Breakfast #2
“Mercy.” His thumb traced another arc. I felt it all the way up. “I am sitting at a table having coffee. My hand is under a tablecloth. Nobody can see anything.”
“I can tell.”
“Can you.” Not a question. The pressure of his fingers increased, just slightly. “You look perfectly composed.”
“I am perfectly composed.”
“You are,” he agreed. His hand moved higher, the fabric of my dress shifting with it. “You're very good at that.”
I picked up my coffee cup with both hands because I needed something to hold onto.
My legs parted on their own accord — traitors!
Under the table, his fingers reached the hem of my dress and stopped. Not pushing further. My pulse was in my throat. Mrs. Tureaud was still in my peripheral vision and I was having a full conversation with my face about staying neutral.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Low. Just for him.
His eyes came up and met mine. The look in them was the look from last night, from every moment where I'd understood that whatever was between us was not safe or simple or anything I had the vocabulary for.
“Everything,” he said. Same low register. “I want everything, Mercy.”
The coffee cup was warm in my hands. The room was full of people. His hand was at my thigh and not moving and the calm torture of that was worse than anything else he'd done.
“We're in public,” I reminded him. Maybe he’d forgotten.
“We are.”
“There are people from your congregation twenty feet away.” Like that would stop him, I told myself.
“There are.”
“Judah.” And yet, I shifted lower in the seat, my knee pressing into his hard thigh.
“Tell me to stop.” His hand slipped under the dress. I bit the inside of my cheek. “Go ahead.”
I didn't tell him to stop.
His touch shifted an inch higher, the heat of his palm searing against my skin. The restaurant faded around us — the clink of silverware, the murmur of conversation — all of it secondary to the slow trail up my leg.
And then — gone. But not for long. His hand wrapped around the arm of the chair and he pulled me closer to him with a loud screech that echoed throughout the restaurant. Everyone ignored it.
Everyone knew what was happening, and somehow that thought made me want him more.
His hand returned to my leg under the cotton of my summer dress. I fought to keep my breathing even, to maintain the facade of normalcy while heat bloomed beneath my skin. Mrs. Tureaud, that old pervert, was watching again, her eyes shrewd and knowing.
“They'll talk,” I said, the words barely audible.
“God won’t let them.” His voice was steady, but his eyes had darkened to the color of a storm-tossed lake. That made me look at him. That sentence. God won’t let them.
What kind of a relationship, exactly, did he have with God? ‘Cause I had one heck of a feeling it wasn’t the one either of us in St. Francisville shared.
His thumb found an especially sensitive spot, and I had to press my lips together to stifle a sound, thoughts of God fleeting.
I gripped my coffee cup tighter, knuckles whitening. The restaurant's sounds receded further, replaced by the thundering of my pulse in my ears.
“You blaspheme so casually,” I whispered, unable to look away from his face — and yet, I was the one allowing it.
“Is it blasphemy to recognize divine intervention?” His fingers inched higher, tracing the edge of my underwear. “Perhaps He brought you to me.”
A small, involuntary gasp escaped me as his middle finger slipped beneath the fabric, finding me slick and ready despite my better judgment. The corner of his mouth lifted — not quite a smile, but a recognition of victory.
“We should leave,” I managed, voice strained. Or at least go to the bathroom.
He took a sip of coffee with his free hand, the picture of composure while his fingers slipped past that dark triangle of hair and slipped farther. I heard the wet sound of him spreading me open. “Finish your breakfast.”
The fork trembled slightly as I lifted it, the simple act of cutting my food requiring immense concentration. His finger circled lazily, applying just enough pressure to make my thighs tense but never enough to satisfy.
“You're cruel,” I breathed.
“I'm patient,” he corrected, voice velvet-smooth. His finger slipped deeper, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. “There's a difference.”
I set down my fork with deliberate care, afraid the clatter might draw attention. Mrs. Tureaud's gaze flicked toward us again, curiosity evident in the tilt of her head. The weight of the town's judgment pressed in from all sides, yet Judah's touch remained steady, unhurried.
“How can you do this?” I whispered. “In your position—”
“My position,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly, “gives me certain... privileges.” His finger curled inside me, and my breath caught. I leaned back in the chair, half-pushing my leg over his to grant him access. “The town expects things of me. Of us.”
“Of us?” I echoed, the words barely audible, feeling his fingers against my clit.
His eyes held mine, unflinching. “They've already written this story, Mercy.
They saw you walk in wearing yesterday's dress. They know you spent the night in my bed.” His finger circled higher, and I gripped the edge of the table.
“I could strip you naked, fuck you on this very table, and all they would do—” he nodded to Mrs. Tureaud, the man she was with, the young woman sitting by the window, “—is look away.”
His words sent a molten heat through me, shameful and intoxicating. I shifted in my seat, trapped between the need to flee and the desire to lean into his touch.
“You don't believe me,” he said, eyes never leaving mine as his finger continued its wicked rhythm. “Test it.”
“Test what?” My voice was barely audible.
“Make a sound. Let them see what's happening. Watch how quickly they pretend not to notice.”
I shook my head, teeth clenched against the building pressure.
“You're wrong.” That couldn’t be true, I thought, but as I looked around, more and more of what I saw proved him right.
I saw Mrs. Tureaud deliberately averting her eyes now that my leg was almost in Judah’s lap, the waiter studiously ignoring our table despite my empty water glass.
The realization sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with Judah's touch and everything to do with the terrifying truth of his power in this town.
His fingers continued their relentless exploration, and I felt myself teetering on a dangerous edge. My thighs trembled beneath the tablecloth as he added another finger, stretching me.
Oh God… I thought, closing my eyes. My whole body jerked forward. I reached for his wrist and he stopped for a moment. Let me breathe, and then — began again.
“This isn't right,” I whispered, even as my body clenched around his fingers.
“Righteousness is relative in St. Francisville,” he replied, his pace increasing slightly. “You're close, aren't you? I can feel it.”
I was. God help me, I was. Heat spiraled through me, my body tightening around his fingers as he worked them deeper. The room started floating, faces becoming indistinct as I fought to maintain composure.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
I did. Those grey eyes held mine as my orgasm built to a crescendo beneath the pristine white tablecloth. His expression remained perfectly composed — Pastor Judah Beaumont, respected community leader, methodically undoing me in full view of his congregation.
My fingers gripped the tablecloth as the first wave crashed through me, my thighs clamping around his hand. I bit into my lower lip hard enough to taste blood, the metallic tang mingling with the sweetness of surrender.
A moan escaped me as I shuddered and nobody turned to look.
When I could breathe again, I realized I'd knocked over my water glass. The waiter appeared out of nowhere.
“I'm so sorry,” I mumbled, reaching for my napkin as the water spread across the white linen.
“No need to apologize, Miss,” the waiter said, not meeting my eyes as he deftly replaced the tablecloth without disturbing our place settings. His practiced movements suggested this wasn't the first time he'd pretended not to notice something at Judah's table.
Judah's hand withdrew, and I watched with horrified fascination as he casually reached for his own napkin, wiping his fingers with before taking another sip of coffee. The waiter disappeared, and we were alone again in our bubble of false propriety.