One of my favorite things about Pedro in particular is heâs one of these actors who snaps in and out of character ⊠When you say âaction,â heâs there, heâs in the world, heâs that guy. Then the minute you turn the camera off, he just kinda lets it go. And he would have our sound guy channel a lot of dance music into his headset, and I just remember that like between takes of these incredibly intense, emotional scenes, he and Sophie would be like, dancing in the middle of the rainforest.
Summary: Sat in a cell, your only comfort is the Mandalorian imprisoned next door.
Warnings: 18+only. Smut ahoy including masturbation and penetration đ
A/N: Little extra Friday treat for you! Iâve been working on this one since I started binging the series in anticipation of the movie. I know NOTHING about Star Wars, Iâm a complete fairweather fan on the basis of Pedro. So anything that doesnât make sense in the universe is on me đ„°
The cell smells like rust and recycled air, and the lights went down hours ago â not off, never off, just dimmed to that bruised red that means the facility's day cycle is over and its prisoners are supposed to sleep. You havenât slept. Youâre not sure you remember how to anymore.
Three days. Thatâs how long you've been in here, counting by the rhythm of the ration slot and the heavy clank of boots that come once per shift change. Three days since the bounty hunter who calls himself Vane dragged you off your transport with a vibroblade at your throat, smiling like he'd won a sabacc pot. He hasn't told you what he wants yet, clearly being the kind of man that likes to make a woman stew.
You shift on the metal bench that passes for a bunk, drawing your knees up to your chest. The durasteel wall behind you is cold even through your shirt, but you press your shoulder blades into it anyway, because the cold is a real thing, and real things are rare in here.
Thatâs when you hear him move.
The cell next to yours was empty when they put you in. You'd stared at the dividing wall for the better part of a day, watching the seams, listening for breathing, and there had been nothing. But somewhere in the long stretch between the last meal and the dimming of the lights, they must have brought someone in, because now you can hear the unmistakable scrape of something heavy against metal, the dull clink of what can only be armour settling.
You hold your breath and hear a long exhale on the other side â mechanical, filtered. Like itâs passed through a vocoder before it reaches air. You know that sound. Every spacer this side of the Rim knows that sound.
A Mandalorian.
You don't know what possesses you to speak. Loneliness, maybe, stupidity, definitely and you turn your face to the wall.
"Hey."
Thereâs nothing for a long moment, just that mechanical breathing, even and slow, like a man whoâs been in worse places than this and is conserving himself for whatever comes next.
"You're awake."
His voice lands in your chest like a stone dropped down a well. Low, rough at the edges, made stranger by the helmet's modulator, carrying that slight metallic burr that turns every consonant into something with teeth. It should have been off-putting, but it isnât. Itâs the first voice you've heard in three days that isnât Vane's oily purr, and your whole body leans toward it before you've even decided to.
"Can't sleep," you reply. "How long have you been in there?"
"Couple hours."
"I didn't hear them bring you in."
"They didn't want you to."
You press your palm flat against the wall, as if you can feel him through it. You canât, of course, the durasteel thick enough to stop a blaster bolt. But you imagine him on the other side, sitting the way youâre sitting, his helmet tilted toward the sound of your voice.
"Are you hurt?" you ask.
He pauses. "Nothing that matters."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
You smile, in spite of everything. "Fine. Don't tell me your name either, then."
"I wasn't going to."
"Of course not." You let your head tip back against the wall. "So, what do I call you for the purposes of this limited conversation?"
"Mando works."
"Very original."
"Itâs functional and descriptive."
You laugh, a tiny breath of one, surprised out of you because itâs been a long time since anything has made you laugh. You hear him shift on the other side of the wall, a slow grinding of beskar against metal that you feel more than hear, the vibration humming through your spine.
"What did you do to end up in here?â he asks.
"Wrong cargo on the wrong ship. You?"
"Wrong face on the wrong wanted poster."
"Yours or his?"
"Mine, apparently."
"Hm." You trace a finger along a seam in the wall, following its line down to where it meets the bench. "Are you going to kill him when you get out?"
"Yes."
He says it the way another person might say I'm going to get water. No inflection, no heat, just the flat statement of a future fact. You should be frightened of him, but youâre not. Thereâs something steadying about that voice, that certainty. As if the universe is a problem heâs already solved, and youâve only stumbled into the middle of his working.
"Take me with you," you say, before you can think better of it.
"You don't know me," he replies, with the shape of a laugh through the modulator.
"I know you're not him."
"Thatâs a pretty low bar."
"It's the one I've got."
He goes quiet for a while after that. Not an uncomfortable quiet, rather the kind that feels like company. You listen to him breathe, slow and even, and try to match your own to it, and find after a few minutes that you have. You inhale when he inhales and exhale when he exhales, as if youâre sharing a single set of lungs through the wall.
"What's your name?" he asks.
You tell him without thinking, the syllables just leaving you, soft, into the dim red dark.
"That's a good name.â
"It's just a name."
"Thereâs no such thing as just a name."
You turn your face to the wall and press your cheek to it. The metalâs less cold now, or youâre warmer â one of the two.
"Say it again," you whisper.
Thereâs a pause long enough to make you think he might refuse. Then his voice comes, lower, slower, and he says your name the way you've never heard it said before, like it has weight, like itâs a thing heâs setting down carefully on a table between you, where you can both look at it.
Something flutters low in your belly, and you tell yourself itâs hunger. Three days of nutrient paste can do things to a person.
You know it isnât the hunger.
"Tell me something," you say, mostly to fill the silence. "Anything, I don't care."
"Like what?"
"LikeâŠwhat's the last good meal you had and on what planet. I donât know, anything."
You can hear him thinking about an answer before he speaks. "Tiingilar. On Nevarro. But there was too much spice, and it burned my tongue for an hour."
"You eat through that helmet?"
"Not in front of you, I wouldn't."
The phrasing is so specific, so oddly intimate, that it makes your face hot. In front of you. As if he's thought about it. As if youâre a person whose presence would change what he does with his mouth.
"Why not?" you ask, voice careful and quiet.
"It's the Way. No one sees my face."
"No one?"
"No one living."
You let that sit and take in the whole shape of it â the loneliness baked into it, the discipline, the strange tender violence of a vow that old. You think about a man who hasn't shown his face to anyone in years, who eats alone, who sleeps alone and who would die before he breaks that code.
You think about what it would mean if he ever did break it for someone.
"What about touch?" you ask, and you can hear your own pulse in your ears now. "Does the Way say anything about that?"
He pauses for a single beat. "No."
"No, it doesn't say anything? Or no, you don't�"
"It doesn't forbid it."
"Oh."
The silence after that has a different quality, the silence of two people whoâve both noticed the same thing at the same time and are waiting to see whoâs going to acknowledge it first. You feel your fingers curl against the wall and the wall against the line of your thigh through your trousers, the cold of it sinking through and meeting the heat of you.
"Mando," you say finally.
"Yeah."
"When's the last time someone touched you?"
The modulator catches his exhale and turns it into something like static. He doesnât answer right away and so you wait. You can be patient when you need to be, and right now, with your cheek to the wall and your blood loud in your throat, you need to be.
"Itâs been a long time," he admits finally.
"How long?"
"Longer than I'm going to tell a stranger."
"I'm not a stranger, you know my name."
"That doesn't make you not a stranger."
"Doesn't it?"
You imagine him in the cell next to yours, that helmeted head bowed, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. You imagine his shoulders pressed back against the same wall youâre pressed against, the only thing between his skin and yours a few centimetres of durasteel and a lifetime of bad decisions.
"What about you?" he says.
"What about me?"
"When's the last time anyone touched you?"
The directness of his question startles you. You've been the one playing this game and somehow, heâs taken the cards out of your hand without you noticing.
"A while," you admit.
"How long is a while?"
"Long enough that I think about it when I shouldn't."
"When shouldn't you?"
"Now," you say, "for instance."
You hear the soft sound through the modulator that you decide, immediately and with some certainty, is a laugh, or the closest thing he allows himself to one. Itâs a warm sound and it goes straight down your spine and pools at the base of it.
"You're thinking about it now?" he asks.
"You asked."
"I did."
"Are you going to ask what I'm thinking about?"
"I think I'd rather you tell me."
Your face is suddenly on fire and youâre grateful for the wall, grateful for the dark, grateful for every centimetre of durasteel that keeps him from seeing the colour you must be. You press your forehead against the metal, close your eyes and feel the steady, mechanical sound of his breathing on the other side.
Fuck it, you think. Youâre never going to see him and heâs never going to see you. If you both die in this place tomorrow, the only thing left of this night will be the air itâs moved through.
"I'm thinking about your voice," you say.
"My voice?"
"That's where I'd start."
"Where would you start with it?"
You wet your lips. "I'd want you to keep talking. I'd want you closer to the wall. I'd wantâŠI'd want to put my ear right up against it, and I'd want you to put your mouth right up against it on your side, and justâŠtalk. About anything. I just want it in my head."
You hear him move, hear the scrape of beskar against the wall, and you know, even though you canât see him, that heâs shifted closer, that the helmet is nearer to you now than it had been a minute ago. That if there were no wall, he would be a hand's breadth away.
"Like this," he says, and his voice is lower than it had been, the vocoder rasp gone soft, almost a whisper, and impossibly intimate for that. "This close enough for you?"
"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, that'sâŠthat's good."
"Tell me what else."
"I'dâŠ" You swallow. "I'd want you to tell me what you'd do."
"What I'd do?"
"If there wasn't a wall."
He takes his time with the answer. You can hear him thinking, hear him deciding, hear the moment he gives himself permission to say what he wants to say. It comes through the helmet as a small exhale, almost a sigh.
"I'd put my hand on your throat," he says.
Your breath catches.
"Not to hurt you," he adds. "Just to feel it, your pulse. You've got it going pretty fast right now, I bet."
"How can you tell? It'sâŠit's not the only thing it's doing."
"No?"
"No."
"Tell me."
You press your thighs together, the friction of the rough fabric almost too much. You havenât realised how wound you've been, how three days of fear and adrenaline has sat in you with nowhere to go, and now his voice is a key turning in a lock you haven't known was there.
"I'm wet," you say, quiet, into the wall. "I've been wet since you said my name."
The sound he makes then isnât modulated. It is â for just a fraction of a second â something raw that slips through underneath the vocoder, a breath that turns into something else, and you want to live in that sound, want to wear it.
"Show me," he says. "Tell me. Whatever you're doingâŠtell me."
"You first."
"I'm hard."
The directness of it punches the air out of you. He says it the way he said yes, I'm going to kill him, flat and true, a simple fact of the universe.
"Are you touching yourself?" you whisper.
"I want to wait."
"For what?"
"For you."
Oh. Oh. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise that will carry. Some part of you is still aware that there are guards somewhere in this facility, that Vane is somewhere in this facility, and that anything either of you does or says too loudly could be heard. But the bigger part of you, the part thatâs been starving for three days and probably longer than that, is already past caring.
"Together, then," you say.
"Together."
You work your hand under the waistband of your trousers. The fabricâs stiff and unfriendly, but underneath it, youâre soft and slick and so ready that the first brush of your own fingertips makes you gasp into the metal.
"Talk to me," you say. "MandoâŠkeep talking."
"I'm undoing the belt," he says. "Just the cod, the rest stays on. You can't be careless in a place like this."
"Yeah."
"Iâve got my hand on it."
"Tell meâŠtell me what it looks like."
"It's hard. It's been hard since you asked me about touch. And itâs leaking a little at the tip. I'm wiping it with my thumb."
"Are youâŠare your hands gloved?"
"I took the right one off â for you.â
You whimper softly, and donât even try to hide it. You have two fingers circling your clit now, slow, the way heâs talking â slow and deliberate, with that mechanical control that you suspect is the only thing keeping him from coming apart already.
"What about you?" he says. "Tell me what you're doing."
"I've got my hand down my pants. My fingersâŠâ you exhale. âI'm so wet, Mando, I can'tâŠI'm circling, just circling, slow."
"Slow's good."
"I want it to be your hand."
"What would my hand do?"
"It would be slower than mine and heavier. You'd make me wait. You'd make meâŠyou'd make me ask."
"Would you ask?"
"Yes."
"Ask now."
You canât think because you can barely breathe. The wall against your forehead is wet from your breath, the metal smelling faintly of iron. âPlease."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me. PleaseâŠplease don't stop talking, please put your fingers in me, pleaseâŠ"
"How many?"
"Two, start with two."
"Tell me when."
"Now. Mando, nowâŠ"
You push two fingers into yourself and the sound you makes is hot and high and you press your other hand over your own mouth to muffle it. On the other side of the wall you hear a sound through the modulator thatâs almost a groan, but not quite. Heâs holding it back, but you hear the shape of it, hear the way it cracks the calm in his voice.
"That's it," he says. "Tell me how it feels."
"Tight. Hot. IâŠMando, I haven'tâŠI haven't done this in so long, IâŠ"
"I've got you."
"What are you doing?"
"Stroking, slow. Long strokes. My grip's tight, IâŠfuckâŠ"
That word through the modulator, low and almost involuntary, is the most vulgar thing youâve ever heard. It makes you clench around your own fingers, and whine into your hand.
"Say it again," you beg.
"Fuck."
"Again."
"You feel that good?"
"Yes."
"What if it was me? What if it was my hand inside you?"
"It is. Right now, it is. Tell me you're thinking about it."
"I am. I'm thinking aboutâŠabout pushing you up against this wall where you can't move. Where I can hold you there with one hand and use the otherâŠ"
"How many?"
"Three. You'd take three."
"I would."
"You would. You'd take everything I gave you, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'd take everything you gave me."
You add the third finger. Itâs a stretch, just on the edge of too much, and that edge is exactly where you want to be. Your thumb works your clit in tight circles and you pant against the wall, against your own palm, and on the other side of the durasteel a Mandalorian is stroking his cock to the sound of your voice and youâve never, in your entire life, been so undone by a man youâve not seen.
"Mando."
"I'm here."
"I'm close."
"How close?"
"Close. Close, IâŠkeep talking to me, please, please, justâŠ"
"Listen to me," he says, and his voice has dropped to something so quiet itâs almost a breath, almost prayer. "Listen. You feel like silk. You feel like the best thing I've put my hand in in years. If I were there, I'd have my mouth on your throat right now. I'd have my teeth on the place where your pulse is. I wouldn't bite hard, just enough that you'd feel it for days. I'd have my fingers in you all the way to the knuckle, and I'd be working you open, slow, until you were begging me, until you were saying my nameâŠ"
"I don't know your name."
Thereâs a pause. A long one, during which you almost stop breathing.
"Din," he says. "It's Din."
Something cracks open in your chest. Heâs given you something heâs not supposed to give, given you something that, by his own laws, no one should have. And heâs given it to you with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat and a wall between you. And you understood, in that moment, that you will never, not as long as you live, hear that name said in that voice again without falling apart.
"Din," you say.
"Yeah."
"DinâŠDinâŠ"
"Say it again."
"Din, I'mâŠ"
"Come."
You come around your own fingers with his name in your mouth and the metal of the wall against your forehead, and you bite down hard on the heel of your hand to keep from screaming. On the other side of the wall, you hear the shape of his climax through the modulator, the cracked-open sound of a man who hasnât let anyone hear him in a very long time. It goes on, and on, and on, and when you finally collapse back against the bench, youâre trembling all over, slick with sweat, your fingers still inside yourself, your breath coming in pieces.
For a long time, neither of you speak, but you can hear him breathing. You lie back on the bench with your trousers half-undone and your hand against your chest and your heart hammering up into your palm and listen to him do the same on the other side of the wall.
The dimmed red lights buzz faintly overhead and somewhere far down the corridor, a door cycles. The world is still in here, the way it always was â but underneath the stillness, something new is sitting between you that hadnât been there an hour ago. You can feel the weight of it and suspect he can too.
"Din," you say, just to see if youâre allowed to say it again.
"Yeah." His voice is rougher than it has been, the modulator doing its best to flatten it out and failing. "I'm here."
"Are you alright?"
"That's my question."
"I asked first."
"I'm alright."
You smile at the ceiling. Thereâs something so absurdly him about it â a man who has just come apart with a stranger's name in his throat and is now answering you in two-syllable monosyllables, the way he probably answers everyone about everything.
Your fingers are still tacky, your face still hot and you feel, somehow, like youâve just survived something rather than enjoyed it.
"I'm alright too," you say, in case heâs waiting for it.
"Good."
"Din?"
"Yeah."
"You shouldn't have given me that, should you?"
Heâs quiet for a long time and you let him have the quiet. You've learned, over the course of the night, that his silences are a kind of speech, that heâs a man who turns things over thoroughly before he sets them down.
"No," he says finally. "I shouldn't have."
"Are you sorry?"
"No."
"Good."
You roll onto your side, facing the wall, draw your knees up and tuck your hand under your cheek. The metal is warm now where youâve been pressed against it, warm with the warmth of you, and you imagine that on the other side of it some matching patch of beskar is warm too, warmed by a helmet thatâs been resting against the same plane of durasteel for the better part of an hour.
"Are you really going to kill him?" you ask.
"Yes."
"Tomorrow?"
"As soon as I get the chance."
"Will I get to see it?"
"You'll be out of the cell before it happens, I'll see to that."
