“Thank you,” Christian said, as Judith hoped her stomach did not gurgle too offensively. “That will be all.”
Oh, to live in a world where one might order bread, real bread, and have it arrive in ten minutes.
You could live in that world.
Judith didn’t want to think of it yet.
Christian slid the tray toward her end of the table. “Don’t just stare. Have some.”
She wanted so many things. Her sister back with her. An answer to her questions. Bread. The last was right here. There was no resisting any longer. Judith took a slice. It was hot in her hands, lovely and perfectly warming.
“Ohhhh.” She shut her eyes and inhaled yeast. There was no point attempting to be articulate about good bread.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said.
She picked up a knife. “Ha. As if you could.” She dipped the utensil in the butter, so perfectly soft and spreadable. “I would stab you,” she added by way of explanation.
“That knife is rather blunt.”
She set it down and lifted the bread to her mouth. Her mouth watered; her teeth yearned to sink into it.
“Luckily,” Judith said, “I have a great deal of experience with knives in need of sharpening. Hack away at anything long enough, and it will get the job done.”
She took a bite. Oh, God. Bread. The difference between dry, indigestible leatherlike biscuit and real, soft, salivation-worthy bread was air, nothing but air trapped in perfect little pockets.
Air was delicious.
Salt tickled her tongue. The bread was warm and yeasty, the crust tearing in her teeth. She let out a moan.
“Oh,” Christian said. “Just stab me now and be done with it.”
She smirked at him. “Do you want me to go over there and make you comfortable?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “Do you think I’ll say no to that a second time? Yes. Yes.”
She did not set her bread down; she was not so selfless. Instead, she stood, kicked off her slippers, and made her way around the desk. He sat in place, watching her. Judith took another bite of bread. The crust had been baked to a perfect caramel, with just that hint of crisp sweetness.
Christian reached for a slice.
She set her hand on top of his. “No,” she told him. “You gave it to me. It’s my bread now.”
“Is it?” he murmured. “What a shame.”
“You know how it works when you want to eat someone else’s bread,” she told him. “You ask.”
He looked at her lips and exhaled slowly. “May I have a taste, please?”
Judith held out her slice, bringing it to his mouth. His eyes met hers as he leaned forward and took a bite.
“It’s good.”
“Good is heresy,” Judith said. “It’s excellent.”
“Not quite.” He looked over at her. “You should know that I won’t believe anything is truly excellent until I’m sure you’ve had your share.”
“My share.” Her voice sounded extremely quiet in the room.
“I’ve always been keen on giving it to you,” he said. His eyes met hers. They were laughing, but this was no joke.
This was how Eve had been tempted. Not with an apple, although Judith never said no to a good apple. Not with anything so mundane. She’d been tempted with the promise of heat and salt and all the things she’d never known.
“Come here,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”
She sank onto his lap. His arm came around her—and he took the bread. “Here.” He held it out to her and she took a bite.
“God, yes,” he whispered. “Have the rest.”
She did, and when she finished, she licked butter off his fingers. His hand tightened around her waist. His eyes met hers and he leaned in, so that she could rest her forehead against him. “Might I have a taste, Judith?”
His breath whispered against her lips.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He let out a long sigh and then shifted up, melding their mouths together. He tasted of bread and lemonade, of hope and want and innocence all at once, of all the things she’d once believed and never allowed herself to feel.
He kissed her and she wanted. His hands slid to her shoulders. “Might I touch?”
She set her fingers on top of his, encouraging his hand to slide under the neckline of her gown. “Wherever you wish.”
And then his mouth was back on hers. He pulled her close and as he kissed her, he undid the front buttons of her gown. His lips slid from her mouth to her chin. Her throat. He tasted her collarbone. And then his hands loosened her front-facing corset laces, sliding the heavy fabric away, before finding the hard nub of her nipple through the shift.
Pleasure rippled through her. “Oh, God,” Judith whispered. “Don’t stop. There. More.”
Obligingly, he set his mouth to that sensitive spot—tasting, first with lips, then with the tip of his tongue. The sweet feel of his touch built inside her. She wanted more, needed more. Her hands went to his shoulders. She shifted to straddle him, pressing her hips against his. She could feel the length of him, hard and long, could feel his hips press up against her. It was necessary to feel him more—harder—against her.
“Judith,” he murmured. “Oh, for God’s sake. Judith.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Let me help you more, sweetheart.”
His hand slipped under her skirt, up her legs, caressing her as he went. His touch whispered against her petticoats, sliding them aside until he found the wetness between her thighs. He stroked her there, softly at first, and then a little less softly.
Touch was an act of trust. To let herself open for him. To let him bring her to this point. To allow herself to accept this, to accept him, to call out his name as her body clenched around his fingers, harder, tighter.
Touch was an act of trust, and somehow, she’d come to trust him. She let go and let her pleasure take her.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her with a small smile on his face.
“Do you want more?” he asked.
More. More would mean more him. It would mean even more vulnerability, when trust was so new between them.
She ducked her head. “I’m not sure I could manage more at the moment.”
He kissed her.
“What of you, Christian?”
He gave her a pained smile. “I’ve had my share for now.”
She pulled back and ran her fingers down the front of his trousers. “Have you? I’m not actually naïve, Christian.”
He exhaled. “Oh, damn it.”
“Damn what?” She brushed the palm of her hand against the hard rod of his cock through his trousers.
“This isn’t a quid pro quo. I don’t want you doing anything simply because you feel grateful—”
She cut him off with a kiss. “I want to know.”
“What it’s like?”
“No.” She ran her hand down the front of his trousers again. “I want to know if after all of this, we might trust each other again. If there’s any hope at all…”
His hand found hers and pressed them to his buttons. “Then find out,” he said on a low growl. “Please.”
She released one button and then a second. A third. The fourth and final one, and then she could peel away his trousers and slide her hand against his skin.
He let out a gasp as she did. “God. Judith.”
Trust. Running her forefinger down his hard member did not seem an act of trust, not until his hand found her knee. Until she heard his breath catch and felt him stiffen even further under her touch. He was hard and yet so vulnerable, all at once. His hand clenched against her waist.
This was trust: to give her pleasure over to another, and to believe that they would both gain in the process. She ran her finger down his length.
“Oh, God.” His hand found hers. “Hold me. Like this.”
This was trust: to tighten her grip around his hot shaft, to learn f
rom the noises he made, the thrust of his hips. To exult in the feel of him, steel-hard and wanting. To know that she had brought him to this point.
His hand covered hers as she stroked the length of him. He let out a little moan, and then another.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Here.” His fingers indicated. “Like this. Like—oh, God, yes.”
He was hot to the touch, and as she slid her hand down his member, he became hotter still. His cock jumped, and she felt a swirl of pride, accomplishment, and the burning heat of exultation that she had done this to him. He grabbed a serviette from the tray at the last minute, spilling into it.
For a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes.