Chapter Ten
Juliet
The farmer’s market is a petri dish of mediocrity. People milling around with reusable bags and moral superiority, like purchasing kale makes them saints.
Why are there so many people here Wednesday evening?
A couple near the jam table is arguing over sugar-free raspberry. The woman is lying; she doesn’t care about sugar. She just hates her husband.
Another woman samples a piece of artisan cheese and moans like she’s never had real pleasure in her life.
A teen girl flirts with the honey vendor.
He’s thirty-five and shaped like a forgotten library book.
Not dangerous. Just tragic.
She wants a scandal and she’s going to get a tax deduction.
I ache for her wasted potential.
A toddler is eating dirt.
Honestly? Respect.
No one here is a threat.
They’re too soft.
Too predictable.
Too loud.
Except me.
And him, of course.
But his danger is accidental.
He doesn’t know what he is.
That voice could cause spontaneous ovulation in nuns, and he uses it to ask octogenarians about their croissants.
It’s criminal.
I drift toward the flower stall.
Pick up a sunflower like it matters.
Tilt my head.
Soft. Curious.
Empty enough to invite rescue.
Men like him don’t go for sirens.
They go for dandelions in need of sunlight.
My yellow dress catches the light.
The sun hits my hair.
I hit back with pheromones and good posture.
Any minute now.
He’ll come around the corner, looking soft and tired and beautiful.
And the moment he sees me, some small part of him will go quiet.
Recognizing something he won’t know how to name yet.
Recognition is always the first step toward surrender.
I’m going to put a leash around his heart so gently he thanks me for it.
He rounds the corner.
Tall. Broad.
Gentle hands carrying a canvas bag.
His hair is damp.
He showered before coming here.
He wanted to be clean when he walked into the world.
Sweet.
Pointless.
The world doesn’t deserve him.
I do.
His face holds the expression of someone afraid the sky might rain just to spite him.
If someone made him feel like that, I’ll pull their teeth out one by one and string them on a necklace.
Was it Oksana again?
She’s on thin fucking ice.
He pauses at the apples.
Glares at them like they personally insulted his babushka.
I want to press my mouth to the crease between his brows and whisper, “Let me ruin you instead.”
God, he’s adorable.
I love him.
I’m going to take such good care of him.
He sees me.
Stops.
Heart first, then feet.
Good.
He approaches slowly, like I’m something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
Darling. You’re not just allowed.
You’re mine.
He stops beside me.
So close I can smell him.
Sugar. Sweat. Warmth.
I don’t lean into him.
I don’t press my nose to his throat and breathe him in.
I don’t grab his hand and drag it between my thighs.
That deserves a fucking award.
Medal of honor for restraint.
“Sorry, hi. You look like someone who knows what they’re doing. Are these good? I’m trying for something that will add joy to my kitchen.”
He smells like warm sugar and summer sweat.
My knees whisper threats to my spine.
“You look like you know your way around… flowers,” I purr.
Or beds.
Or me.
Definitely me.
He blushes.
Blushes.
I’m going to die here and the headline will be: Local Woman Ascends After Accidental Erotic Overload.
He takes the flower from my hand like it’s delicate.
Like I’m delicate.
Sweet, silly man.
I’d rip out someone’s throat for him and still be home in time to suck his fingers clean of pastry cream.
He compares stems.
Talks about sturdiness and brightness like it matters.
I only hear the cadence of his voice and imagine it groaning my name against a headboard.
He picks one.
Offers it to me.
Our fingers touch.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The air doesn’t just snap.
It detonates.
Electric doesn’t cover it.
This is live wire pressed to wet skin.
This is nerve endings lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.
He jumps.
I don’t.
Can’t.
Too busy cataloging how his calluses feel against my palm.
Rough. Warm. Baker’s hands.
Hands that knead dough.
Hands that could knead me.
I want to bite him.
Right here.
Between the sunflowers and the overpriced honey.
Just sink my teeth into his forearm and see what sounds he makes.
Instead, I hold my gasp in my throat.
Muzzle it.
Store it next to: Vitaly Volkov’s left hand is warm and callused in the exact way that makes me think of being held down and fed pastries.
He doesn’t step away.
Good.
Very good.
“This one,” he says.
Yes.
This one.
Mine.
Vitaly Volkov is going to fall in love with me so hard he forgets what loneliness ever tasted like.
I’ll fill his mouth with better things.
“Thank you,” I say, clutching the flower. “I’m Juliet.”
His smile is soft. Tired. “Vitaly.”
I already knew that.
But hearing him say it?
Hearing his accent wrap around those three syllables?
Vitaly.
I want to make him say my name the same way.
Breathless. Reverent.