You close your eyes. The certainty in his voice is a strange thing to lean against, but you lean anyway. Itâs the most solid thing you've had to lean against in three days, maybe longer.
"Din?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me something else. Anything, justâŠkeep talking, until I fall asleep."
"What do you want to hear about?"
"Anything that isn't this place."
You hear him shift, heard the soft sigh of the helmet against the metal as he thinks about it and settles him in.
"There's a marsh moon," he says, "out past Trask. Thereâs nothing on it, no settlements, just water and reeds as far as you can see. The water glows at night. Some kind of bioluminescent thing in it. You walk through it and your boots light up the whole pool, blue, like you're walking on stars."
"Have you been there?"
"Once."
"What did you do there?"
"I refuelled, sat on the ramp of my ship for a while and watched the water."
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
"I'd like to see that."
"I'll show you."
Your chest does a thing it has no business doing, given the circumstances. You press your cheek harder into the wall, not rusting yourself to answer, because if you answer, your voice is going to do something embarrassing.
"Keep going," you say when you can. "Tell me more."
So, he does.
He tells you about a desert at dawn on a planet whose name you donât catch, where the sand turns the colour of beaten copper in the first light. He tells you about a forest where the trees grow so close together that you have to turn sideways to walk between them, and about a kind of bread they baked on Sorgan that you eat with your hands.
You don't know when you fall asleep. You only know that somewhere in the middle of a sentence about a city built into a cliff face, your eyelids give up, and the last thing you remember is the steady metal-edged sound of his voice telling you about the way the wind moves through the canyon at night and, for the first time in three days, youâre not afraid.
****
You wake to white.
Not red, not the bruised dim red of the night cycle, but the cold flat white of the day lights, full and unflattering and merciless on your gummed-shut eyes. You squint and sit up, your body protesting in a hundred small ways and you put your hand to the wall before you've even fully remembered why.
"Din?"
Nothing.
You frown, sleep still thick in your throat.
"Din,â you cough. âAre you awake?"
Nothing.
The breathingâs gone, thatâs the first thing you notice, the absence of the slow, even, modulated breath that has become, over the course of the night, as familiar to you as your own pulse. The cell on the other side of the wall is quiet. Not the quiet of a man sleeping, but the quiet of a room with nothing in it.
Your stomach drops.
You scramble off the bench and go to the front of the cell, pressing your face to the narrow slit in the door, trying to angle your eye to see down the corridor. You canât see much, but you notice the edge of the next cell's doorâŠ
âŠwhich is open.
Not forced or blown, rather open the way a doorâs open when someoneâs unlocked it and walked out. The interior, what little of it you could see, is empty. No figure on the bench, no silhouette by the wall, no beskar.
"Din?"
Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.
You stand there for a long time with your forehead against the cool metal of your own door, and you try to talk yourself into the reasonable explanations. Heâs escaped and heâs going to kill the man who put him here, and a man who says a thing like that the way he said it isnât a man who stays in a cell longer than he has to.
He said he would see to it that you got out before it happened.
He said I'll show you.
You believe him. You had believed him at the time, and you believed him now, in the cold white morning, with your hair stuck to your face and your hands trembling slightly from cold or hunger or the aftershock of a night youâre still half-convinced you dreamed.
You go back to the bench and sit down. You put your hand against the wall, except it isnât warm anymore. Itâs cold all the way through. Heâs been gone for hours, probably, since not long after you fell asleep, because thatâs the kind of man he is â the kind who waits until youâre safe in sleep before he does what he has to do, so that you wonât have to lie awake listening to him do it.
You wonder if he said goodbye. If somewhere in the dark, between one of his sentences about canyons and the next, he said something soft to the wall, and you hadn't heard it because you were already gone. You hope so. You hoped he'd put his gloved hand against the metal one last time and said your name the way he'd said it the night before.
You draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them. Then you press your forehead to them and you breathe, slow, in and out, the way youâd breathed with him in the dark, except now youâre doing it alone, and the rhythm doesnât match anything but the memory of him.
Itâs then that you notice it.
A small thing, set on the floor at the base of the dividing wall, on your side, where it must have been pushed under through the narrow gap between the wall and the floor â a gap you havenât noticed before, a gap barely wide enough for a finger but wide enough, evidently, for this.
You pick it up.
Itâs a sliver of beskar, no bigger than your thumb, cut clean, the edges smoothed. A scrap, probably, from some repair he's done to his own armour a long time ago and kept in a pouch for reasons that are his and not yours. The metalâs warm in your hand, even though it shouldn't have been.
Wrapped around it, twice, is a thin strip of leather. And on the leather, scratched in with the point of something sharp, in letters small and precise and careful, heâs written you a message.
Wait for me.
Thatâs all. No name, no instructions. no promise more elaborate than those three words, in a hand that has pressed hard enough into the leather to scar it.
You close your fingers around the beskar and shut your eyes. You press your closed fist to your mouth and sit there in the cold white morning of the cell that has held you for three days, and you donât cry, because youâve not cried in years and youâre not going to start now. But something in your chest does a thing thatâs very close to it â a hot, full, aching thing that wants out and canât get out and so just sits there, glowing, like the water on his marsh moon.
Down the corridor, very faint, you hear footsteps, heavy ones, coming closer.
You open your hand and look at the sliver of beskar once more, and then you close your fist around it again and tuck it into the inner pocket of your shirt, against your skin, where no search would find it without finding you first. You straighten your spine, wipe your face with the heel of your hand and set your jaw.
You wait.
Because he's asked you to. Because heâs coming back. Because a man like that, a man who said yes the way he said it and I'll show you the way he said it and Din â Din, it's Din â into the dark, to a stranger, through a wall, breaking a vow he has kept his whole life â that man doesnât say wait for me unless he means it.
The footsteps get closer then stop outside your door.
You hear the soft electronic chirp of a lockpad being overridden â not the heavy clang of guards cycling a door open in the normal way, but the cleaner, quieter click of someone who knows exactly which wires to cross and which ones to leave alone.
The door slides back and there he is. Beskar from helm to boot, the morning light off the corridor lamps making a hard silver line down the curve of his pauldron. Blaster holstered at his thigh, vibroblade still wet at the tip. He fills the doorway like heâs been built to fill it, and the visor turns toward you. You stood up so fast you nearly crack your head on the underside of the bunk.
"Took your time," you say.
The modulator catches the tired amusement before he's even spoken. "There were six of them."
"And Vane?"
"Five."
You snort because you canât help it. He steps into the cell, glances at you, glances at the wall, glances â pointedly â at the floor where the sliver of beskar had been. He doesnât say anything about it because he doesnât have to. The angle of his helmet says, good, you found it, and the small tilt that follows says come on, and youâre moving before he's finished the gesture, ducking under his arm into the corridor.
"This way," he says.
"I know which way."
"Then go."
You know the layout of this facility because youâve spent three days memorising the sliver of it you could see through the door slit, and because, it turns out, you also saw the schematics two weeks ago in a briefing on the Crest â a briefing you had pretended to listen to while throwing ration wrappers at the back of his helmet.
You take the left at the junction and he covers your back. Then you take the service stairs down two levels, through the maintenance hatch and out into the cold dawn air of a landing platform where a familiar gunship sits waiting with its ramp already down, because he landed it himself before he came for you and he isnât the kind of man who leaves a door closed when he might need to run through it.
The ramp clangs shut behind you, the engines spool and you brace yourself against the bulkhead as he takes the pilot's seat and throws the Crest up off the platform with the kind of brutal efficiency he uses for everything. The planet falls away under you, the stars come up, and youâre free.
You stand in the cockpit doorway, breathing.
"Don't say it," he says, without turning around.
"Don't say what?"
"Whatever you're about to say."
"I wasn't going toâŠ"
"You were going to."
"I was going to say thanks."
"No, you weren't."
You laugh, finally. It comes out shaky, the adrenaline leaving you in a slow drain. You let yourself slide down the bulkhead until youâre sitting on the deck with your back against the metal, and you put your hands over your face and laugh until your ribs hurt.
He punches the coordinates in, sets the autopilot, then stands up, slowly, the way he stands up when his back hurts and he doesnât want you to know. But you know, because you've been flying with him for nine months and you know every small tell his body makes through the armour.
He crouches in front of you and puts his gloved hand on your knee.
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"Look at me."
You take your hands off your face and look up at the visor. The T-shape of it is the same as itâs always been. The same as itâs been across a hundred campfires and a thousand cantina tables and the dozen times heâs sat across from you in this same hold and cleaned his weapons while you cleaned yours.
The same, and not the same.
"We really need to stop doing this," you say finally.
"Doing what?"
"The wall thing. The talking through the wall every time a job goes sideways, and they put us in adjoining cells thing. This isâŠDin, this is the third time."
"Fourth."
"What?"
"Fourth. You're forgetting Ord Mantell."
"Ord Mantell was a closet, not a cell."
"Still a wall."
"Still a wall," you allow.
He huffs, his hand still on your knee. The leather of the glove is warm from the inside of his fist, and you can feel each individual finger, and that heâs not lifting it away.
"It's because we don't talk like this anywhere else," you say. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"You only get like that when there's a wall."
"I know."
"It's ridiculous."
"I know."
"Din..." you hesitate. "That's the first time you've told me your real name."
"Yeah."
You lick your lips. "Fuck me."
The hand on your knee tightens, just a fraction, just enough that you know he heard you.
"Don't," he says
"Fuck me. Letâs get it out of our systems. Once, properly, with nothing between us andâŠand I swear to you, I swear, the next time some Hutt-licking bounty hunter shoves us into a holding block, neither of us is going to need to do the wall thing ever again, because we'll have done it, and the tension will be gone, and we can go back to beingâŠ"
"Being what?"
"Whatever we are."
"You think that's how it works?"
"I think it's worth finding out."
You watch the visor, watch the way his shoulders move when he breathes, watch the long, calibrated stillness of a man whoâs already decided what heâs going to do and is making himself take an extra second to be sure of it.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he says.
"I do."
"You don't."
"Din, I had three fingers in myself last night while you talked to me through a wall. I think I have some idea."
The sound that comes out of him isnât a laugh, itâs something rougher, something he doesnât quite catch in time, and his hand leaves your knee and goes to your jaw, gloved thumb against the corner of your mouth.
You stop breathing.
"Stand up," he says.
You stand he stands with you, and you have to tip your head to keep looking at the visor. He looks down at you for a long moment, and then his other hand comes up and he hooks one gloved finger under the collar of your shirt and tugs, gently, until you take a step toward him, and another, and then his back is against the bulkhead and yours is against him and his arm is around your waist.
"Once," he says.
"Once."
"And it doesn't fix anything."
"Probably not."
"And you're going to have to be quiet, because the autopilot doesn't know what to do if you scream and trip the proximity alarms."
"Din, I am going to scream."
"Then I'll cover your mouth."
You go hot all the way through and feel your own pulse in places that have no business having a pulse. You press your forehead against the cold beskar of his chest plate breathe in the smell of him â leather and weapon oil and metal warmed by the body underneath.
"Bed. Bunk. Somewhere. Now."
He picks you up, one arm under your thighs and the other across your back, like you weigh nothing, like he's been waiting a long time for the excuse to find out exactly how much you weigh. He carries you down the short ladder into the hold and through to the narrow alcove where his bunk is set into the wall and sets you down on the edge of it. Then he stands between your knees and starts, with great deliberation, to undress.
The pauldrons came off first, heavy clunks against the deck. Then the vambraces, the chest plate, the cuirass, the thigh plates. He sets them all aside in the order he always sets them, the order youâve watched him set them in a hundred times, and the familiarity of the ritual mixes with the unfamiliarity of whatâs happening making your head spin a little.
The flight suit comes off next. Black, snug, all the seams youâve stared at across many a hold while pretending to read. He peels it down to his waist and you see the long lean torso of him, scarred in a dozen places, a constellation of old hurt, a body that has been keeping itself alive for a long time and has the receipts.
Thereâs scant hair across his chest, dark and soft-looking, narrowing down toward his waistband and a long pale scar that wraps around his ribs like a vine. Thereâs a tattoo, small, on the inside of his left bicep â a mythosaur skull, no bigger than your thumb â that you have absolutely never known exists.
He keeps going. Flight suit all the way off, boots, trousers and the under-layer beneath. Everything. Every stitch.
Except the helmet.
He stands there in the low light of the bunk alcove, completely naked from the neck down, hard already, his cock heavy against his thigh, and the beskar catches in the dim light off the bulkhead in a way that makes the helmet seem almost a separate creature from the body thatâs offering itself to you.
"Din...â
"No."
"I didn'tâŠ"
"You were going to."
"I wasn'tâŠ"
"You were."
"...I was."
"No."
"Just the eyes. JustâŠjust let me see your eyes."
"No."
"Please."
"No."
He says it gently with no heat in it, as a feature of the universe, not a refusal of you. And then he steps closer and takes the hem of your shirt in both bare hands and pulls it off you, slow, then drops it on the floor on top of his own.
"You have me," he says. "All of me. Just not that."
"DinâŠ"
"All of me," he says again, and he puts his bare hand flat over your sternum, between your breasts, hot palm and rough fingertips against your skin, and you forget what you had been going to say. "Everything else. You can have everything else. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I understand."
"Then take it."
He kisses you.
OrâŠthe helmet does. He presses the cool flat front of the beskar to your forehead first, the way he had once or twice before in moments youâve not allowed yourself to think too hard about. Then he tilts his head and brings it lower, pressing the brow of the helm to your mouth, just for a moment, just enough that you feel the cold kiss of the metal on your lips, and then his hand is sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and he tips you back onto the bunk.
He kisses everything else with his hands.
The pads of his fingers move down the line of your throat. His thumb skates across your collarbone. His palm cups the underside of your breast and his mouth â the front of the helmet, the smooth lower edge â drags slow against your nipple, cool and unyielding, and you arch up off the bunk with a noise that you try, and fail, to keep quiet.
"Shh," he says.
"I can'tâŠ"
"You can."
"I can'tâŠ"
His hand comes up and his fingers slip into your mouth. Two of them, the same two, and you bite down and moan around them and he makes a low sound through the modulator.
"Good. Like that. Quiet."
He keeps going down, the helmet tracking down the line of your sternum, the soft place under your ribs and the flat of your stomach. His other hand works your trousers open and shoves them down. You kick them off, and your underthings with them, and then youâre naked under him, and the cold metal of the helmet presses against the hot skin of your inner thigh and the contrast makes you whimper around his fingers.
"DinâŠ"
He doesnât answer with words. He answers by taking his fingers out of your mouth and replacing them, slowly, between your legs. Two fingers, the way youâd asked for last night. He finds you slick and ready and he hisses, audibly, through the modulator.
"All night," he says. "Like this?"
"Most of it."
"Greedy."
"For you, just for you."
The fingers push in slowly, deeper than yours had gone, longer, more deliberate, and you make a sound that starts high and would go higher but for him pressing the front of the helmet to your sternum.
âQuiet, I told you."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He fucks you on his fingers for what feels like a small eternity. Long, slow, brutal strokes, his thumb finding your clit with the precision of a man who knows where every nerve in a body lives and where to put pressure on each of them. Youâre drenched, shaking, biting the back of your own wrist to stay quiet and heâs watching you do it, the visor angled down at your face the whole time, and you know â you know â that behind that visor his eyes are on your mouth.
"DinâŠDin, please, I wantâŠ"
"Tell me."
"You inside me, properly. Now."
He takes his hand away and shifts upwards, bracing one hand on the bunk beside your head and the other on his cock. You feel the blunt heat of him drag through your slickness and your hips buck up of their own accord and he makes a low strangled sound.
"Wait. Wait, look at me."
You look at the visor.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Din."
"Say it."
"I'm sure. Fuck me, please."
He pushes in slow, so slow you think youâre going to die of it. He pushes in to the hilt and then holds there, his forehead â the brow of the helmet â against yours, his bare chest against your bare chest, his hand on your jaw and the metallic rasp of his breathing the loudest thing in the world. You can feel him trembling, just slightly, with the effort of not moving.
"Alright?" he asks.
"Move."
"Alright?"
"Move, DinâŠ"
He moves the way he does everything â efficiently, without waste, with the calibrated intensity of a man whoâs decided what heâs going to do and is now doing exactly that, and nothing else, and nothing less. He sets a rhythm thatâs deep and steady and merciless, and you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his shoulders and press your face to the side of the helmet, to the place where his ear would be, and you say his name into the beskar over and over again because you canât say it into his mouth.
"DinâŠ"
"I'm here."
"Din, harderâŠ"
"You'll bruise."
"I want to bruise. Please, Din, pleaseâŠ"
He fucks you harder. He braces both hands on the bunk now, one on either side of your head, and drives into you with the long, full strokes of a man whoâs been holding himself in check for nine months and has finally been given permission to stop. The headboard of the bunk knocks, softly, against the bulkhead in time with each thrust, and your hands roam his back as you map him by feel.
The helmet stays on.
You beg, somewhere in the middle of it. When the pleasure has stripped your inhibitions down to nothing, you put your hands on the sides of the helmet and say, "Please, Din, please, justâŠjust let me seeâŠ" and he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.
"No. Not that. Anything else. Anything else but that."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
So, you take the anything. You take his hand off your wrists and put it around your throat, light, the way he said he would in the dark. You feel his fingers settle there, careful, finding the pulse, and he makes a sound thatâs almost a groan, almost the sound you heard through the wall last night, and his thrusts falters for one stroke and then comes back harder.
