DESCRIPTION: Mayumi's a promising manga artist at the University of Tokyo, her sheltered upbringing and reclusive personality concealing an imaginative inner life and desperate loneliness. Her daydreams are shattered one morning by an anonymous pervert during her subway commute, by a secret encounter that's as much a wickedly enticing seduction as it is an unthinkable violation. EXCERPT: Her lips parted with a stifled moan and she squeezed the steel pole tighter between her fingers to counter the dizzy sway of her legs beneath her, the soft pendulum bounce of her skirt-clad hips against the warm kneading friction of his palm between the back of her thighs. His fingertip relinquished its ruthless focus on her swelling nub for a moment – she breathed out a soft sigh equal parts relief and frustration – to instead slide his hand up higher beneath the back of her pleated skirt and brush his palm across her backside, to clasp and softly squeeze each pert round cheek with a lewdly trembling fervor. His fingers delved lower to gently strum the sensitive cleft of her perineum, right between the damp crease of her sex and the tight curves of her rear for a few soft strokes, then lifted behind her hips to trace one digit up and down between her cheeks. Mayumi didn’t think of herself as having curves, at least not the sort of curves that guys ever seemed to care about. She’d dated a few boys in high school, even had her first kiss with one of them, but they’d always found her to be too serious, too moody, too intellectual, only to consistently find their perfect match in a girl with the voluptuous figure of a gravure idol. Funny how that worked out. Now, though, she found this older, wickedly experienced man’s hand exploring and secretly delighting in the lissome pear shape of her body, his hidden palm pressing into the conspicuously plump curves of her rear and fingers spreading to massage her cheeks with a soft, sensuous touch that would’ve seduced her even if it’d just been the brush of her palm or a light stroke of his fingers through her hair. She’d read enough shōjo romances and watched enough Disney movies to dream of finding her very own Prince Charming, to imagine being kissed on a moonlit balcony or a field of wildflowers. She didn’t believe she’d ever been in love, but she knew enough to consider it and fantasize about it. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even affection or trust: it was exactly the opposite. But he wanted her, desired her, and she’d never