Chapter 22 #2
Until she felt his thighs clench between hers as he barked out a strangled, “Touch yourself!”
She would have laughed about it if she hadn’t understood immediately.
He was behaving himself for her, keeping his hands tucked, but he was about to come and didn’t want to go first. She happily followed his instructions, grabbing a breast in one hand as much for his benefit as her own as she brought her other hand over her clit.
He spoke words of encouragement, his own body coming to a stop as he watched her intensely.
When she came with a riot of muscle spasms over the cock buried deep inside her, he didn’t follow suit as she’d expected. Instead, he sat up to bring their bodies together. A meeting of their lips, but only briefly before he leaned to her ear and whispered a question.
In French. She responded with a confused shake of the head, wondering if he didn’t realize he’d switched languages.
But his look and the way he repeated it while replacing her fingers with his own to force her to come again made her think he knew full well she couldn’t understand him.
And that it didn’t matter. He was moving within her again, and she knew he was asking her if she wanted this, if she was enjoying it, if she was ready for him to go harder.
He didn’t need to speak her language for her to understand him.
The thought of that bond between them, that quiet ease they’d somehow found together despite their rocky start, the way they’d been able to talk to each other over the dinner table with only glances, the obvious proof of how good they could be together, tipped her emotions over.
She was coming again; tears in her eyes and a scrunched face wouldn’t mean anything more than that to Laurin.
But once the next wave passed, she sank into him, hiding her face in his shoulder as she clung to him.
He kept talking in French, his words no longer making a question but a mantra punctuated by the occasional kiss of the cheek or a groan.
A particularly loud, higher-pitched one that came mid-word when she squeezed herself tight made her laugh, only to start sobbing.
She hoped he would ignore it, but instead, he peeled her off him and forced her to look him in the eye as he repeated the mantra one last time.
He kissed her hard as he managed to roll her onto her back and, with a few pumps, they finished together.
Laurin spoke no more words. He only shifted enough that his weight was off her but his head was on her shoulder and his arm was around her waist, as though he thought he could keep her there for the night if only he pinned her just right.
But she already knew he was a heavy sleeper, and when the Uber driver arrived at three in the morning, still the dead of night, she was ready and waiting for them.
When Laurin woke up to a cold bed, he knew Candace was gone.
Not because she wasn’t there beside him; being seen sneaking out of his bedroom in the morning would have defeated the purpose of staying in her own room.
And he’d known from the beginning, from the first spark between them, perhaps when they were putting her cake back together, but perhaps earlier, out in the woods when she freely poured her heart out for him, that she was ever a feral cat.
He knew that, just like with Minoue, she would run away many times before she stayed.
But there was that storm rampaging through the northeast, and he’d hoped to offer her more bits of cheese to earn her trust before she darted off this time.
No, he knew she was gone because there was that moment while they’d made love — definitely love this time — when he’d wanted to say some incredibly dirty things to her but worried she would think them crude and not at all the words that made love.
So of course the solution was to say them in French.
The language of love. Not just in the general sense; it was the language spoken by the people Laurin loved the most, the three generations of women in this house who meant everything to him.
And the arguably filthy things he’d said — the incredibly heartfelt but filthy things — had worked far too well in French, pushing emotions to the point where he hoped she would make some declaration, some level of commitment.
Instead, they’d broken her into a sobbing mess.
And that was when he knew.
She’d refused to have the talk they needed to have, and he knew.
She hadn’t said even a single word to him, and he knew.
This was goodbye, and she was too weak to say it.
He was too proud to beg her to stay. In English, at any rate. He said far too many things in French. And in the light of day, he wasn’t sure what he regretted more: that he said them in words she couldn’t understand, or that he said them at all.
There was nothing to do. Not right now. He needed to win the baking competition, but he had to win Candace, and the conflict that caused wasn’t even a blip on the list of problems he had in succeeding at either of them.
He had nearly a month to prepare for the competition, to consider the various possible challenges it could be by reviewing previous seasons, to work out recipes that were universal enough to meet a variety of needs, to hone some of his weaker skills.
But it was also a month without Candace, and he was worried that distance wouldn’t make either of their hearts grow fonder.
He knew the moment he woke up that his heart was going to grow sicker by the day.
Would Candace’s ache as well? Or would it finally begin to heal from everything else and heal right over him as well?
He couldn’t let that happen, but he didn’t even have her phone number.
He did have social media, and he knew at least one person who’d hopefully be willing to give him Candace’s number. He sent off a DM to Jannie and stared at his phone for several long seconds before realizing that it wasn’t quite six in the morning and Jannie was likely sound asleep.
That was okay. He had a distraction. He’d promised to do the mixing at the bakery, after all, and even though it was usually done later in the day, it wasn’t like he couldn’t get an early start. Work out some of his frustration by kneading dough.
Manon was there already. According to maman, she went in early every day. Something was weighing on her, supposedly, one more problem that needed to be finessed out and solved.
Take a number, Manon.
That was pre-coffee grouch talking. They glared at each other from across the bakery while Manon piped out choux pastry and Laurin fired up the espresso machine.
They glared at each other while Manon accepted the double espresso from him.
Manon softened to a relaxed, casual expression, and Laurin glared as he set his macchiato on the workbench and turned off the Hobart so he could whisk up the Swiss meringue buttercream by hand.
How unforgivably stupid of Manon to waste what little life they had left in that Hobart on buttercream.
But then he had a sip of his macchiato, and then another, and another, until it finally cooled the critical degrees he needed to slug it back.
In another couple minutes, he realized that Manon hadn’t known he’d be coming in this morning with the need to work out some frustration.
If she needed help, he would be a jerk not to help her.
He didn’t say anything immediately. He wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. That was oftentimes the best way to go about it. But then he recalled how saying nothing certainly hadn’t kept Candace in his bed, so he may as well try talking this time around. “Maman said—”
“Did you and Candace have a good night?” Manon blurted out over him, plowing right through with, “It sounded like you had a good night,” before Laurin had a chance to take over.
“Oh Lord,” Laurin muttered. “Never let her know you heard us. She’ll die of embarrassment.”
Manon giggled and lobbed a pinch of brioche dough at him on her way to the ancient rack oven that had been installed long before their family had acquired the bakery.
“Silly. I didn’t hear that, but thanks for confirming my suspicions.
I just heard her leave her room late, figured she was going to join you.
Did you have a good night? I was hoping to get a chance to bake with her.
Should I assume you wore her out too much to get her out of bed this morning? ”
Laurin clucked his tongue. “A gentleman never tells, but we had an excellent evening.”
Manon shot him a coy side-eye as she slid her tray of cream puffs in and retrieved a tray of macarons.
They were a creamy peach studded with candy pearls, nothing he’d ever made before, but Manon liked to experiment when she was stateside, and no one stopped her.
“Oh? The poor thing has likely never been seduced by a Frenchman before. Did you make promises you’ve no intention of keeping?
” She set down her tray, dropped her mitts, and headed for the door with a playful flounce of her custom apron. “I should probably warn her before—”
She squeaked as Laurin snagged her by the waist and bodily carried her back to the work bench, where he plopped her in front of her macarons.
“You finish whatever those are,” he said, pointing his finger at the swirled, sparkly puffs.
She rolled her eyes and retrieved a bucket from the low-boy. “They’re unicorn snot.”
“Sweet baby Jesus, Manon.”
“Maman let me write that on the sign and everything. They’ve been selling like hotcakes. Which is crazy, because the hotcakes aren’t moving at all.”
Laurin didn’t humor her joke and wasn’t about to ask what unicorn snot was. If they sold and he didn’t have to make them, it wasn’t his business unless he got stuck working the counter. “And you’re not warning Candace of anything. I intend to keep every promise I’ve made her.”
Manon’s expertly groomed brow perked up. “You’ve made her promises?”
“Of a fashion.” Just not in a language she’d understand. But that didn’t mean he was going to take them any less seriously.
Manon stared him down, even setting her piping bag down so she could cross her arms over her chest and really nail the look.
Laurin continued to whisk the buttercream, not about to break for her.
Finally, she huffed and said, “I like her. Dammit. I wanted to hate her, but I can’t.
Maman likes her, and Vivvy likes her, and she’s really sweet and not at all like she is on TV, and that was really kind of her to bail you out on your lame cookies. Dammit.”
Laurin grinned brightly, thankful that everyone had met Candace after Cookie Week instead of Tree Week.
“It was, wasn’t it? She was so prickly in the beginning, but she can’t help but be good.
And she’s been hurt before. A lot.” He turned his attention to icing, taking the coward’s way out as he put false bluster in his voice to say, “So you’re going to play nice when I get her back. I mean it.”
Manon cleared her throat sharply. “What do you mean, get her back?”
“She left this morning. You are absolutely not going to make a big fuss, Manon.” He met her eye so she could see how serious he was when he said, “I mean it. She’s sensitive, and she’s hurt, and she’s scared to trust anyone.
I am going to get her back, and when I do, I will not stand for anyone being rude to her for leaving. Especially her sister-in-law.”
Manon couldn’t maintain her scowl. She could only say, as gently and supportively as possible, “Are you sure you want this?”
“I love her.”
“You hardly know her.”
Laurin snorted. “Does that matter? When you know, you know, right?” Manon had said that to him once.
Manon pursed her lips and pulled them to the side like she had something to say but didn’t know if she could. His words had triggered something bad.
“Maman says there’s something wrong. There is, isn’t there?”
She deflated slightly, but she was nothing if not indefatigable.
She fluffed herself back up and said, “Hugo and I have called it off. I’m taking a leave of absence until the beginning of the year.
I was going to travel, but I’ve decided to stay here through the holidays.
We need butter.” She’d started off weak and unsure, but she ended with a lofty, regal tone and a dramatic twist to the cooler, where she marched with an upturned nose. Manon spoke, and so it was.
Was this something she had decided only a moment ago, in a streak of sisterly support? Laurin hoped so. It would be a shame if she attempted to show that Candace was a bad call and he had to prove her wrong.