"Like that?" he asks.
"Like that. Like that. DinâŠ"
"You're close."
"Yes."
"Stay quiet."
"I can'tâŠ"
"You can."
He puts his other hand over your mouth. Bare, hot, dry and rough and you moan into it. He fucks you through it, hips snapping against yours in a rhythm thatâs losing its precision, finally, after how long you canât say, and you feel him start to come undone above you â felt the small involuntary movements heâs no longer controlling, feel the way his head bows and the helmet presses to your temple, feel the choked sound through the modulator that youâve now heard five times in your life and will, you suspect, hear a great many more times before youâre done with each other.
"Come for me," he says, against your ear, against the metal between your ear and his mouth. "Now. Now, sweetheart, nowâŠ"
You come around him with his hand over your mouth, his other hand at your throat, his cock buried to the hilt and his forehead against yours, and you scream into his palm. He feels you go â feels every pulse of you around him â and he makes a sound youâve never heard him make before, a real one, a whole one, unmodulated and choked and human, as he comes inside you, hard, in long pulses that you feel all the way up into your stomach.
Then he collapses â not all the way, catching himself on one elbow carefully â but his full weight comes down on you in a way it hasnât, and the beskar of the helmet rests cool against the side of your face. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him, his bare back slick under your palms, his breathing wreckage.
"Din," you say when you can.
"Yeah."
"You called me sweetheart."
He freezes fractionally. "I did."
"And...I lied."
"About what?"
"The tension. It's not gone."
His forehead â the brow of the helmet â presses harder against yours.
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
"What are we going to do about that?"
"Try again."
"Now?"
"Give me five minutes."
You laugh into the side of his helmet and feel his shoulders shake, just a little. You run your hand up the back of his neck to the very edge of the helmet â the place where the beskar meets the skin â and let your fingertips rest there.
He doesnât stop you or pull away. He lets your fingers stay at the line where his hidden self begins, and he lets you keep them there, and that, you understand, is a different kind of yes.
You take it, close your eyes and keep your hand where it is.
Five minutes, he said.
You can wait five minutes.
You have, you reflect, gotten very good at waiting for him.
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You and Joel enjoy one another.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
A/N: Taking a breather next week so the next part will be posted on 12th June đ„°
The drumming warmth of his chest beneath your cheek and the heavy weight of his arm beneath your shoulders holds you in a hazy place between waking and sleeping. The amber light of the bedroom begins its slow shift toward rose, the long, gold seams of late afternoon sun creeping slowly over the floor.
A deep, tender ache throbs slow between your thighs in counter-rhythm to the drum of your heart against his chest.
He stirs first, the hand, which has been tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare upper arm, stilling. His beard, which has been pressed warm against the crown of your damp hair, lifts, and the drum of his heart beneath your cheek picks up a fresh, deeper rhythm. You feel the slow, patient gaze of his eyes settle possessively across the bare length of you draped warm against his chest.
You donât open your eyes as you feel him bend his head.
His mouth presses a long, warm kiss against your head reverently and entirely without hurry, and the press of his lips draws a soft breath out of your throat against the warm hollow of his throat. He doesnât speak as he kisses lower, lips moving over your temple then your eyelid and the corner of your closed eye where the long lashes lie damp.
You open your eyes slowly and see his, soft and dark and entirely undone. His mouth meets yours, the kiss warm and entirely wordless. He parts your mouth, drags his tongue against yours and you close your eyes again and kiss him back.
Drawing back, he looks at you again, one thumb reaching to slowly trace your cheek. Then he presses a further kiss against your chin, and another against your jaw, and another at the soft pulse of your throat.
The soft pulse answers him and he kisses lower, his mouth travelling downwards to your collarbone and into the warm hollow there, dragging slow and warm, a soft sound escaping your throat. You raise your hand and lay it against the back of his head, sliding into his hair as he continues to kiss you lower.
His mouth travels across the slope of your collarbone, pressing against every inch of the bone before pausing and moving back along the slope on the opposite side, and you watch his head bowed against your upper chest in the deepening rose light with a drowning tenderness that closes your throat.
He kisses down your arm where the skin lies against the rumpled sheets, drawing sensations youâve not known your arm could feel from a kiss, then moves lower down your forearm to the inside of your wrist and across your palm. Then he pulls each of your fingers in turn into the warmth of his mouth before retracing his steps, back up your bare arm and across your chest. He pauses to gaze at the drawn peaks of your nipples before lowering his mouth and kissing the soft underswell of one breast, down to where it meets the slope of your ribs. Then he moves up the outer swell where it meets your collarbone, mapping the entirety of you.
You arch, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he pulls back, offers you a lazy smile then bends once more, lips closing around one tender bud.
You gasp as he suckles you slowly and deeply, the drag of his tongue sending sparks down through your stomach to the tender ache between your thighs. He draws your nipple into his mouth and holds it there, tongue working patiently, teeth grazing carefully, before letting it slip back into the air and moving to the other.
Rising, he kisses your mouth again, causing you to whimper as his tongue sweeps inside, before moving back down your body over your ribs, then your stomach, pausing at your naval to dip his tongue into the crevice before continuing. He moves to your hips, his hands settling there and sliding down your outer thighs as you part them instinctively, the swollen wet bloom of you exposed.
He presses a kiss against the inside of one knee, then the other, pausing briefly before dropping his mouth.
âJoelâŠâ
You groan and arch towards him again, as he slowly circles your clitoris, the sparks spreading upwards now, back through your stomach to your breasts. Then he draws the small bundle of nerves into his mouth.
You wail this time. Thereâs no other word for the sound that tears out of your throat as your hand flies back into his hair and your hips buck helplessly against his mouth. His hands slide up beneath you, cupping the curve of your rear and lifting, giving himself better access.
When it comes, the wave breaks slowly, your body locking helplessly tight around nothing at all, clenching around the empty, stretched ache he left there earlier, and your thighs tremble against his shoulders. Unconcerned, he rides you through the wave, his tongue plunging inside you, drinking the wet of what heâs made of you.
You sob as the second wave rolls over you, his tongue burying deep as you peak and then descend, and he finally draws back to look at you, his beard glistening.
âOhâŠJoelâŠâ
He crawls slowly up the wrecked bloom of your body and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself, and you open your mouth and lick deep into his without a single moment of hesitation. Then he gathers you to him, chests flush with one another, limbs entangled and you lay your hand against the scruff of his jaw.
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, turning his mouth into your palm and kissing it. âI love watchinâ you come apart for me, darlinâ.â
âI love coming apart for you,â you sigh in return, closing your eyes.
You lie together that way for a while until you feel a dryness in your throat and ease yourself upwards. His arm tightens instantly and you lean down to press a gentle kiss against his lips.
âWater,â you whisper before slipping out from under him, rising from the bed and walking across the floor to where the pitcher and cup sit on the dresser.
You pour water into the cup and drink, the cool of it against your throat a blessing, then you set it back down and stretch your arms above your head, lengthening your ribs and your waist and your back, before gazing at yourself in the mirror above the dresser.
You donât entirely recognise yourself. The woman looking back at you has loosened hair falling in heavy waves and breasts swelling in the light, nipples flushed and tender from her husband's mouth, and her skin glows in a way youâve never seen on yourself before.
You look at her and she looks back.
Behind you in the glass, the light falls across the bed, and you see Joel rising up on one elbow to look at you. You meet his gaze in the mirror and, for some reason, choose not to lower your arms.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The breath stills in your throat as you watch his gaze travel slowly and possessively down your shoulders, your breasts, your waist, the curve of your hips, the soft flare of your thighs, and return to your face.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rises and crosses the room towards you, the heavy length of him already thickening visibly with every step. You hold his gaze in the glass as he comes up behind you and settles his hands gently on your hips.
Leaning down, he presses his jaw against your shoulder, and you lower your arms, your hands settling of their own accord against the top of the dresser. His hands slide round and over your stomach, fingers spreading warm, the pads of his thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts, the hot length of him pressing against the small of your bare back, fully hard. You feel the wet head of him leaving a smear against your spine as he settles his hips against yours.
His hands move to cup your breasts, thumbs grazing over your nipples and rolling them, and you groan and press back, your hips meeting the hot weight of him riding the small of your back. He grunts softly, his thumb pinching the tender peak of one breast and rolling it slow and hard until your breath breaks and your hands tighten on the dresser.
Instinctively, you press back harder, and his hands slide back down to your hips, pushing you gently forwards until youâre bent over the dresser, your breasts resting against the top. The porcelain pitcher rattles against its saucer and the cup trembles as your hands flatten on either side of your reflection.
Behind you in the glass, you watch his hand leave your hip and stroke himself slowly through the smear heâs left on your spine whilst the other pushes between your shoulder blade, flattening you against the top of the dresser, your rear arching higher, your thighs spreading open, exposing you to the light.
You feel him drag the hot head of him through the slick of you from behind, coating himself in you, and you moan, his eyes meeting yours in the glass before he drives inside you.
It takes one stroke, hilt-deep, to fill the raw aching heat of you from an angle that strikes on the very first inch of seating, the deep place inside you. Your knees buckle and only his hand on the small of your back and the dresser beneath your hips hold you up as he begins to move.
The high, broken cry that tears out of your throat rings in the empty bedroom as he claims you, his hips slapping against the curve of you on the down stroke, dragging the slick of you up the polished length of him on the withdrawal.
The dresser rocks hard, the pitcher rattles and the mirror shakes faintly against the wall behind it, distorting your reflections. Your hair spills forward with every stroke, your breasts drag hot and damp against the wood and your mouth holds in a steady, broken keening of high, open moans you canât stop, donât want to stop and have no part of yourself left to stop.
His eyes hold yours in the glass as the hand at your back drags up your spine, catches the heavy fall of your loosened hair at the nape of your neck and winds it around his fist.
He pulls, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag your face from the top of the dresser, your back curving beneath his fist. The new angle drives the hot length of him into the deep place inside you so flush on the next stroke that you sob openly, a long, wet, broken sound.
âMine,â he says breathlessly. âMine, darlinââŠall mineâŠâ
The image of yourself in the mirror is one that should scandalise you. Your face arched, mouth open, eyes wet and black with want, your hair drawn back taut in his fist, your breasts swinging heavy with the rhythm beneath you, nipples flushed dark and tight.
But it doesnât.
And your husband behind you, broad and scarred and entirely undone, sweat running in beads down his chest, his eyes burning at your reflection, his hips driving into the curve of your rear in a wet relentless slap of skin on skin, only causes the sweet ache between your thighs to pulse harder.
You watch him in the glass, watch the muscle of his arm flex with every drive of his hips, the dark flush bloom up his neck and across the slick line of his collarbone, his eyes burning at you with a worship that has nothing careful left in it.
You hold his gaze and arch into the pull of his fist in your hair. He growls low, the sound guttural, wordless, the sound of something feral riding the bloom of his wife on her own dresser in her own bedroom. His fist in your hair tightens, his hand at your hip locks and the rhythm breaks open.
The dresser slams the wall on every stroke. The pitcher tips and rolls across the top, water spilling in a wide cool pool, and your hands scrabble wet against the wood for any purchase at all but find none.
The heat low in your belly draws tight and you slide your eyes to watch yourself in the glass as you shatter.
This time, itâs harder. Release tears through every inch of you with a devastating force that wrenches the strength out of every limb, and a scream rings through the house, as you clench helplessly tight around the hot fullness of him deep inside you and milk him in a hot rolling pulse of wet contractions.
The breath breaks ragged out of his chest as he bends over you but doesnât stop. He drives you slow and hard through the rolling wave and holds you there, the hot length of him hammering the deep, raw place inside you on every stroke through the rolling shudders, and the wave that should have broken once breaks again. You clench around him in a long, shuddering aftershock that rolls up out of the first without pause and the deep place inside you, raw and overstimulated and wanting, draws the second wave bigger than the first.
You sob as his hand leaves your hip and snakes beneath you, slick with the sweat of you both, the heel of his palm pressing hard between your thighs, his middle finger finding your clitoris and circling it in counter-rhythm to the hammering claim of him deep inside you.
The third wave breaks before youâve finished riding the second and you scream again as his teeth catch your shoulder, marking what he doesnât have the words for. His hand leaves your hair, and both now settle at your waist, pulling you back hard against him â three, four, five slamming strokes that drive the dresser into the wall with such force that the mirror jumps on its hook.
He buries himself in you to the hilt and holds there and you feel the hot pulse of him inside you, thicker than before, harder and deeper though you almost canât believe itâs possible. The hot flood of him spills into the very heart of you in slow, heavy pulses, his hips jerking helplessly forward into yours with every movement, the wet of him and the wet of you mixing slick around the base of him where his hips press flush against the curve of your rear.
âYes darlinââŠGodâŠ!â he exclaims, collapsing against you, his beard scraping warm against your shoulder, his mouth pressing a warm kiss where his teeth have been.
You canât speak.
He draws slowly out of you, pulling one last broken whimper from your throat. You feel the hot wet of him slip down the inside of your bare thigh, and his hand comes around between your thighs and catches the slow trickle on his palm before it can reach your knee. Then he smears the wet of him against the curve of your hip, marking you with himself, and you watch in the glass, riveted with fascination.
After a moment, he rises behind you, drawing you up from the dresser, allowing you to flatten your hands against the damp wood for balance before turning you in his arms and laying his forehead gently against yours.
âDid I frighten you?â he asks softly.
âNo,â you pant. âNo, Joel, not for one momentâŠâ
âI love you.â
âI love you too,â you reply, closing your eyes and, for a long, suspended moment, you simply stand there, his breath hot against your mouth, his heart drumming against yours.
Then he moves and kisses you again, slow and soft, allowing you to wind your arms around his neck and for him to lift you and carry you back over to the bed. After he lays you down, he watches you for a moment with a soft smile, then crosses back to the dresser, returning with a cotton cloth. He cleans you slowly and when heâs finished, you rest your palm against his jaw again, stroking your thumb along his cheekbone.
âI donât know what to say,â you manage after a moment.
He chuckles and kisses the end of your nose. âWhich did you like best?â
âAll of them.â
âHmmâŠIâll remember that.â
Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rubs his face slowly against your palm, occasionally turning to drag his lips across the skin.
You lie there just watching him â your husband â and you feel a pull in your chest that makes you want to bury yourself against him and not move for the rest of your life. Youâve never felt more secure, more safe or more loved â in a way that you never thought you would.
âIs this how you loved Tess?â
The words are out before you can think on the wisdom of them and you feel him still slightly under your hand. The contended smile slips fractionally from his lips, and his eyes open just a little, as though heâs not sure heâs heard you right.
âSorry,â you say immediately. âI shouldnât have asked, IâŠâ
âNo, it ainâtâŠâ he shifts slightly and you drop your hand back to the bed. âIt ainât wrong to ask darlinâ, itâs justâŠâ he takes a breath. âIt was different.â
âDifferent?â
âWasnât the same man when I married Tess as I am now. I loved her dearly, but back then, I had no idea what it would be like to love someone like that and then lose âem. Makinâ love with you like thisâŠI do know and thatâŠthat just makes it different.â
âI understand,â you nod.
âNo, you donât, and I donât expect you to,â he says kindly. âJust want you to know thatâŠitâs different. And if youâre askinâ me if I was thinkinâ âbout her whilst I was inside youâŠâ
âOh, no,â you say hurriedly, feeling heat crawl into your face. âNo, I wasnât thinking about that. I would neverâŠâ
âItâs alright.â He cups your face with his hand. âThe answer is no. I wasnât thinkinâ âbout her or makinâ any comparison or anythinâ like that. I was just enjoyinâ you.â
You feel the flush spread and he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.
âLook at my wife, all embarrassed at the thought that her husband might enjoy beinâ in bed with her.â
âIâm not embarrassed.â
âYes, you are.â
âIâm not!â You turn your back mockingly on him and he laughs and immediately pulls you back against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck. âBut I suppose if youâre going to continue to enjoy me, perhaps we should speak about what might happen.â
âDarlinâ, I donât wanna talk about the damn Reverend or the trial or âbout anythinâ like that right now,â he mumbles. âI gotta good feelinâ about that lawyer of yours. He seems to know what heâs talkinâ âbout and I also reckon you did a good job of puttinâ the fear of the Lord into Doc Cooper, so we donât know yetâŠâ
âIâm not talking about that. Iâm talking about theâŠwell, the consequences of a husband and wife, freelyâŠâ You feel your face burn again. âI have no idea if IâmâŠcapableâŠandâŠâ
âCapable of what?â he asks, nuzzling into you again. âDrivinâ your husband crazy?â
âNo, capable of conceiving.â
He stills again, although this time you feel the difference in him. The stilling isnât gentle or fleeting, rather itâs immediate and hard, and even though your bodies are still warm from one another, you feel a cold sensation travel between you.
âConceivinâ?â
The word comes out quietly and you turn over again to face him.
âYes. Iâm thirty-four, thirty-five this Fall, but that doesnât meanâŠâ
You break off as you take in the look on his face. Itâs not confusion or concern or even anger â itâs pure horror.