Preferably while I’m on my knees.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I say, because I’m supposed to act like this is the first time I’ve heard it.
He ducks his head. “Is Russian. Not so beautiful.”
“No,” I say, and I mean it. “It is.”
I offer him a soft smile. The kind that says I’m harmless, right before I take a bite out of someone’s soul.
“Thanks for the help, Vitaly,” I add, testing his name on my tongue.
It tastes like honey cake and future orgasms.
I watch his pupils dilate slightly when I say it back.
He ducks his head like a schoolboy offered a compliment. As if he didn’t just electrify me by touching me for a second and a half.
Perfect.
He should like the way I say his name.
He’s going to hear it a lot.
“You shop here a lot?” I ask, pivoting, walking slow enough for him to fall in step.
He walks beside me like we’re two strangers with casual smiles and no shared gravity.
Like I didn’t already memorize the veins on his forearms and imagine them flexing above me.
“Every week,” he says, glancing over.
God, even his walk is gentle. Like he’s afraid of stepping on bugs or dreams.
We pass a stand with cut strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.
A bored teenager offers us skewers.
I take one.
Pop the whole thing in my mouth.
Chocolate melts.
Berry bursts.
Juice and sweetness flood my tongue.
I moan.
Can’t help it.
It’s indecent.
The kind of sound that belongs in a bedroom, not a farmer’s market.
I can feel the war happening behind his eyes.
Polite man vs. the part of him that wants to pin me against the nearest stall and see what other sounds he can make me swallow.
I lick juice from my thumb.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Watching him watch me.
Oh.
Oh, he liked that.
I want to do it again.
Make him watch me lick things.
Make him think about my mouth on other things.
Make him lie awake tonight wondering if I taste as sweet as the strawberry.
But I can’t push too hard.
Not yet.
Sweet girls don’t devour men at farmer’s markets.
They wait until they’re home.
In bed.
Tied down.
“This should be illegal,” I say.
I imagine grabbing his wrist.
Dragging his fingers into my mouth.
Sucking chocolate off them slow enough he forgets his own name.
“I feel like I need to light a cigarette and call a therapist.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose. “You’re funny.”
You’re sweet. You’re beautiful. You’re mine.
Just say it already.
We pass a table loaded with pickles and garlic spread.
He takes one of the little bread rounds with a smear and chews thoughtfully.
I do the same, but only so I can watch his mouth.
His lips part just slightly.
Tongue darting out to catch a bit of oil.
I stare.
Can’t help it.
I wonder what sounds he makes when he eats something he really likes.
When he finishes a bite he’s been craving.
When he finishes me.
I nearly choke on a goddamn pickle.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly alert.
I nod, waving it off. “Just... spicy.”
I have no idea if it was.
We keep walking.
The space between us shrinks an inch at a time.
A little old woman tries to sell us herbal tonics.
Something for energy. Something for love. Something for male vitality.
I raise a brow at him.
He sputters.
I purr.
“You seem like someone who doesn’t need help in that department,” I say lightly, sipping the tiniest taste of one.
It tastes like twigs and mud.
He drinks his anyway.
Of course he does.
He’s earnest like that.
At the corner, I pause near a table of cheese wedges described in font so curly it feels like an affectation.
I pick one up and read aloud.
“Notes of umami and alpine breeze. Alpine breeze?” I repeat, staring at him. “Did a goat fuck a mountain?”
Vitaly laughs.
Full. Honest and unguarded.
God, it sounds like sunlight through a kitchen window.
I nearly come.
“You’re unexpected,” he says.
“I hope that’s good.”
He hesitates. Then looks at me. “It is.”
Oh.
There it is.
The crack.
The tiniest opening.
I don’t push through.
Not yet.
Instead, I buy us both hot cider and hand him one.
“You look like someone who forgets to give himself warmth,” I say.
He smiles again. Tired, genuine. “I do okay.”
“Well,” I say, pulling a pen from my bag. “If you ever forget.”
I write my number on the napkin.
Fold it.
Hand it to him like it’s no big deal.
“For warmth. Or better cheese recommendations. Or if you ever want to talk goats and mountains.”
He laughs again, tucks the napkin into his pocket like it’s precious.
Good boy.
I turn.
Walk away.
Sunflower in one hand. Cider in the other.
I don’t look back.
Don’t have to.
He’ll text.
He will.
He has to.
Because if he doesn’t, I’ll have to adjust my approach, and I really don’t want to have to break into his house again while he’s home, because that requires more planning and I’m impatient and…
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
My heart stops.
Restarts.
Kicks into overdrive.
Vitaly: This is Vitaly. From the market. Thank you for the warmth.
Oh.
Oh, baby.
You have no idea what you just did.