'," he smiled. "Of course, they had to hold off so they didn't ruin the friendship. And then by the time they did it, the whole series was over. You know, I think they could have stayed friends, if they did it right." His tone was light, but she detected a spark in his gaze that she could not define.

She found herself gazing into his eyes, bringing herself into his space as if drawn by a greater power. He had reached out and taken her hand within his gentle grip, so lightly it was like being captivated by a wisp of incense. "So..." Her voice cracked and she had to start again. "So you think lovers can remain friends?"
Almost too quickly their lips were inches apart, hovering like courting butterflies.

"Oh, yes," he whispered, "those are the best kind."

The barrier broke, and they kissed as if each had loved a lifetime without touch. Eagerly his hands worshipped her body, brushing and caressing though layers of cloth barred the way. They crushed against each other, rocked by the motion of the bus and carried back onto the seat by the jealous pull of gravity. Freya smelled his scent and touched his cheek, overwhelmed by her senses and amazed at the situation she was in. With a stranger in the back of the bus? Who would have thought?

Lost in the maze of his touch, she almost missed her stop. With an ocean of regret, she pulled away to press the button. They stepped off the bus together, their lips joined the moment their feet touched the earth, as though primal forces made it so. He led her towards his flat, and she was quietly pleased, if only because she hadn't vacuumed the floor at her own place.

He swept her into the bedroom, his hands tugging at her clothing. He pulled her breasts free and kissed them hungrily, his fingers nimbly unzipping her jeans and prying their way into her panties. She was wet and warm, her clit throbbing under his touch. She was ready, so ready...

Wriggling out of her jeans, she lay back on his soft bed as he kissed his way down to her cunt. Spreading her open, he licked, and sucked until she was molten with pleasure. Her orgasm came like a revelation.

Still gasping, she watched him remove his own pants to reveal a hot, thick cock, red with anticipation. He plunged between her thighs and fucked her hard, with an urgency of need that surprised her. Soon he came, his seed spurting hot within her.

The second time was slower, more careful, and she found herself floating, transformed by the beauty of it. She'd never had a lover like this. He seemed to know what she wanted, as if by telepathy, kissing and touching her at the right times so she was brought easily to orgasm over and over.

As they lay blissful in the aftermath, she found herself thinking... I hope he was right about The X Files...

**

She woke slowly, her dreams filled with remembered pleasure, to find herself alone in the strange, enormous bed. Instantly her heart sank. It was the classic situation, one she'd encountered before. Unable to face her in the morning, he'd left early, hoping she'd find her own way out. He'd avoid meeting her again and would never ring or attempt further contact. He obviously regretted his actions, as did, it seemed, all one night stands.

Freya quickly got up and dressed, consumed with anger while at the same time deeply troubled. He had misled her into thinking he was some kind of friend, or - damn him! - soul mate. Laughing, talking, making the most spectacular love she had experienced for some time. And it was all a sham. A clever pick-up ploy. And she had fallen for it like the stupid, stupid, gullible fool that she was. It was too much to be bourne.

She stomped toward the front door, muttering obscenities under her breath, only to stop at the table near the entrance in complete surprise.

A single red rose lay on the gleaming oak surface, accompanied by a hastily scribbled note. She felt her face grow red as she consumed the letter.

Good Morning Freya! Sorry I'm not here. You've woken up to find me out organising breakfast. Croissants OK? If you've got time today, I'd like to take you hang-gliding. Back soon, John.

She burst out laughing, and let it overcome her ill-conceived anger like a flood of relief. Hang-gliding? It was too ridiculous, and too wonderful, to comprehend.

Daintily fondling the rose, she wandered to the kitchen to find coffee waiting. Pouring a cheerful cup, she began to work on her fear of heights thinking, Friendship and romance... Mulder, it's no mystery at all.

-By Kayel