âJoel?â
He opens his mouth and closes it again, then pulls hurriedly away from you, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting hunched forwards, his entire body seeming to sag under the weight of the words youâve just spoken. Suddenly, you feel naked in more ways than one, and you take hold of the throw at the foot of the bed and pull it over yourself.
âDid I say something wrong?â
âNo. But thatâŠit ainâtâŠâ he lets out a long breath. âI canâtâŠcanât give you that â a child. I canât.â
You frown. âButâŠyou have Sarah and Tess wasâŠâ He rises suddenly, the action startling you, and starts reaching for his discarded clothes. âJoel?â
Once fully redressed, he turns back around to face you, his face drawn in a way that you havenât seen in a long time.
âDarlinâ, IâŠâ
The sound of wagon wheels and the high whinny of an approaching horse interrupts whatever he was about to say, and he moves over to the window, pulls back the curtains and looks outside.
âItâs Doc Cooper.â
A mixture of panic and anticipation rushes through you. No-one on the Miller ranch is ill any longer, so there can be only one reason for such a visit.
âThe town council must have decided what theyâre going to do,â you say, scrambling off the bed and picking up your garments. âJoel, my dressâŠâ
âStay here,â he says, crossing the room to the door.
âNo, waitâŠâ
âI said, stay here. I can handle this darlinâ. Whatever heâs got to say itâs gonna be about me, so I oughta be the one to hear it. You stay here, listen from the window.â
âBut Joel, you canâtâŠâ
âI ainât gonna do anythinâ to him, darlinâ, I promise. Ainât nothinâ in this world gonna make me do anythinâ that could keep me away from you longer than I already have been.â He crosses back towards you and kisses you gently. âPlease, just stay here.â
Then he moves to the bedroom door, opens it, and disappears down the hallway.
A collection of fun and fluffy one shots set in the same bakery. Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stories, twelve recipes.
Series Master List
Welcome back to the bakery!
The poll from last week was conclusive, a large majority of you wanted a certain relationship challenged man to visit the bakery. But Pedro has done so many wonderful new characters in the two and a half years it's been since I wrapped up this series, so I'm sure I'll return and bring some more visitors to, frankly, the luckiest baker girl in the world.
It was a lot of fun to re-visit this setting, the bakery was just where I left it (with Frankie, my love) and I really hope you'll enjoy this new chapter as much as I did.
Love you all!
It's funny, in the bakery, how you notice some customers more than others. It might be the busiest part of your Saturday afternoon rush, long line of customers, juggling questions from patrons about allergies, orders, requests and that really tasty treat their great aunt baked for them back in 1983 with cinnamon, could you make that please? For tomorrow?
But when the well dressed man stepped inside, you noticed, immediately.
He didn't make a scene, didn't even say anything, and his clothes were understated, muted colours and soft fabrics, but still; you noticed him, and how warm the colour of his eyes was as he smiled at you.
And ordinarily you wouldn't remember his order either, not from a customer who just came in once and bought two of your individual lemon meringue tarts. Just a guy buying a nice dessert for a date.
But when he came back a month later, you noticed him entering again, and you remembered exactly what he'd ordered.
"Hi, what can I get you?" you ask, smiling at him as he comes up to the counter, "The lemon meringue tarts, or something new this time?"
Those warm brown eyes widen in surprise first, and then he smiles back at you, "I'm impressed. Do you remember everyone's orders?"
"No, but I was extra proud of those tarts, and I remember thinking that I hoped you and your date enjoyed them," you reply, "Were they a success?"
He gives a small chuckle, shrugging, "Yeah, the tarts were great, but the date was a bust."
"I'm sorry," you say, wondering what woman would turn down a man with eyes like his. They're the same warm colour of the chocolate you melt into your ganache almost every day, a rich, dark brown that distracts you for a few moments as he smiles, "So, no second date, what can I get you instead?"
He looks almost embarrassed, and shrugs again, looking down at his hands before he glances over at the display case.
"I've actually got a new date tonight. She's making me dinner and told me to bring dessert, so; here I am."
"So you need my dessert to guarantee you a second date?" you joke, and he laughs.
"If you can guarantee that, I'll pay double."
"Might be a tough order to fill, but these passion fruit mousse cups are sure to help," you say, pointing to two delicate cups filled with a pale mousse, decorated with fresh raspberries and a dusting of powdered sugar, "The secret is the sweet caramel in the bottom."
"You have a deal," he nods, pulling out his phone, "I'll take both."
"Excellent choice, and come back and let me know how it went. I'll add it to my marketing if you got a second date."
He smiles again, tapping to pay while you pack up the dessert.
"Have a great date," you say, and he gives you a wave, still smiling as he leaves, the fine lines around his warm eyes crinkling as he does.
"Thanks, and thanks for the help."
He comes back again the very next Saturday, patiently waiting in line towards the end of the day. He's wearing a suit this time, a sharp cut model across his wide shoulders, and the curls around his ears are shorter this time, like he just had them cut. They still look silky soft to the touch, and you have to drag your eyes from them as he steps up to the counter.
"Hi," you greet him with a warm smile as you run your hands over your apron, dusting it off, "Welcome back, did you get a second date?"
He chuckles, and nods, "Yeah, actually. I've got a second date tonight, and this time I'm cooking."
"Was it the passion fruit dessert?" you ask, biting the back a twinge of disappointment, "I told you they were good."
"Might've been the dessert," he smiles, "It was stellar, really world class. I'm sure she was impressed by my impeccable dessert picking skills."
"So now you need to out do it?" you laugh, "How am I supposed to top myself?"
"I've only had two of your desserts, and both have been better than anything I've ever tasted," he says, smiling as you feel your cheeks heat up under his praise, "I'm in your hands, anything you recommend."
"Well, at least now you have a second date, less pressure on me," you joke, "It's all up to you now."
"Don't remind me," he grimaces, but he's smiling too, "First dates seem to be easy, it's all the ones afterwards where things get complicated."
"So we need a sure thing here?" you ask, looking at your selection, "How about we bring in the big guns? My absolute favourite?"
You point to the pudding cups on one of the shelves, "It requires a little bit of assembly from you, but I'm thinking that might impress her even further, what do you think?"
He tilts his head and crouches down to take a closer look, "Chocolate mousse?" he asks and you shake your head proudly.
"No, and that's part of the secret. It's chocolate pudding. So much richer, smoother and more indulgent than mousse. And they come with some candied almonds, preserved cherries and whipped amaretto cream. It's the most decadent dessert, and the perfect balance of textures and flavours."
"Sold," he says with a groan that makes your stomach flip, "It sounds incredible."
"Might even get you to fou-"
You bite your tongue before you finish the sentence, but you hear a chuckle from your handsome customer as you quickly bend down to retrieve the desserts. Covering up for the giant foot in your mouth, you spend extra time with your back to him, packing up the cups, the almonds, cherries and the double cream.
"There," you say, putting the take away bag on the counter without looking at him, hoping he can't feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, and tapping in the total in the machine. A mischievous smile is still making his lips curl up as he taps his phone to pay, you see it as you glance up, and it makes you grab a cloth and furiously begin wiping the counter as he continues to smile.
"Have a good night," he says, "Thanks again for the dessert advice."
"Bye," is the only reply you give, and when the door jingles shut, you bury your face in your hands. Never mind that he's the most handsome customer you've had in a long time, you had to go and put your foot in your mouth and suggest that he should have sex with his date.
Very professional.
Also not very professional to have a crush on your clearly not single customer.
He comes back the very next Saturday, a bit before the afternoon rush, and this time he's in a soft looking navy sweater that stretches across his shoulders even more than the previous week's suit. The sight makes you weak, slightly unsteady even, and you force air in through your nose.
Smiling when he reaches the counter, he taps the wood and grins.
"You're a genius, that was the best dessert I've ever had, and Camilla loved it too."
Camilla
Your least favourite name in the world from this moment on you realise, as an ugly feeling sinks to the pit of your stomach. You almost grimace, but school your face just in time as he gives you the look of a love sick puppy, all warm brown eyes and soft smile.
"She said it was delicious, really tasty."
"I'm so glad," you say, forcing a customer service smile to your face that doesn't reach your eyes, regretting your stupid decision to sell him that dessert. Should've sold him something bland, not that you have anything bland in your bakery.
"So what does Camilla want for dessert tonight?" you ask, the back of your jaw tight as you try to not fill the name with venom, but he frowns, just for a split second.
In all honesty, you don't even know his name, so why should you be jealous of this unknown woman? But the tone of your voice clearly said something else, and you bite back on the resentment that filled you at the thought of him with another woman.
"WellâŠ" he replies, suddenly looking a bit shy, coy even, as he looks over your selection, "I said I'd get those chocolate mousse cups again, and-"
"Pudding," you cut him off, and he looks up at you.
"Pudding?"
"It's chocolate pudding, not mousse. That's part of why they're so good," you say, and it comes out harsher than you intend.
"Ok, chocolate pudding. I'll have two of those. And then four croissants, for tomorrow morning."
You've done it now, you see it. Your tone snapped, even though you tried to force down the green eyed monster.
And he's stiffer when he replies, the smile slipping from his face as he clearly catches on, just a regular customer now, and he doesn't say anything else when you pack up the pudding cups, the almonds, cherries, and cream. And the four croissants.
For tomorrow morning. After he and CamillaâŠ.
"46.98. Please," you say, cutting off your train of thought.
He taps to pay.
"Have a nice night."
And leaves.
He doesn't come back after that. Not for a couple of months. You guess he and Camilla are a thing now. The thought crosses your mind as you make another batch of the chocolate pudding. It's become a staple at the bakery, it turns out not only people trying to have successful dates like it. You don't enjoy it as much these days though, the uncomfortable memory of your handsome customer still sits attached to the flavour.
So it's with mixed feelings you look up when the door bell jingles late on a Saturday afternoon and spot him walking into the bakery again. Tampering down the warmth that spreads through your chest at the sight of him, you remind yourself that he's not single, and you have no business pining after a taken customer. Especially not one who clearly has money to spend on some of your most expensive desserts. Good business is good business after all.
But it's hard to not let your eyes linger over him as he waits in line, the way he stands with a simple confidence, a hand on one hip as he looks out through the big shop front window with a blank face. His hair is longer now. Not unkempt, just not recently trimmed like last time, and he's in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. He might even look a little bit tired, but he still smiles when he comes up to the counter, the lines around his eyes are deeper today.
"Hi, welcome back," you greet him, and you can't help the smile that you give him in return. He's still as handsome as before, and when his eyes soften and smile widens, you feel your resolve to be indifferent melt away.
"Hi," he says, "You still remember me?" His greeting is paired with a crooked smile as he makes an apologetic sound, clearing his throat, "It's been a while."
"I thought maybe the dessert was a flop," you reply, "Did I accidentally add salt instead of sugar?"
He chuckles a little at that, but shakes his head, "No, your dessert was perfect as always, I justâŠ"
The pause is long as he shifts on his feet and looks down at the counter for a second, a slight hesitation in him before he continues.
"I justâŠhaven't been buying desserts lately."
You wait for him to continue, as someone behind him clears their throat, impatient.
"Sorry, I'm holding up the line," he says, glancing over his shoulder as he straightens up, "What do you recommend today?"
"What are you in the mood for?" you ask, ignoring the rude customer stomping behind him.
"SomethingâŠsimple," he replies, "Like something you'd serve your grandmother," the last thing he says with a breath of self-conscious laughter, "I just really loved the Victoria sponge cake she used to make."
You smile at him, "Victoria sponge is a classic for a reason, it's one of my favourites too."
His eyes are making you feel warm as the corners of them crinkle, and he puts his palms on the counter and leans forward, his body relaxing and coming a little bit closer to you.
"I knew you wouldn't judge me," he returns your smile, "I bet you make really good Victoria sponge too, everything of yours that I've tasted has been incredible."
You know you're a great baker, but his compliment still makes your cheeks heat up as you try to stop yourself from grinning too widely.
"Thanks, it's all about the ingredients, and finding a balance. Cakes like the Victoria seem simple, but if you don't get the balance right it will just be bland jam wedged between dry slices of cake."
"I love hearing you talk about your desserts," he replies, ignoring the shuffle of the waiting man behind him, "You're really passionate about it, I like that and-"
"Excuse me, can we skip the flirting, man? I'm on the clock here."
The man waiting seems to have run out of patience, and now he huffs, shuffling as he tries to push up to the counter.
You frown at him, opening your mouth to retort, but the handsome man shakes his head, ignoring the other one with barely a glance over his shoulder.
"Do you have any Victoria sponge?" he asks, and you have to shake your head, apologising.
"No, sorry, I don't have any today. But a coffee cake maybe? I have a really nice apple and cinnamon coffee cake with walnut crumble. It was my granny's favourite."
He nods slowly as he seems to think about the offer, and then pulls out his phone, "Sounds great, I'll have that."
Later, when you're cleaning up the kitchen, the thought of him comes back to you as you go through the tedious job of organizing all the clean dishes. The way he'd said that he hadn't been buying dessert lately; such an odd way of phrasing it. He hadn't been buying desserts from you, but why say he hadn't been buying desserts at all?
'Maybe Camilla is on a diet," you say out loud to the empty kitchen, snorting as you picture the woman who you dislike even though you've never met her. You give her a haughty look, the kind you sometimes get from bridezillas when you deliver their wedding cakes. Pinched, constricted and possibly constipated.
"Did you say something?"
The high schooler who's been cleaning the front of the bakery puts their head around the door frame, and you shake your head.
"Just thinking out loud."
The handsome dessert buying customer comes back a couple of weeks later, and you have to admit to yourself that seeing him makes your heart jump a little. Especially as this time he smiles at you as he steps inside. The shop is having a bit of a lull, and it gives you an unrestricted view of him as he closes the door. The dark brown curls are neater this week, trimmed around his ears and pushed back from his forehead.
"You got a haircut," you say as he comes up to the counter, and he grins, reaching up and carefully patting his hair.
"You sure pay attention to the details," he laughs, "Yeah, just this morning."
"It looks good, the curls suit you."
"Thanks," he smiles back, "I needed a clean up, I've got a date tonight."
Your stomach sinks, and you fight to keep the smile in place on your face, but you're sure he sees it slip for a second.
"Camilla, right?" you ask, just to have something to say as you try to not break the edge of the counter with how hard you're gripping it.
He looks surprised at first, then shakes his head, "No, no, that didn't work out. But IâŠuuhâŠgot set up on a blind date, need toâŠget out there again. So I'm cooking for her tonight."
He shrugs, almost an embarrassed look on his face as he says it.
"Good for you," you reply, but you don't mean it, and you can hear the edge in your voice. He doesn't seem to notice it though. He's glancing over the display case, nodding at the chocolate pudding cups.
"Can I have two of the chocolate puddings? They were really great. And four croissants."
"Sure, coming right up," you say, and slide the glass door open. You want to say something, comment on his choice of dessert, but all you can think of is that he's buying four croissants too. Which means he's planning on letting his date spend the night. Croissants are for breakfast after all.
Neither of you fill the silence as you pack up his order and ring it up. It feels uncomfortable, and you want to say something, get back to that easy back and forth from his previous visit. But nothing comes to you, and he taps his phone to pay.
"Thanks, have a good night."
"Yeah, thanks, same to you, have a good date," you say finally, and he nods, just a small smile in return.
The high school kid jumps when you stomp into the kitchen as the front door closes.
"Please, can you handle the till for a while, I need some air."
They nod, and bee line to the front of the bakery as you make your way to the back door, sinking down on the small staircase.
You haven't even asked his name, he's a complete stranger, except that he's not. Or at least he doesn't feel like one. But except for his taste in desserts and expensive looking clothes, you know nothing about him. And yet the very idea of him having a date, a date that's not with you, where he'll serve your dessert, and feed her your croissants the next morning, fills you with nausea and jealousy.
Stomping your feet again, you march back into the kitchen and pull out ingredients for a brioche dough, slamming the ingredients together and forgoing the mixer for your own hands. When the high school kid looks into the kitchen again they've got a worried look on their face.
"You ok? You're kindaâŠgrunting a lot."
Huffing, you slam the dough into the table again.
"Yeah, just seeing if this dough is better worked by hand," you lie and take a break, stepping back to glare at the dough. In reality, you're trying to not see his face as you punch your fists into it. The kid shrugs, and gives you another concerned look before the jingle of the bell pulls them back to the front of the bakery.
Stupid man, stupid desserts.
It takes you another fifteen minutes of kneading to work out whatever he ignites in your system, but eventually you give in and leave the dough to rest overnight. The only conclusion you've come to is that you won't be working front of house next Saturday.
Which is good, because he does come in the next Saturday, and he buys another dessert, and four croissants, from your high schooler while you hide in the back.
And then he comes again next Saturday, for more dessert and croissants. But this time he buys four pain au chocolate too, and through the bakery door you hear a woman tell him it's her favorite and she can't wait to try one 'when we get home'.
You can't help yourself. Slowly backing up, and holding on to the bowl you're mixing spices in, you glance through the door and catch a glimpse of them.
He's standing by the counter, getting ready to pay, as the woman he's with is looking at some of your more elaborate cakes on display. The dark green sweater on him looks both expensive and soft as feathers, but it stretches over his wide shoulders, tight around his biceps. His curls are a little bit longer now, and rumpled by the wind outside. With an absentminded smile at his date, he reaches up and pushes them back, and then he spots you.
Your face must be telling him something, because you lock eyes, and a grimace flashes over his face, or you think it's a grimace, he almost looks embarrassed for a split second, and you can't even move as he keeps looking at you. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of brown you've ever seen, and it's not like you haven't seen them before and noticed them, but nowâŠthe way the light catches them as he glances down at his hands, and then up at you again, the tiniest frown creasing his brow.
Why doesn't he look away?
"Excuse me, sir? That'll be $68.98."
"Harry, honey, you need to pay," the woman says, snaking her arm around his, and you jump back out of sight, almost dropping the bowl.
If he replies, you don't hear it over the pounding of your heart as you set the bowl down on the large kitchen counter. Your hands are trembling, and you take a deep breath. Heat is coursing through your limbs, your knees actually feel weak, like you're a damsel in a romance novel, and the image of the way his lips pulled up in a smile, just before she tucked her arm into his, burns your cheeks.
Closing your eyes, you take another deep breath and listen to the door close behind him. And the woman he was with.
Another date.
Someone he's been with long enough to bring here, to pick up things for 'when we get home'.
Whatever you imagined when he looked at you, it was just that; imagination.
Most Saturdays he doesn't come in after that. Just now and then, buying four pain au chocolate, but you make sure you never serve him. In fact, you hardly ever work front of house on Saturdays now. You just hear him come in, his voice so recognisable as he asks for the pastries. The tone of it makes you stop in your tracks every time, listening to hear if he's brought her with him again, or if he buys something different. But for weeks that's all he buys, pain au chocolate.
In your mind you see him and the woman tucked up in bed, feasting on them every Sunday morning, and you consider taking them off the menu. Make him buy her the damn pastries at another bakery.
But you don't. They stay on the menu. And so does Harry.
Weeks pass, and still even a glimpse of him makes you jump back into the kitchen. And you know he sees you, you just can't bring yourself to speak to him. How many words have you said to him in total? Barely a conversation to fill a napkin if you were to scribble it down. And yet, every glimpse of him reminds you of how his eyes soften when he smiles, the curls around his ears, the way every sweater seems to stretch across his shoulders, like he's buying them a size too small just to taunt you.
"Pain au chocolate guy wants to order an engagement cake."
The high school kid has stuck their head around the corner of the door, their eyebrows rising in surprise at the panicked look on your face.
"P-pain au chocolate guy?" you stutter, and they nod.
"Yeah, the rich guy who comes in and buys only pain au chocolate on Saturdays. He said he needs to talk to the baker about an engagement cake."
"UuuhhhâŠ" you stall, glancing around the kitchen as you beat back the panic in your chest, "Ok, send him in."
Fuck
You shake out your hands and quickly dry them on a towel before smoothing down your hair. The pulse of your heart beat must be showing on your neck, you can feel it beating as you hear Harry's shoes scuff over the floor of the bakery.
"Hi."
His voice is the same warm tone as always, and he's holding out his hand like you've never met, "I realised I never introduced myself properly all the other times I stopped by. I'm Harry Castillo."
"H-Hi Harry," you stutter out, "Engagement cake?"
You dive right in, small talk is the last thing you want with this man, especially not if he's going to gush about hisâŠfuckâŠ
Fiance.
Harry nods, and pulls out his phone, "Yeah, I've got some notes, but it's a surprise for Amanda so I couldn't ask her what she'd prefer."
There's another name you'll detest; Amanda.
"Yeah, ok," you reply, grabbing your notepad, "Tell me what you've got."
"So, I know she likes chocolate, and pain au chocolate. AndâŠ" he pauses and grimaces, "And that's it."
"I can work with just chocolate," you reply, keeping your eyes on the notepad, "Any colour preference? Decorations like flowers or patterns?"
"AhâŠI'mâŠI'm not sure actuallyâŠ" he hesitates, ending with a huffed sound that could be an embarrassed chuckle, and you glance up at him.
"I should know right?" he says, and his face is apologetic, like he's apologising to you for not knowing his soon-to-be-fiances cake preference.
"Why don't I just work with what you like? Like a version of a Victoria sponge cake maybe? I can do that with chocolate filling."
"You remembered that?" Harry smiles, his face softening, and you can't help but smile back.
"Yeah, I meanâŠof course? You said you liked something simple, like your grandmother's."
"I know, I just can't believe you'd remember that, with all the customers you have."
The way he's looking at you, that way his eyes are all warm and gentle, it makes your insides squirm, and you quickly look back down at the notepad.
"So, I can have the Victoria sponge as a base, and build a few layers on that, and maybe a chocolate ganache to cover it with? And I can keep the decorations clean and simple, to tie in with the classic style of the cake."
Harry doesn't reply for a few moments, and you look up at him again. He's frowning, rubbing a hand over his chin as he seems to think.
"If it was for me, I'd say yes. But Amanda, she'sâŠshe likes it a bit more decorated I think."
You nod, scrapping your notes about keeping it simple, and wait for him to continue.
"SheâŠshe's shown me the kind of engagement rings she likes, and they're allâŠvery elaborate," Harry shrugs again, "Not really my style, but if it's what she wants."
"Why don't you bring her and you can decide on a cake that you both like," you suggest, biting back on the jealousy.
"She told me she wants the engagement to be a surprise,"
"But she knows you're proposing?"Â
It comes out with a surprised tone, and Harry makes a non-commital shrug.Â
"Yeah, we've discussed marriage, how we're going to set it up, merging our assets, the pre-nup obviously. But she told me to plan a surprise engagement party for her, and invite her friends."
"Sounds like a business deal," you reply before you can stop yourself, and you bite your tongue as you see the look on Harry's face. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"
"It's not a business deal," he cuts you off, "She's a good match for me. We're a good match."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't haveâŠlet me just look at the notes and I'll come up with some ideas for a more elaborate design, but keep your Victoria sponge as the base, with chocolate of course."
You're backtracking quickly, trying to smooth over your blunder as Harry frowns, looking past you, and then down at his hands.
He nods, looking up at you, and it stops your rambling.
"I'll leave my business card, e-mail me your thoughts and I'll get back to you," he says, and now it really does feel like a business deal.
You nod, not trusting your voice, and he leaves without another word.
The afternoon shifts into evening, but you can't stop berating yourself. Sketching ideas for the cake gets you nowhere, your usually so creative brain can't seem to merge the classic Victoria sponge with a more elaborate design. It all turns out gaudy and tasteless, and you can't see Harry in the cake at all. Scraping yet another failed design, you sigh and sink down on the low stepping stool, kicking your feet to make it go rolling across the kitchen floor. It comes to a slow stop against the heavy shelf of appliances, making it rattle slightly. Pushing yourself up with another deep sigh, you open the big walk in fridge and let your eyes drift across the space.
Your eyes land on a jar of raspberry jam from last summer. You'd gone with a friend to a farm that let you pick raspberries, and you'd returned sweaty, scratched and tired, but with two buckets of the sweet berries. The jar on the shelf is the last of it.
Maybe if you make a Victoria sponge to start with, just the classic, traditional one, some idea would come to you for Harry's engagement cake. But it's not like he's going to order the cake from you anyway. Not after you went and called his marriage a business deal. You'll never see him in this bakery again.
You begin picking up the ingredients anyway, if nothing else, you can sell it in slices tomorrow. And you suddenly feel like eating Victoria sponge cake, and not because it's Harry's favourite.
As usual the act of baking calms you, focusing you on the measurements and the manual steps, beating the eggs and sugar, folding in the dry, it all comes together as you try not to think of Harry. With steady hands you pour the batter into the cake tin and put it in the oven.
The door closes with a soft click as you set the timer.
A sharp knock on the bakery door makes you jump, the glass in the window pane rattling with the force of the rapping knuckles, and you drop the bowl you've been holding.
"What the fuckâŠ" you hiss, looking at the dent in the metal as another knock rattles the door.
Putting the bowl on the counter you stride over through the door of the kitchen and into the long since closed bakery shop. It's raining outside, and the fat drops streak across the window, blurring the outlines of the man standing outside, and it stops you in your tracks.
Harry pauses his knocking, his hand hanging in the air in front of him, as he meets your eyes. The rain has plastered his hair to his skull, soaked through his sweater, and as you watch, he lowers his hand and wipes it across his face.
For a beat you wonder if you should tell him to go away, but before you've made your mind up, your feet move to the door, and your hands unlock it.
"Harry, what-"
"You had no right," he says, his voice tight as he looks at you through the falling rain, "I was happy. And youâŠ" he stops, biting down on the sharp words, "You⊠It wasn't a business deal, we were a good match."
What he's saying sinks in as you feel the rain drops begin to collect on your own skin as the wind picks up.
"YouâŠyou broke up with Amanda?" you ask, and Harry winces, or shivers, and you grab his arm, pulling him through the door, and out of the rain.
"You're soaked," you say unnecessarily, looking around for a clean kitchen towel, but Harry doesn't seem to hear you. Suddenly he's crowding you, his hand firm on your cheek, his mouth a hair's breadth from yours, warm breath teasing your lips.
Time seems to freeze as your heart stops beating. He smells of rain, wet sidewalks and damp leaves, softened by the heat of his body.
He drops his hand and steps back, and for a split second you think he's going to rush out through the door again, back into the rain.
Instead he charges into the bakery, spinning on the spot as he shoves his hands through his wet hair and glares at you.
"Why did you have to be soâŠ." he spits, "why did you sayâŠall that, all thatâŠthatâŠ"
He trails off, and he seems to shrink as your eyes meet across the kitchen floor. Air escapes him, a slow exhale as you wait for him to finish his outburst.
But nothing more comes, instead he slumps, burying his face in his hands with a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry."
The words are just a low mumble behind his palms.
"I'm sorry too," you say, slowly coming over to him, and holding out a clean towel, your hand trembling slightly, "I was out of line, I shouldn't have said anything."
Harry shakes his head, and takes the towel, "No, it's not on you, you just said what I already knew."
With another sigh that seems to come from his toes he straightens up, looking at the towel in his hand.
"I already knew, even before she started talking about engagement. YouâŠyou just put your finger on a sore spot."
Shrugging, he makes an effort at wiping his face, and then drops the towel on the edge of the sink.
"Thanks, I'll leave now. I'm sorry for barging in, and forâŠ" he trails off again, and you don't miss the glance at your lips. They still carry the imprint of his breath, and you can feel his fingers on your chin.
"Stay," you blurt out, taking a step forward. "Stay, don'tâŠgo."
Harry's eyes are impossible to read as you look at each other across the kitchen, but you hope he can see how much you want him to stay.
"Please," you whisper, "I alwaysâŠwant you to stay when you come here."
This time he's less sudden, crossing the short space between you with a few long steps as you wait for him by the work bench. His hand is warm on your cheek, cupping your face gently as you tilt your head up to his, your lips parting. The shirt across his shoulders is damp under your hands, but already warming up from the heat that he seems to radiate as he crowds you again. When his nose brushes against yours, you exhale, his lips teasing yours before he lets himself properly kiss your open mouth. There's no rush, just a slow taste. Your mouth closes around his plump bottom lip, tasting the rain as his hands slowly move up your back, and he steps closer, making space for himself against your body.
You can't help the moan that escapes you, his body is warm and firm, even under his rain damp shirt, and the sound makes him groan in reply, a low rumble deep in his chest. He pries his lip from your mouth, and touches it with the tip of his tongue, gently tasting, making you open up for him. With a whine you slide your fingers into the curls at his neck, tugging him closer, and the effect is instant. Harry's large hands slide down your back, onto your thighs, and he lifts you up onto the bench, suddenly pressing up against your core as he yanks you closer to him. As if he's trying to eliminate every smidge of space between your bodies as he licks into your mouth, stealing your breath.
The metal bench is cool underneath you as he pushes you further back, your legs closing around his waist, and he nudges your head to the side, licking a wet trail beneath your ear. You can feel the beating of your heart in your finger tips as they wrap around his curls, Harry's scorching breath against your neck, teeth grazing across the thin skin.
"Harry," you moan into the empty kitchen, gasping for air when he moves his hands, his thumbs drawing sharp lines over your pebbled nipple, making your breath hitch.
"You taste so good," he mumbles, moving up to your lips again, "salt and sweet, chocolate and cream. Do you always taste this good?"
"You'll have to find out," you mumble against his mouth, and you can feel him smile into your lips.
"Happily," he replies, "Are you free tonight?"
The question makes you giggle, and Harry pulls back to look down at you, raising his eye brows.
"Look at where you've got me, Harry," you say, "And tell me you think I'm not free tonight?"
His face splits into a wide grin, and he drops his head down again, pressing a soft kiss on your lips, much more chaste this time.
"I got carried away," he smiles in reply, "You taste so good, and you smell more delicious than any of your desserts."
"You taste like rain," you tell him, and he laughs, shaking his head to make rain drops scatter across your face.
"I'm not sorry I barged in," he says when you've brushed back the curls from his forehead again, "I'm just sorry I didn't realise I should've been dating you all this time. Can I make you dinner tonight?"
"I'm not sure, what's for dessert?" you ask him, and the grin on your face makes him press his lips to your neck, smiling as you squeal under him when he nips at the delicious skin.
"You," he replies, "Only you."
Why would you trust anyone other than Mary Berry to make the perfect Victoria sponge cake? Light and fluffy and filled with jam, it's a Brit
I had to include Mary Berry's receipe because who else, right? And I hope you enjoyed this re-visit to the bakery, and wish Harry all the best for his future dating life. I'm sure baker girl will make him very happy...
Tagging some of you who I know read A Baker's Dozen back when I first posted it. You all gave it so much love and I hope you want to dip back into this cosy universe!
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You become Mrs Miller in every way possible.
The driver, whoâs been whistling tunelessly for the better part of two miles, falls abruptly and respectfully silent. You hear the soft creak of the box as he climbs down, the small jingle of harness as he moves to the heads of the matched bays, and the way he very deliberately busies himself, with the same flawless, professional discretion heâs shown throughout the ride, with the buckles of the lead bay's bridle, in a position that places his back entirely to the carriage door.
Joel doesnât wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man whoâs been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.
He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as TomĂĄs appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.
âGood to see you PatrĂłn,â he says with a grin.
âAnd you,â Joel nods. âSee to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ainât to be disturbed.â
âConsider it done,â TomĂĄs replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.
You donât wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that heâs holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than heâs held himself in the entire journey before.
Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and donât turn around.
Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck â the careful trembling restraint of a man whoâs been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.
âWe should go to bed,â he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.
âYes,â you reply breathlessly. âWe should.â
But you donât move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.
You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.
His eyes are inches from yours, and theyâre not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see heâs still trying â can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand thatâs left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesnât entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.
âJoel?â Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.
"Darlinâ, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ainât gonna make it to our bed and I ainât gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.â
You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.
The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.
You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.
Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"DarlinââŠâ
You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.
You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.
The kiss is not slow or careful, rather itâs the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat thatâs almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.
You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you havenât known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.
He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.
"JoelâŠyou saidâŠ"
"I know what I said."
His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.
He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.
"DarlinââŠIâm tryinâ to get us to bed. Iâll get us there, I swear I willâŠâ
"I know,â you pant.
"Help me."
You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.
You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and heâs asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.
Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.
He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.
You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.
Then the next and the next.
The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.
He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. âDarlinââŠâ
"Yes?â
"Take off the dress.â
"Joel, the bedroom isâŠ"
"You ainât makinâ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlinâ âcause I wonât let you. So, take it off here, now.â
The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.
A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlinâ, thatâs better."
You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.
His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.
âWe need to keep movinâ.â
You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.
You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays arenât going to make it to the bedroom either.
He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.
He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.
The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.
He doesnât speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.
"Joel⊠the bedroomâŠpleaseâŠ"
He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.
The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.
He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.
"Darlinâ IâŠI need a moment.â
You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.
"JoelâŠyouâve seen me before, that nightâŠâ
âNot like this,â he says, his voice hoarse. âNot in this light. I havenâtâŠnot like this.â
"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think youâve ever heard it before.
His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesnât look at them.
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.
His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.
You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. Youâve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.
Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.
"Take this off, darlinâ,â he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.
The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.
Youâre bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesnât speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.
He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. âLook at you."
"Joel, please,â you beg. âI canât wait.â
His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlinâ. Iâve made you wait too long and Iâm gonna fix that now.â
He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.
His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. âDonât be scared, darlinâ. Iâm gonna be careful with you, I promise.â
"JoelâŠ"
"I gotta be careful, darlinâ. Itâs your first time."
"Please,â you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. âI donât need you to be careful.â
âYes darlinâ, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once youâre warmed up to me, we can do things differently.â He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. âDo you trust me?â
âI trust you,â you whisper.
He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what heâs about to do.
âFeels like youâre ready for me.â
âI am, please, I am.â
"I love you, darlinâ," he says gently.
"I love you too,â you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
"Iâm gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlinâ. Now take a breath and hold on to me."
You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. Thereâs a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.
"Darlinâ, if Iâm hurtinâ youâŠ"
"Youâre not, I promise. Itâs only... only new. Please, my love, donât stop."
He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesnât move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.
The bedroom is utterly silent.
You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.
You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than youâve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.
"You feelâŠso goodâŠâ he murmurs. âSo good darlinâ. So warm and wetâŠâ
The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.
"Donât move, darlinâ, not yet. JustâŠjust give me a moment."
"I canât, Joel. Please, I need to feel it allâŠâ
The careful patient husband whoâs been promising you all afternoon that heâll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.
âYouâll feel it darlinâ,â he promises shakily. âYouâll feel all of it â every damn inch.â
The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.
He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.
The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.
Youâve never felt like this before.
"JoelâŠmore, pleaseâŠmoreâŠâ
He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.
"JoelâŠIâm... already, my love, I can feel..."
"I know, darlinâ."
"How can I be... already... how�"
"Youâve been waitinâ, so long, darlinâ, we both have.â
The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband whoâs finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.
"JoelâŠ"
"Come apart for me,â he pants, âcome apart for me in our bed."
"JoelâŠ"
"Look at me.â
You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesnât falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where youâre joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise youâre going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.
"JoelâŠâ you gasp. âJoel, IâmâŠâ
âYes, let go for me darlinâ, let go. Scream my name.â
"JoelâŠâ
âYesâŠâ
âJoelâŠ!â
The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesnât need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.
"OhâŠdarlinââŠmineâŠmy girl, my sweet girlâŠ! I love youâŠIâm gonna give you everythinââŠ!â
His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that youâll carry like a benediction.
He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing youâve ever heard out of any man and something that youâll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.
For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.
The headboard stops knocking against the wall.
The bed stops creaking.
The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with whatâs just unfolded.
Joel doesnât move for a long time.
His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.
âThat wasâŠyou were so good, darlinâ, so goddamn goodâŠâ
You canât, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.
His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.
"My wife."
"YesâŠ"
"Mrs Miller."
"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.
You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. âYesâŠyes I enjoyed it very much.â
âIâm glad,â he murmurs, kissing you again, ââcause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.â Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. âAnd once ainât gonna be enough for me darlinâ.
âMe neither,â you reply.
âYou were too damn good. Iâm gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. LordâŠâ he squeezes you gently. âNever thought Iâd get to feel this way ever again.â
You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.
âEasy darlinâ,â he murmurs against your hair. âYou gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.â
âTick tock,â you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.
The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.
Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.
Hello!
This is my first original fic after The Pilot and his Girl and it will be a very different read (just in case you're totally traumatised by The Pilot...đŹ)
Twelve Pedro boys, twelve short stories, each set in the same bakery. The plan is to post one chapter every Sunday night so hold me to that schedule when my procrastination kicks in!
Warnings won't be very serious, just lots of fluff, lots of food, some mention of drugs because you know some of these Pedro boys are just like that.
Series Master List
@harriedandharassed tagging you in this because you said you wanted to read anything new â€â€â€
The drawback of being a baker is that your working day starts when others are still tucked in bed with hours left to sleep. Or just coming home from a party. But you donât mind all that much, thereâs a certain tranquil peace to being awake and working in the bakery while the rest of the world sleeps.Â
In the warmer months you prop open the back door so that you can hear the birds starting to sing as the sky slowly grows lighter outside, today is just one of those mornings.Â
The early morning radio show is on low in the background as you prepare the day. Yesterday's loaves have proofed overnight in the cold storage and are ready for the oven, the pie doughs taken out and softening while you prepare the cookie doughs.Â
People donât often knock on the bakery's back door before you open for the day, but it happens, so when you suddenly hear someone shuffle and knock, youâre not surprised. Wiping your hands on your apron you turn the corner into the small back room. A man is leaning on the door frame, but not the sexy, romance novel leaning. No, this man is leaning in a âlean-or-fall-overâ kinda way. His eyes are covered by large black sunglasses that he pulls down as you spot him, a tired but cheeky smirk on his face.Â
âHey, baker girl,â he grins, his voice gravelly like heâs chain smoked all night, âgot any sna- oh whoops!â he giggles madly as he loses his balance and tumbles sideways, catching the other door frame before he grabs onto your arms and almost manages to stand up straight.Â
âYou might need coffee, not snacks,â you say, holding onto him to stop him from falling face forward into your apron. Â
âIâm fine,â he grins, pushing himself upright again but still holding on to the door frame, âI just came from this party, were you there?,â he asks, giving you another over the glasses look, this time clearly checking you out as his eyes drag up and down your form, lingering on your pink crocs.Â
âActually, I wouldâve remembered if you were there, love the crocs,â he chuckles.Â
âWhatâs wrong with my crocs?â you ask, slightly offended, âTheyâre great for people like me, you know, people who actually work on Thursdays.âÂ
âNo, no, I mean it, I love your crocs!â the man says, wide eyed and shoving his glasses up in his wild curls, âI have like ten crocs, one pair is pink too.âÂ
He furrows his eyebrows, giving you a confused look, âWait, itâs Thursday?âÂ
âYeah, five am, Thursday morning,â you say, wondering how to get rid of this disheveled man so that you can get back to the cookie dough.Â
âFuck, oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckâŠ.â the man groans, bending double and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, âIâm so fuckedâŠI thought it was Wednesday.âÂ
He stands up again and you canât help but feel sorry for him, he looks devastated.Â
âI was meant to fly out to San Antonio yesterday and take my nice to Six Flags for her birthday, and I fucking missed it!âÂ
He slumps against the door frame and thumps the back of his head against it repeatedly, moaning, âIâm such a fuck up, Iâm such a fuck up.âÂ
âHey, take it easy, Iâm sure itâll be fine, just apologize and take her another day,â you say, putting your hand on the manâs arm to stop him from giving himself a concussion in your bakery, âIâm sure sheâll understand.âÂ
âYou think?â he says, âIâm not the best at remembering birthdays, I may have missed a few in the past.âÂ
âWell, then sheâll be mad at you, but all you can do is apologize right? And try to make it up to her as best you can.âÂ
âYeahâŠyeahâŠmaybe youâre right, thanks baker girl.â He gives you a lopsided smile and you notice the smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes, âHow about those snacks? Iâm fucking starving.âÂ
You canât help but laugh, the manâs a mess but somehow adorable at the same time with his wild hair and stained t-shirt.Â
âSure, Iâll get you something, what do you like?â
âDo you have sausage rolls?â he asks, following you into the kitchen, âI fucking love sausage rolls.â
âWhat, like those things they made on the Great British Bake Off?â you reply, opening your walk in fridge to survey the snack options.Â
âYeah, I did this movie once, in England, and there was a bakery next to my apartment and whenever I got back from a party, early morning, Iâd knock on their back door and theyâd sell me these fat sausage rolls, fresh from the oven, fucking amazing.âÂ
âSorry, no sausage rolls in this bakery,â you say, âbut my cookies will be done soon, if you can wait.âÂ
You turn back to the man and realize heâs wandering around the kitchen, sticking his nose in your bowls, sniffing loudly.Â
âHey, donât stick your finger in that,â you say, âHealth and Safety are going to have my license if they catch you.â
âSorry, Iâve just got the munchies, Iâve been high for like, two days,â he says, waving his arms around, âthis place is torture for a high pers-OH! Do you know what I love?â
âNo,â you sigh, exasperated, âI donât know what you love.â Â
He completely misses your tone as he spins in a circle around the kitchen and you realize that heâs wearing what looks like very expensive pajama pants and no shoes, just socks.
âI love thoseâŠwhat do you call them, likeâŠmillionaireâs something?âÂ
âMillionaire's shortbread?â you ask and he spins around to you with a big grin.Â
âYes! Those! With like the chocolate and the peanut butter and theyâre like the best Reeseâs ever, only even more fucking amazing. Can you make those?âÂ
âI donât know, maybe,â you begin and the man actually falls to his knees, shuffling over the floor to you.Â
âPlease, Iâll do anything, Iâm dying here, beautiful baker girl, make me happy!â
âAre you asking me to bake for you or proposing?â you laugh, this man is too ridiculous as he grins up at you.Â
âIf you make them for me, I wonât marry you, but there are many other things I can do,â he says, pulling down his dark sunglasses from his head and winking at you from over the edge, his cheeky grin making it impossible to scowl at him.Â
âFine, Iâll make them for you, just get up from my floor, please,â you say, reaching for his hand. He takes yours with a bright smile, kissing the back of it, before he stumbles to his feet and follows you over to your big workbench.
âIâm Dieter, by the way. Can I sit here?â he asks, pointing to the stool that stands next to the bench.Â
âNice to meet you Dieter,â you say, âsure, go ahead, itâs got wheels on it though so be careful.âÂ
âAwesome,â Dieter says and sits down, immediately speeding across the floor with a kick of his socked feet. He stops himself from crashing into the fridge door by grabbing on to the handle before he shoots off again, rolling all the way over to the open back door.Â
âDonât fall out through the door please,â you call after him and you hear him giggle, a second later he comes spinning into the kitchen again.Â
âThis thing is awesome, I need to buy one for my house.âÂ
âHappy youâre enjoying yourself,â you laugh and walk to where yesterdayâs bakes are stacked on trays. Youâd made a layer of shortbread yesterday, you were planning on making lemon bars but Millionaireâs shortbread will work too. As you bring it over to your work station Dieter rolls past you and stops by the bench.Â
âCan I help?â he asks, looking up at you, his sunglasses back in his messy hair. Heâs kinda cute when you think about it, gorgeous brown eyes, and the smile heâs giving you is open and curious with an adorable dimple.Â
âYeah, sure, you can be in charge of peanuts,â you say, walking over to the dry storage, âThey need to be bashed into chunks with a rolling pin, something tells me thatâs something you can probably handle.âÂ
âThat sounds fun, please, direct me,â he says, kicking himself over to the storage cupboard on the stool.Â
âOops, sorry,â he giggles, grabbing hold of your hips to stop himself from crashing into the storage door, âI kicked too hard that time.âÂ
âGo easy there, Dieter,â you laugh as he untangles himself from the stool and stands up. You get on your tiptoes to grab the peanuts and suddenly realize heâs still holding on to your hips, standing close behind you. You swear you feel his nose brush the side of your head, a quick inhale from him, and then he steps back, letting go.Â
âPeanuts?â he says, leaning past you and reaching up to grab the bag sitting just out of your reach. His arm brushes over yours and heâs suddenly very close again, his citrusy after shave, mingling with the heady sweet smoke of weed, fills your senses.Â
âUhhâŠy-yeah,â you stutter, âthanks. And the dark chocolate if you can reach it.âÂ
âSure, this one?â he asks, grabbing the bag of Valrhona from the shelf. This time his chest is pressed against your back, you really should move out of his way, but heâs right behind you, almost pinning you in place, as he has to stretch to his full length to reach. And you find that you donât mind at all, heâs warm and solid behind you, and this is more action than youâve had in months.Â
âThatâs the one, thanks,â you say, trying to keep your voice neutral.Â
Dieter brings it down to your level and you take it from him, expecting him to step back and give you room to go back to the work bench. But instead he stays right behind you, and this time you really do feel him bend down and brush his nose over your cheek, down to where your neck meets your shoulder.Â
âYou smell delicious, like a cookie,â he mumbles and your heart literally skips a beat.Â
âTh-thanks,â you splutter and when Dieter steps back, letting you move, you avoid his eyes, feeling your cheeks burn.Â
âS-so theâŠummâŠrolling pin is on that shelf there,â you say, pointing down to your right, âand thereâs a measuring cup too, justâŠummâŠjust get a cup of peanuts, and put them in a plastic bag and bash away. Just wash your hands first.âÂ
âOk, I can do that,â he says with a grin and he walks behind you to the sink in the corner while you measure out the peanut butter into a sauce pan.Â
Dieter gets to work on the peanuts with great enthusiasm until you tell him theyâre broken up enough.Â
âJust leave them there, you can come here and stir the peanut butter while I get the caramel ready,â you instruct him and he ambles over in just his socks.Â
âWhat happened to your shoes? If you donât mind me asking,â you point at his stripey, multicolored socks.Â
âIâm not sure,â Dieter glances down at his feet, âI had shoes when I left home, Iâm sure of it, but after that it gets a bit hazy.âÂ
âYouâve really been partying since Tuesday?â you ask and he nods.Â
âYeah, it was a good party so we just kinda kept going,â he grins, âthere was a huge pool and we all went in. Actually, maybe thatâs where I lost my shoes?âÂ
âMaybe, you could go back and look for them?âÂ
âAnd miss out on baking with a pretty baker girl? Never!â he chuckles and youâre not totally sure heâs being serious or not, but the grin he gives you makes you hope he is.Â
âI think this is melted,â he says, draggin the spoon through the silky smooth peanut butter, showing you the bowl.Â
âYeah, that looks done. Just pass me that tray of shortbread and Iâll pour the caramel on top.âÂ
âCan I lick the bowl?â he asks, looking over your shoulder as you let the thick golden liquid pool on top of the shortbread.Â
âIâm pretty good at scraping, thereâs usually nothing left to lick,â you say, dragging the spatula around the edge.Â
âCanât you be a bit sloppy, just for me?â Dieter grins, standing entirely too close, âIt smells so good, I wanna taste it.âÂ
This time heâs definitely flirting, the salacious smile on his face while he winks at you, makes you both roll your eyes and squash down butterflies on the inside.Â
âFine, Iâll leave some for you,â you smile, looking back at the shortbread again and scraping out caramel, leaving the last of it on the spatula. Putting the bowl to the side, you hold out the spatula for him. But instead of taking it, he grabs hold of your hand, and licks the caramel off the spatula with a long swipe of his tongue. His eyes donât leave yours and the whole thing is so over the top you burst out laughing.Â
âJesus fucking Christ, tone it down maybe?â you snort, as he abruptly stops licking, letting go of your hand.Â
âWhat?â he blushes, âI saw it in this movie, it looked sexy.âÂ
âYeah, in a porno maybe!â you say, handing him the spatula, and only the spatula.
He takes it with a sheepish look, âSorry, that usually works.âÂ
âNot in this bakery, I have to work with that spatula when youâre gone, I canât have it being used as a porno prop, Dieter.â You grab a new spatula from the holder on the counter and start smoothing out the caramel.Â
âYou do smell good though,â Dieter says, still looking sheepish, âthat wasnât just a line.âÂ
âThanks,â you shoot him a quick smile, working over the caramel, âyou smell good too, underneath all that weed funk.âÂ
At this he grabs the front of his t-shirt and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose, âYeah, itâs kinda obvious, huh.âÂ
âCanât believe you partied for forty-eight hours, Iâd be dead on my feet,â you say, mixing the peanut butter into the caramel layer, sprinkling in some of the crushed peanuts, âDo you want coffee or something while we wait for this to set?âÂ
âFuck yes, coffee sounds amazing!â Dieter exclaims, dropping the spatula from his mouth, âAnd this stuff is amazing too, Iâd eat a bowl of just this.âÂ
âYouâd die of a sugar rush if you did,â you laugh, sliding the tray into the large fridge and setting a timer on your phone, âCâmon, the coffee machine is out front.âÂ
One of the advantages of being the sole owner of the bakery was that you got to decide what to skimp on, and what to splurge on. And the espresso machine was something youâd really splurged on. For a shop that mainly sold take out baked goods, it was way over the top, but it meant you always had great coffee on hand for your early mornings. The machine was already up and running, humming quietly as you started preparing two shots.Â
âHow do you take it, Dieter?â you ask and he winks at you.Â
âAnyway you wanna give it to me, baker girl,â he grins and when you sigh loudly, he laughs and holds up his hands in defense. âCâmon! I had to! You set it up perfectly!âÂ
âHow do you take your coffee?â you emphasis and glare at him, but your smile is breaking through and he gives you a playful poke as he comes up and stands next to the machine.Â
âExtra everything, cream, sugar, any of those coffee syrups if you have âem.âÂ
âWhy am I not surprised?â you smirk, âA guy who loves Millionaireâs Shortbread, of course he wants extra everything. I bet youâre lining up outside your local Starbucks the morning they start selling Pumpkin Spice.âÂ
âI would never drink Starbucks!â he protests, âFucking vile coffee and the worst of corporate America. But you canât beat a good pumpkin spice if youâve got quality coffee.âÂ
âIâve only got great coffee here, but no syrup, you want a latte? Double shot espresso?âÂ
âPlease,â he says, leaning against the counter next to the espresso machine as he looks over the front of your little shop, crossing his arms. You canât help the glance up at his arms, the t-shirt hanging on for dear life as it clings to his biceps and broad shoulders. The many rings on his fingers look tiny on his large hands as he grips the outside of his arms, and youâre temporarily distracted by them, and his close proximity.Â
The hiss of the machine pulls you back to reality, coffee sputtering out of the spouts into the cup. You glance back up at Dieter and find him watching you with a crooked smile, a dimple in his cheek.Â
âWhat?â you say, looking back at the machine and begin to steam the milk.Â
âYou really are beautiful,â he says, almost matter of factly, âespecially when you zone out.âÂ
âItâs early, and Iâve been up since two am, but thanks, I guess,â you reply, handing him the latte and pointing to the sugar bowl on the counter next to the till.Â
âI wasnât trying to make a move or anything,â he says, sounding slightly hurt, âI just wanted to tell you I think youâre gorgeous.âÂ
âNo, Iâm sorry,â you say, immediately regretting your tone, âIâm just not used to compliments I guess, I didnât mean to sound so rude. I shouldâve just said thanks,â you look over at him and give him a smile, âThanks Dieter.âÂ
âYouâre welcome,â he replies, smiling back.Â
You knock out the used coffee grounds and fill it up again to make your own coffee. Dieter reaches over and grabs four sugar cubes and drops them in the latte, stirring while he watches you work. Heâs watching you closely again and it makes your cheeks heat up. Heâs got a strange energy of childish mayhem and intense magnetism, chaos thatâs either going to make you laugh until your sides hurt or fuck you until you canât walk straight for a week. And youâre not sure which one you want.Â
Your coffee done, you add a splash of milk and lean against the counter opposite Dieter, taking a careful sip. Heâs wrapped both his large hands around the thick glass and is delicately licking the foam, drawing a pattern in it with his tongue. You watch him for a few seconds until he notices you and gives you a sheepish grin.Â
âWhat?â he asks, copying your tone from earlier.Â
âYou really think Iâm pretty?â you ask, the question slipping out before you have a chance to stop it, immediately regretting your filterless mouth.Â
But he gives you a disarming smile, âGorgeous. Gorgeous baker girl that smells like cookies and caramel and chocolate.âÂ
âYouâre just high,â you canât help but scoff at him, but he just shakes his head.Â
âNo, not at all.âÂ
He doesnât say anything else, just looks at you, the silence stretching between you until you think something will have to snap and itâs probably going to be you.Â
The phone saves you, the timer going off just as you donât think you can stand another second of his chocolate brown eyes looking at you like youâre the snack heâs been asking for.Â
âThecaramelisset,â you rush out, breaking eye contact and hurrying back into the kitchen as if another second in the fridge would ruin the whole thing. Dieter comes in behind you at a slower pace, still drinking his coffee.Â
You pull out the tray and set it down on the workbench before turning on the burner under a saucepan of water, setting up a water bath.Â
âIâm just gonna melt this chocolate, and then Iâll spread it on top, itâll set pretty quickly. And then itâs done.â You work quickly, too flustered to look at him and he hoovers just to your side, watching your movements.Â
The chocolate melts fast, you only need a thin layer, and then you pour it over the caramel. You scrape the bowl clean but leave a generous amount of chocolate on the spatula, giving it to Dieter.Â
âDonât burn your mouth, itâs still warmâ, you say when he takes it. He doesnât grab your hand this time, but his fingertips brushes over yours as he nods, and it sends a sharp little jolt through you.Â
You turn back to the almost finished shortbread but canât help glancing over at him. His pink tongue comes out and licks the chocolate, this time itâs not over the top, nothing provocative about it, heâs not even looking at you. But you swear you can feel every stroke of his tongue on your own skin, burning hot and wet.
You swallow and tear your eyes away, blindly reaching for the crushed peanuts, taking a handful and scattering it across the chocolate. The Millionaireâs Shortbread is done and you slide the tray back into the fridge, it only needs a few minutes. Dieter remains by the counter, finishing off the chocolate on the spatula as you start to clean up the kitchen and bring out the cookie dough that still needs to be taken care of. You see Dieters eyes widen as he sees the first scoop of dough land on the baking tray.Â
âIs that chocolate chip,â he almost whispers reverently, spatula forgotten, as he slowly comes over to stare down into the bowl.Â
âYou want to try it? Itâs double chocolate chip with browned butter.âÂ
He makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head back before he looks at you and nods, âPlease, it smells so good.âÂ
You grab a tasting spoon, giving him a generous scoop and watch with a smile as he puts it in his mouth. His eyes close of their own volition as he moans, far too enticingly, around the spoon.Â
âOh my godâŠâ he sighs, slowly chewing the dough, âThis is like heaven, better than sex, better than fucking coke.âÂ
âKnock yourself out,â you chuckle, âitâs not healthy but itâs sure as hell better for you than coke.âÂ
âAnd sex?â he asks with a wink, still rolling the dough around his mouth.Â
âTheyâre probably on par, but this is tastier than cum.âÂ
Dieter nearly chokes, coughing loudly as you giggle. Between repeated attempts at clearing his throat he points his finger at you accusingly, trying to grin between his coughing.
âYouâreâŠâ he coughs again, âYouâre a dirty baker girl!â he finally manages, grinning widely as you go back to scooping dough, still giggling.Â
âI canât believe I said that, but you did serve it up perfectly.âÂ
âI did, but I never thought your mind was that filthy, Iâm appalledâ he laughs, placing a hand on his chest in a mock gesture of shock. âBetter than cum huh? You have a lot of experience in that department?âÂ
Now heâs winking again, poking to get more details out of you. So instead you take another tasting spoon, scoop up more dough and put it straight into his mouth to shut him up. It works, he grins around the spoon and smacks his lips at the taste.Â
âSo fucking good, definitely better than cum,â he smirks, earning an eye roll from you. âDo you wanna taste it?âÂ
âIâm good, Iâve already tasted the dough many times,â you reply, careful to specify that youâre talking about dough.Â
âMaybe not like this though,â Dieter says, suddenly bending down and pressing his lips against yours. It almost makes you jump, his soft lips against yours, his aftershave, it all envelops you in an instance. Heâs not touching you anywhere else, just your lips, and you canât taste him, his mouth is still closed. Maybe you should push him off, the thought flits through your mind for a split second. But you want to taste him, taste the cookie dough you know is delicious, mingled with him, so you part your lips, your tongue coming out.Â
Dieter lets a quiet groan slip out as he part his lips, letting you in, opening his mouth and tilting his head to come closer. You hear the spoon clatter to the floor as his hand comes up and cups your cheek, his big hand reaching behind your neck, another stifled groan from him. He tastes of sugar, coffee and chocolate, all flavors mingling into something enticing that pulls you closer.
Thereâs nothing delicate about this kiss now, you lick into his mouth, and he offers you all the space you want, holding you close and moaning softly as your tongues tangle.
âTouch my hair,â he mumbles, breathing into your mouth, âI want to feel your hands in my hair.âÂ
âTheyâre all sticky, Dieter,â you protest but you feel him shake his head, his lips brushing over yours.Â
âI donât care, touch me, hold me, I want to smell like you when I leave,â his tongue slips between your lips, and you run your hands through his hair. You can feel it sticking, tugging at his wild locks but he just groans, his hands holding you tighter and, encouraged, you let your own hands run across his body, eliciting another loud groan from him.Â
Tension is building between the two of you, he is growing hard against your belly, unmistakably turned on and doing nothing to hide it. You can feel heat radiating from your own core, so scorching he must feel it too through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. If this doesnât stop soon heâll have you bent over the workbench in a minute, and Health and Safety would definitely have something to say about that.Â
With a groan and tremendous effort, you put your hands on his chest and push him away. His lips chase yours for a few seconds, eyes closed, a protest coming from him, before he looks down at you with a sigh.Â
âYou taste even better than you smell,â he says, not letting go of your cheek, his other hand still around your waist.Â
âThe cookie dough goes really well with the coffee,â you reply, your mouth quirking up in a smile and he matches it, a dopey look on his face.Â
âAmazing,â he breathes, "you're amazing, baker girl.âÂ
His adoration makes you tremble, you feel the heat in your cheeks, and he sees it, leaning into your lips. He stops and looks at you for a beat, to ask for your permission, and when you donât pull away he presses a soft kiss to your warm mouth, so different from the hasty, heated kiss you just shared. This one lasts only for a few seconds, gentle, before he pulls back, his hand slowly trailing along your check.Â
âI should probably call for my ride,â he says softly, âitâll take a while to get here.âÂ
âOk,â you nod, âthe shortbread should be done too.âÂ
âOk,â he replies, but he doesnât make a move to leave and you canât seem to take your eyes off him.Â
âI really shouldâŠâ he sighs, tracing his fingertips over your cheek again, âcall that ride.âÂ
âGo, do that, Iâll cut the shortbread, we can have some while we wait for your ride.â You lightly put your hand on his warm chest and push him away, smiling, but you really want to bunch your hand in the soft t-shirt and pull him closer.Â
âOk,â he says, louder this time, as if making up his mind. He shoves his hand in his pocket, miraculously finding his phone intact as you bring the tray out of the fridge.Â
The whole thing has set into layers, so you take a sharp knife and start cutting rectangles, slipping them up and onto the tray that goes in your display case, some go into a take away box, two you put on a separate plate and then look around for Dieter, spotting his broad back out by the back door. Just as you come over to him he ends his call, turning around to you with a smile.Â
âMy ride will be here in about twenty minutes,â he says, following you to the doorstep and sitting down. You sink down next to him, maybe a little bit closer than necessary, but heâs wide and takes up almost the whole door frame. Your cookie dough is still waiting for you, youâll be playing catch up with your baking for the rest of the morning, but itâll be worth it. This chaotic, disheveled man has made your morning a lot more exciting than usual and youâre a little bit sad to see him go.Â
âHere, what you came for,â you say, holding out the plate, and Dieter takes one of the Millionaireâs Shortbread.Â
âI canât believe you made these just for me,â he grins and bites into it. You watch his face, this is your favorite part of baking, watching people when they taste the finished thing. And Dieter doesnât disappoint, he groans, loudly, grabbing onto your arm and leaning his forehead against your shoulder, his whole body reacting to the flavors in his mouth as he chews.Â
âI Iive here now,â he moans, âIâm giving up my career, Iâm going to live in your bakery and pay you to feed me for the rest of my life.â He lifts his head up and takes another big bite of the shortbread, groaning again as he looks at you, his eyebrows pulled together, big brown eyes pleading.
âHow is this so good?â he moans, his tongue coming out to catch an errant peanut crumb, âyouâve got to taste this.âÂ
He holds up the last bite of the shortbread to you, and you open your mouth, letting him place it between your lips. You feel his fingers brush over them as he pulls back, his thumb coming up to swipe over your bottom lip.Â
âItâs really good, Iâm pretty happy with this,â you say, trying to not chew with your mouth open as Dieter looks at you, his eyes on your lips.
âDo you want another one?â you ask, holding up the plate and Dieter nods fervently and groans again as he takes a bite.Â
âI canât decide, this or sex, which is better,â he chuckles, and you nod. You know the cake is good, but you canât help but wonder if sex with Dieter might not be even better.Â
You sit side by side in the early morning sunshine, eating the cakes. Dieter soon finishes his second one and cracks the lid on the take away box youâve given him, sneaking a third one with a childish grin that makes you happy to see.Â
âSeriously, I live here now, Iâm moving in tomorrow,â he mumbles, moaning between bites, leaning on you, his head on your shoulder.Â
âYou do that Dieter, I might even let you lick the bowl once in a while,â you say, patting his messy hair.Â
âLick the bowl or lick your bowl, baker girl?â he giggles and you give him a light smack, shaking your head.Â
âEnough with the porn jokes,â you scold him, no menace to your words, he can hear the smile in your voice and giggles again.Â
âCan I put my head in your lap?â he asks, âNothing weird, I promise, Iâm just really tired suddenly.âÂ
âOk, sure, but your ride should be here soon.âÂ
âYeah, I just wanna relax my eyes for a whileâŠ.â Dieter yawns and slips down the stairs to sit on the last step, hooking his arm around your hips and putting his head on your lap. The warm weight of him on your legs is actually comforting, his arm a steady hold behind you. Without thinking about it you start carding your fingers through his hair, adding to the sticky mess, making it stand on end, but he doesnât seem to mind. It takes him minutes to fall asleep, a low rumbling snore coming from him.Â
You keep stroking his head for a few more minutes before you carefully lift his head up and slip out from under him, letting his arm be his pillow. You need to go back to baking, your first customers will be arriving soon and you havenât even put the cookies in the oven, you want them fresh and warm when the early morning commuters arrive.Â
Back in the kitchen you quickly scoop the rest of the dough on the trays and get them in the oven and start stocking the display case out front with whatâs already done. Youâre just sliding the last croissants into the tray when the opening hour strikes and you flip the sign on the front door. Youâve been listening out back for a car to pull up but you havenât heard anything and once the morning rush starts, youâre swamped and a couple of hours pass before you even realize. When it finally calms down you wipe down the counter and clean your hands before checking out by the back door. Itâs still open, but Dieter is gone, as is the take away box, not a trace of your chaotic, magnetic early morning visitor.Â
Hours later, as youâre about to close up for the day, a delivery van pulls up in front of the shop. A man in a uniform jumps out and comes rushing in with a box and an extravagant bouquet of flowers with a vase.Â
âDelivery for you, miss,â he says, handing you a device to sign your name on, and then the flowers and the box.Â
âThanks,â you say but the man is already halfway out the door.Â
The flowers fill the small shop with their scent, and you place them on the counter, next to the till, stopping to stick your nose into the white lilac and breathing deeply before getting the shop closed up.
You flip the sign and take the box into the kitchen, the back door is still open to let the warm spring air in. Sinking down on the stairs where you sat with Dieter just this morning, you open the box. It contains another box and inside that, a note. But thereâs also a mouth watering, rich, smell of pastry and meat coming from the box. Intrigued, you open the lid, only to find a thermal container inside, like a small version of the ones used to keep delivery pizza warm. Inside are six fat, delicious looking sausages rolls. Your stomach gives a hungry grumble and you immediately grab one, laughing as you remember Dieterâs first request this morning; sausage rolls, like the ones he bought in England after party nights.Â
The sausage roll really is as delicious as it looks and you grab a second one before you pick up the note that came with them.Â
It's a double folded piece of paper, so thick it almost looks like part of a canvas. On the inside a note is scribbled in a looped, flowing handwriting.Â
âNext time Iâm asking you on a date, baker girl /DâÂ
Part Two
If you want to make Dieter's Millionaire's Shortbread, here's the recipe I used.
Peanut Butter Millionaire's Shortbread with melt in the mouth shortbread base, peanut butter caramel & chocolate topping - it's pure heaven!
Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.
Chapter summary: You start executing your plan.
Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.
You walk out of the Sheriff's office on legs made of pure, vibrating steel, the bright sunlight hitting you like a physical assault after the dim gloom of the cell block. For a single, dizzying moment, the dusty main street tilts violently beneath your feet. You grip the porch railing of the Sheriff's office, your knuckles going stark white, and force yourself to breathe through the wave of nausea.
Not yet. You canât fall apart yet. Joelâs still behind those bars. Sarahâs still waiting for her father to come home, and Reverend Sawyer is still walking around Sawyer's Creek with his head held high.
You have work to do and youâre not about to let the lingering remnants of a fever stop you now.
Tomås is instantly at your elbow, his face dark with concern, his hand hovering just under your arm in case you sway. "Señora. You are pale. We should go home now."
"Not yet," you murmur, pushing off the railing and straightening your spine. You smooth the front of your dress with hands that you refuse to let tremble. "I have another call to make, but Iâd be grateful for your arm. I need to go and see Doc Cooper. As the chair of the town council, heâs the first person I need to speak to.â
"SĂ, Señora," TomĂĄs nods, offering his arm. "But please eat something first. There is bread in the wagon."
"Bread can wait. Iâd rather do this now. Please?"
He hesitates for a brief second before nodding and offering his arm. You walk down the wooden boardwalk together, your chin tipped high, ignoring the renewed stares of the townspeople, many of whom youâve known all your life but are seeing you now in a new guise.
As you pass the Silver Dime, the scent of sweat and stale whisky wafts through the swing door making your stomach turn over. But you swallow hard and keep going until you reach Doc Cooperâs clinic.
âThank you TomĂĄs,â you say, sliding your arm free. âI can manage from here.â
âIâll wait out here,â he replies and you nod before pushing open the door and stepping into the cool, shadowed interior.
The waiting room smells of carbolic soap and dried herbs and the first person you see is Mrs Cooper, sitting behind a small desk, knitting. She looks up, her face draining of colour the instant she recognises you.
"Mrs Miller!" she gasps, dropping her knitting needles into her lap. "Goodness, we weren't expecting... are you ill? Has the fever returned?"
"Iâm perfectly well, Mrs. Cooper, thank you," you reply smoothly, though the suffocating heat of the cell block still clings to your skin like a film. "Iâm here on a matter of urgent town business and I need to speak with the Doctor immediately. In private."
Her eyes dart nervously toward the closed door at the back of the room. "Heâs... heâs with a patient at the moment, my dear. If you would care to waitâŠ"
"I would not," you interrupt, your voice perfectly polite but cold. "Please inform him that Iâll be in his office as the matter canât wait."
You donât wait for her permission. You do the thing you would never have dreamt of doing in a million years whilst life consisted of you standing behind the counter at the mercantile. When you existed as mere furniture, rather than someoneâs wife. You walk directly past the small desk, open the door to the doctor's private office, and step inside, closing it firmly behind you.
The office is small but meticulously organised. A heavy oak desk dominates the space, covered in medical journals and a brass microscope. Glass-fronted cabinets line the walls, displaying neat rows of brown apothecary bottles and gleaming silver instruments that as a child you would stare at in wonder. The air smells of pipe tobacco and ether.
You sit down in the chair facing the desk, fold your hands neatly in your lap, and wait.
As it turns out, you donât have to wait long.
The door bursts open precisely ninety seconds later and Doc Cooper hurries in, wiping his hands on a clean white towel, his face already shining with a fresh sheen of sweat.
"Mrs Miller!" he exclaims. "My word, this is most irregular. Most irregular indeed. My wife informs me you would not waitâŠ"
"I would not," you confirm calmly. "Please close the door, Doctor."
He hesitates, his eyes darting toward the open doorway as if his wife might rescue him from this encounter. Then he sighs heavily, shuts the door, and walks around to sink into his heavy desk chair. He sets the towel down, folds his hands on the desk, and tries to compose his face into a mask of professional concern.
âIt is wonderful to see you looking so well again, my dear. I must confess, I feared for you when I visited the ranch. You were in a much worse condition than Mr Thorne.â
âYes, but as you can see, Iâm now quite recovered.â
âYes, thank heavens. It is a curse indeed that one who helps heal another is inadvertently struck down by the same malaise.â He clears his throat. âSo, may I ask, my dear, what appears to be the trouble? Is it residual weakness from the fever? Some lingering... feminine complaint, perhaps?"
You stare at him for a long, freezing moment, letting the silence stretch out until his nervous smile falters and dies on his lips. This is a man who has known you your entire life, treated every bump and scrape and childhood illness â and he knows exactly why youâre here.
You lean forward slightly in your chair. âDoctor, we have known one another for many years, so let us not insult each other's intelligence. Iâm not here as your patient. Iâm here representing the Miller ranch to inform the chairman of the Sawyer's Creek town council exactly whatâs going to happen over the next few weeks."
Doc Cooperâs flushed face goes even redder. He fumbles to remove his spectacles, polishing them frantically with the corner of the white towel. "Iâm sure I don't know what youâŠ"
"You know precisely what I mean," you cut in, your voice never rising above a perfectly civil murmur, which somehow makes it ten times more terrifying than a shout. "My husband is currently sweltering in a brick cell, charged with attempted murder for the crime of defending his dying wife from a vicious man who came uninvited to our home to celebrate her impending death. You know this is the truth, Doctor. You saw the condition of my husband when you attended to me, and you know the kind of man he is."
He swallows hard, refusing to meet your eyes. "The legal proceedings, my dear, are entirely outside my purview. I am a man of medicine, not law."
"You are a man of medicine and the chairman of the town council," you correct sharply. "Iâd like you to convene a meeting.â
âFor what purpose, exactly?â
âSo that I may explain what Iâm sure you already know â that the town council has the authority to write a unanimous letter of character to the judge. A letter that would carry significant influence on the question of whether this case proceeds to trial at all."
"My dear, Reverend SawyerâŠâ
âI think addressing me as Mrs Miller would be more appropriate for the purposes of this conversation.â
Doc Cooper pauses, then inclines his head slightly. âMrs MillerâŠReverend Sawyer, as you know, is a beloved spiritual leader of this community. To publicly contradict his sworn testimony would beâŠ"
"Profitable," you finish smoothly.
You let the single word hang in the air between you and watch the small, calculating mind behind the flushed face begin to whir.
"I beg your pardon?" he says carefully.
"Profitable," you repeat. "Let me speak plainly, Doctor, because weâre both adults and Iâve very little patience left for euphemism. Everyone in Sawyerâs Creek, and the surrounding towns, purchases from our ranch. They rely on our beef to survive, not just in feeding their own families, but for their own businesses as well. Our ranch also purchases our flour, our coffee, our cloth, our nails, our lumber, our medicines, and our liquor from Sawyerâs Creek merchants to the tune of approximately eleven thousand dollars per year."
Doc Cooper's mouth falls slightly open.
âNow, I am hardly going to cause hardship to my own father, but as of today, everyone who has a contract or agreement with our ranch will find that contract or agreement under review.â
You lean back in your chair, folding your hands neatly in your lap.
"If my husband walks out of that cell a free man, Doctor, every single contract or agreement will be reaffirmed and indeed expanded. The Miller ranch will continue to flourish and prosper, as will everyone in this town. If, however, he is bound over for trial, or, God forbid, hangs from a gallows on the basis of the vindictive words from a bitter preacher... I will personally see to it that the grass grows over the foundations of every business in this town within eighteen months."
The silence in the small office is absolute as Doc Cooperâs face slowly cycles through several shades of red, his eyes wide with a dawning, profound horror. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
"Mrs Miller," he finally rasps, his voice cracking slightly. "What youâre proposing is... is coercion. Itâs intimidation of a public official."
"Itâs business, Doctor Cooper," you correct serenely. "Reverend Sawyer is attempting to use the machinery of the state to settle a personal grievance. Iâm simply informing the elected leadership of this community of the financial consequences of allowing him to do so and Iâd like the opportunity to address them on this point.â
âI donât thinkâŠI mean, I am the chairman and I canâŠâ
âThen you may make whatever decision your conscience dictates. Iâm merely ensuring you make that decision with all the relevant information at hand."
You stand up slowly, smoothing the front of your dress with hands that you absolutely refuse to let him see tremble.
"You have one week," you state, looking down at him from your full, unyielding height. "One week to convene your council and draft a letter to the judge expressing the community's grave doubts about the credibility of Reverend Sawyer's testimony and the unblemished character of my husband. If such a letter hasnât been drafted, signed, and dispatched by the morning seven days hence, Iâll instruct TomĂĄs to begin the process of dismantling our local accounts and cancelling all contracts and agreements."
The doctor sits frozen in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles have gone white.
"Good afternoon," you murmur politely, then you turn, open the door, and walk out, moving through the small waiting room with perfect, glacial composure, offering a polite nod to Mrs Cooper before stepping back outside.
And there, standing not ten feet from you on the wooden boardwalk, is Reverend Sawyer, with Belle by his side.
Your heart stops as her gaze immediately locks onto yours, the narrowing of her eyes a sure indication of the ill-will she continues to bear towards you for stealing what she, and her father, believe is hers. Youâve never liked her. Hadnât you said to your father when he told you of the Reverendâs plans that Belle was not Tess?
The two sisters could not have been more different in outlook, Tessâs pleasant, charming manner at severe odds with Belleâs dour, sullenness. But the younger Sawyer girl shares her sisterâs dark hair and blue eyes and would most likely be married now were it not for her fatherâs obsession.
"Mrs Miller," the Reverend intones, his voice deep and rolling. He doesnât tip his hat or nod, he simply stands there, blocking your path on the narrow boardwalk, his pale eyes raking over you with thinly veiled disgust. "I had heard the rumours that you had risen from your sickbed. I confess I was sceptical, but here you stand, in defiance of God's evident will."
The world goes very, very still.
The dusty sounds of the main street â the creak of wagon wheels, the distant laughter from the saloon, the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer â all fade into a deep, ringing silence. You can feel the blood pulsing in your temples and the muscles in your jaw locking so tight your teeth ache.
This man. This man whose chapel you have sat in, Sunday after Sunday, and listened to. This man who holds himself up as a true example of Godliness. This man whose beloved daughter had once been Joelâs wife â as dear to him as you now know you are.
This is the man who stood in your yard and spoke of your death. This is the man who wished for the fever to take you so that his pale, sour daughter could climb into Joel's bed. This is the man whose vicious scheming has put your husband in a brick cage in the suffocating heat.
"Father," Belle says, her gloved hand tightening on her father's elbow, the angry look on her face clearly at odds with her wish for a public conversation. "Father, perhaps we shouldâŠ"
"Hush, Belle," the Reverend snaps, his eyes never leaving yours. "I will address this woman. The Lord has placed her in our path for a reason."
You take a single, deliberate step forward on the boardwalk.
TomĂĄs, standing a few feet away, instantly straightens up, his eyes narrowing. He takes two steps toward you, his hand drifting toward the knife at his belt, but you stop him with the smallest, sharpest shake of your head.
This is your fight.
"You will address me, will you?" you say softly.
Your voice comes out perfectly level and so quiet that the Reverend has to actually lean slightly forward to hear you. But the words slice through the still afternoon air like a freshly stropped razor.
"I hadnât realised, Reverend, that there was anything left for you to say to me. You spoke quite eloquently to me in my fatherâs store before my marriage and then you came to my home and told my husband that it was the Lordâs will that I die from the fever and that he might then seek comfort from⊠Belle.â
Your gaze slides to her and you donât even bother trying to disguise your own contempt, beneath you though you know it is.
Belle snorts slightly. âComfort? You make it sound as though all I craved was his bed.â
âIf the shoe fits.â
Belle gasps, but the Reverend's pale, granite face doesnât so much as flicker.
"I spoke God's truth," he says coldly. "Your marriage to that man was a violation of the natural order. You, a nondescript spinster, a mercantile ownerâs daughter, presuming to take the place of a virtuous Christian woman in the bed of a respectable widower is an aberration of that order. A widower marries his wifeâs sister, if she is fortunate enough to have one. The fever was a judgment. Your survival is an abomination."
"Tess wanted me to marry Joel,â Belle adds smugly. âShe wished for it. She told me, that if anything ever happened to herâŠâ
"Be silent," the Reverend says, without even turning his head, and Belleâs mouth clamps shut.
You smile, the cold, slow, lethal smile of a woman who has spent thirty-four quiet years cataloguing every cruel man who has ever underestimated her, and who has finally, finally found one she can ruin, made almost all the more sweet in the knowledge she has known him all her life.
"An abomination," you repeat softly, tasting the word. "How interesting. My understanding of listening to you from your pulpit week after week, year after year, is that the doctrine teaches us that all life is sacred. That every breath drawn upon this earth is a gift from the Almighty. And yet here you stand, in broad daylight on a public boardwalk, informing me that my continued breathing is an abomination. Tell me, Reverend, do you reserve this view exclusively for women who decline to deliver your daughter into a marriage?"
A small, sharp gasp comes from somewhere behind you, but you donât turn to look. A small crowd has begun to gather on the opposite side of the street. Two women have stopped outside the milliner's shop, a pair of cowboys pause in the doorway of the feed store and out of the corner of your eye you can see Mrs Cooper peeking through the window, her face white.
Good, you think, let them all hear.
The Reverendâs pale face finally begins to colour, a thin, angry red creeping up from his black collar into his gaunt cheeks. "You will not address me in such a manner, woman! I am an ordained minister of the Gospel. I am a duly elected member of this community. I have served the spiritual needs of Sawyer's Creek for more years than I care to remember, and I will not be lectured by you â a child I baptised, a woman whose mother I buried, a spinsterâŠ!â
"You will be lectured by whomever I choose," you say quietly, taking another small, deliberate step forward, close enough to smell the sour, stale odour of his black wool coat and see the muscle twitch in his jaw.
Belle moves slightly behind her father as though she fears you mean to strike her.
"You came to my home, sir," you continue, your voice never rising above that soft, lethal murmur. "You came while I lay dying, and you tried to barter my husband's future over my unburied body. You provoked a grieving man to violence so that you might bring a charge against him, see him hang or take his child from him, all because he wouldnât marry the woman you believe he should. You have shown no interest in your granddaughter since her mother passed and yet you now seek to inveigle your way into her life by destroying what little she has. You are a liar and you are a sinner and you have the unmitigated gall to call my survival an abomination."
"How dare youâŠ" he snarls.
"I dare," you cut in coldly, "because there is nothing left in this world that you can take from me. Youâve already tried to take my life, and youâve already tried to take my husband. Youâve failed at both and there is nothing left in your bag of tricks that frightens me."
âIf you had just let him marry me, none of this would have happened!â Belle snaps.
âAnd did he make you an offer?â You turn your gaze to meet hers. âDid he come to your door, fall to his knees and beg for your hand? No, he did not. He came to my door and asked for my hand. If my husband harboured even the slightest inclination towards you, he would have asked you. Clearly, he favoured me over you. And as for Tess desiring you as her successorâŠâ you look Belle up and down. âKnowing her as I did, I fail to see how that could be even remotely possible.â
Belleâs jaw drops. âYouâŠ! Everyone knows he hasnât taken you to his bed! A marriage of convenienceâŠhuhâŠas if he could everâŠâ
Your chest burns, and you want to rebut her, you do, but instead, you summon every ounce of restraint you have, ignore her, and turn your full, freezing attention back to the Reverend whoâs now vibrating with rage. His eyes bulge slightly in their sockets, and the thin red flush has climbed all the way up to the crown of his narrow skull.
"You will regret this day, woman," he hisses, his voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "I will see your husband hang, and if that proves unsuccessful, I will show him to be the unfit father that he is. I will demonstrate that Sarah, my granddaughter, is better placed in my care than in the care of a man who cannot control his temper and a woman who has no claim to her!â
You look at him for a long, slow, deliberate moment â this pathetic, bitter, small man who has spent his entire life mistaking the volume of his voice for the authority of God. As a child you feared him, as an adult you tolerated him. Now â you pity him.
âYou are nothing to me, Reverend,â you smile. âYou are a sour, bitter little man in a dirty black coat, and I will not waste another breath conversing here with you. Tess would be ashamed of both of you. Good afternoon, Reverend, Belle."
You step around him on the boardwalk and donât look back. You walk at a perfectly measured, perfectly civil pace down the wooden planks, your skirts swishing gently around your ankles, your spine straight as a rifle barrel, your chin held high.
Behind you, you can hear the Reverend sputtering, his voice rising into an incoherent, choked rasp mingling with Belleâs higher pitched, righteous indignation. You can hear the absolute, deafening silence of the small crowd thatâs gathered, every single person utterly transfixed by what theyâve just witnessed.
You walk, one foot in front of the other, the boardwalk stretching out before you, somehow seeming impossibly long. The wagon is just there, just twenty feet away, just across the dusty street in front of the Sheriffâs office and you can feel TomĂĄs behind you close but not touching.
Don't fall. Don't fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
The edges of your vision begin to soften, the bright sunlight taking on a strange, hazy quality, the collars of the storefronts blurring and bleeding together like wet paint. The deafening silence of the boardwalk is slowly being replaced by a high, ringing tone in your ears.
You step down into the dirt of the street, the drop, no more than six inches, jolting painfully up through your spine. Your knees, which felt like steel only moments before, suddenly feel like wet paper.
Twenty more feet. Just twenty more feet.
You force one foot in front of the other. The wagon seems to be receding further away with every step, and you can feel TomĂĄsâs heat at your back.
Ten more feet.
A fine, cold sweat starts to break out across your forehead and along the back of your neck, soaking into the high collar of your dress. Your heart is hammering so hard against your ribs that you can feel each individual beat shaking your entire body. The triumphant adrenaline thatâs carried you through the encounter with the Reverend is draining out of you like water from a cracked cup, and underneath it, the deep, profound exhaustion of a body still recovering from a near-fatal fever comes rushing up to claim its due.
Five more feet.
"Señora," Tomås says from behind.
You make it, your hand catching the rough wooden side of the wagon. Your fingers grip it, hard, and for a single brief moment you think you might be able to climb up unassisted. Then the world simply tips sideways. The ringing in your ears swells into a roaring tide. The hazy sunlight contracts into a single, narrow tunnel of light, and the tunnel rapidly starts collapsing into pure black. Your knees give out completely, and you feel yourself slumping toward the dusty Texas dirt.
"Madre de DiosâŠ" TomĂĄs catches you before you hit the ground, his arms sweeping under your knees and around your shoulders, lifting you up against his chest. Youâre dimly, distantly aware of the smell of him and the sound of his voice, murmuring close to your ear.
âDonâtâŠâ you whisper, your eyes fluttering. "Don't... don't let them see..."
"Hush, Señora," he says fiercely, lifting you up over the side of the wagon and laying you down carefully on a bed of soft wool blankets. "They have seen nothing. They have seen only a great lady, finishing her business and going home. Now you rest."
He bunches a folded blanket beneath your head as a pillow then pulls another one up over your trembling shoulders, despite the heat. Then he pulled the canvas cover up over the wagon bed to shield you from the sun and the prying eyes of the town, the world above you becoming a soft, dim, filtered amber.
"You stay there, Señora," he commands gently, his face appearing in the gap at the front of the cover. "You do not move. You do not speak. Iâm taking you home now."
You canât answer him, can only close your eyes, sinking deeper into the soft wool blankets, the violent trembling in your limbs slowly, slowly beginning to subside as the wagon rocks into motion.
The horse surges forward, the heavy wooden wheels crunching over the dusty street. You can feel the rhythmic sway, the gentle jolt of the rutted road, and somewhere in the haze you register that TomĂĄs is driving faster than heâs ever drove with you aboard.
You drift, the encounter with the Reverend and Belle replaying in fractured, dreamlike pieces behind your closed eyelids. Youâve done it. Youâve publicly humiliated a man who has spent years building a fortress of false respectability in this town. Youâve done it in front of witnesses. By tomorrow morning, every household in Sawyer's Creek will be repeating the words youâve spoken on that boardwalk. By tomorrow afternoon, Doc Cooper will be convening the town council in a state of barely contained panic.
The dominoes are falling.
Youâve set them all up. Youâve walked into the lion's den with a perfectly civil smile, and quietly, methodically tipped the first one over.
Now you just have to survive long enough to see it through.
Hold on, Joel, you think, your hand drifting up to press against your fluttering heart. Hold on, my love. The storm is coming.
And then, finally, blessedly, the darkness rises up and claims you completely, and you know nothing at all until the ranch comes into view, and TomĂĄs shouts for Maggie, and the great unbroken sky stretches out above you.
I don't have words to say really for how insane I feel right now. If you have been a Mando fan from from the first season, second even...and read the fics, written the fics. You guys, we had like 4 screenshots and then one magazine cover to go off of!
You just had to be there. SEVEN YEARS!
And now he's just out there looking the hottest he's ever possibly looked, wearing the suit FOR FUN!
