21. Alexandra
twenty-one
Christopher locks the bakery and kitchen doors. “I don’t want any interruptions,” he says as he brings a tray covered in a clean dishcloth. “I need you to focus on developing your sense of taste.”
I’d rather taste the baker, but okay.
Sometime during my nap, he dropped the master baker attire. He’s wearing a dark gray flannel shirt that looks soft and warm. It’s tucked into faded jeans held tight around his hips by a worn leather belt. I lick my lips.
He pulls a chair and motions for me to sit down. He’s standing to my side, and his hand stays on the back of the chair. “Define viennoiseries for me.” How is it that his bossy voice makes me all mush?
But seriously. French words again? Who has time for that? But he lived in France, didn’t he? I bet he can say dirty things in French.
“Alexandra,” he growls when I don’t answer.
Thankfully, I have a good memory. I like him a little upset, but I’m keeping my eye on the ball. I need to pass this freaking apprenticeship. “Viennoiseries are sweet confections that place them in the tasting scale of pastries but are made according to baking processes of fermented dough, either with yeast or with levain, and long proofing periods of time.” His approving glance warms my middle. Pleasing him on different levels is a turn on to me.
He moves away from the chair and stands in front of me, arms crossed, legs slightly apart. “Examples.”
“Pains au chocolat, croissants, brioches.” I wonder if he’s going to correct my pronunciation. It’d be like him to focus on these details that no one cares about but him.
He does that thing with his body when he’s talking about baking, where he rocks back and forth on his heels. Does he know how it turns me on? “Give me an example that’s not in the book,” he says.
Kay. “Cinnamon rolls?”
His nods his assent, his gaze heating up. How can he focus on work right now? “Good example. Do you know why they’re called viennoiseries?”
I stifle a sigh. Can we just move on to the tasting and maybe continue what we were doing when we were so rudely interrupted this morning? I did memorize the interesting tidbit of history he’s asking about though, so I parrot out the answer. “Viennoiseries were introduced under Queen Marie-Antoinette, when the bakers of Vienna followed her to France and popularized their creations in the country.”
He grunts, then circles around me to the back of my chair and lets his fingers run through my hair. My spine tingles, and I lean into his touch. He grabs a clean dishcloth and rolls it tightly. “Close your eyes,” he whispers and ties the cloth on my eyes as a blindfold. “Good girl,” he growls. My breath stutters in my chest. The itch between my legs I’ve had since this morning becomes hard to ignore. I cross my legs tightly. With no sight, I’m more aware of his scent, of the sounds he makes as he moves away from me, presumably to the tray of breads.
He clears his throat. “First sample,” he says, and places it on the hand I extend.
The crust is irregular. I bring it to my lips and sniff it before taking a bite. The tanginess makes me salivate. “Mmm,” I moan, then swallow.
Christopher lets out a low growl.
“It’s a sourdough,” I say.
“Good. Easy though. Anything else? What flour?”
I press the remaining piece of bread between my fingers and smell it again. “Whole wheat and… potato?”
A faint metallic sound comes from where Christopher stands. I pull the blindfold down a notch. My breath hitches. He’s pulling his belt off his jeans. They hang low on his narrow hips, just high enough to cover his pulsing bulge. I bite my lower lip and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. Pulling my eyes from his crotch, I rake my gaze slowly back up to his pecs molded in his shirt, his biceps flexing as he tugs on the leather belt, the triangle pulsing at the base of his neck, his jawline accented by just the right scruff.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
He leans over me, his molten eyes drilling into mine, stoking my inner fire. “Keeping you from cheating. Hands behind the back of your chair.”
“Touching is cheating?” I whisper as I bring my hands together behind me.
He kneels on the floor and wraps my hair around his fist, pulling my face slightly back, forcing me to arch my back. “Peeking is cheating. Touching is also cheating, today.”
He brings my hair to the front of my body, the gesture so soft it feels like a caress. How can this strong, bossy man be so tender and careful with me? His hands graze my shoulders then trail down my arms, gently pulling them together until my wrists are flush against each other.
He rolls his belt around my wrists and ties it loosely. “Is this okay?” His face is right next to mine, and his voice sends a hot tremor down my core.
I tilt my head slightly toward him. “Yes,” I whisper.
A low growl escapes him as he adjusts the scarf on my eyes. Blindfolded and tied up, I’m at his mercy.
And I’m loving it.
The heat between my legs becomes more uncomfortable. I squeeze my thighs together. With my hands tied behind me, my back arches naturally, exacerbating the pulse in my nipples.
“Keep this going, and I will lose it, Alexandra.”
Yes. Please lose it already.“This is all your making,” I say. I’ve never had anything close to this level of heat with a man, and the power play between the two of us brings my arousal to levels previously unknown to me.
His fingers tilt my chin. “Open wide.” He deposits food on my tongue. My mouth is dry, and I chew with difficulty. The scraping of a chair being pulled over startles me. I swallow. A ruffling sound indicates Christopher seating himself very close to me. His knee brushes against mine. His raspy voice comes from directly ahead of me. “So. What is it.”
“It’s—It’s hard to tell.” My mouth is so dry, it seems full of sand. “Could I have some water?”
The chair scrapes the floor. Christopher’s footsteps fade out and then back in. He cups my nape. “Careful,” he says as I take a sip then dip deeper in the glass. He lifts it, and water trickles down the corner of my mouth, along my throat, to my collarbone. When I’m done, he wipes my lip with his finger. I nibble on it, and his breathing hitches. Freeing himself from me, he lets his hand follow the wet trail until it rests on my collarbone, above my breasts. I tilt back, willing his hand lower, and my hips move toward him.
“What do you want?” he murmurs in my ear, his breath and voice setting my core on fire.
His hand trails down and palms my breast. He growls. I arch my back more, pushing myself against him. Through the fabric, he finds my nipple and rolls it between his fingers. A moan escapes me. “I want you,” I finally answer.
He takes a deep breath and releases my nipple. His fingers behind my nape knead my neck.
He presses his finger against my lips, and I take him in my mouth. I close my lips around him, hold him tightly between my sheathed teeth, and wrap my tongue around him. He takes a sharp inhale but does nothing to remove his finger. I suck on it and run my tongue slowly around his finger.
He pushes a knee between my legs, demanding. I spread my thighs and tilt my hips. He runs his free hand slowly from my side down to my waist and in between my legs, teasing my middle through the fabric of my pants.
“Stop teasing me,” I pant.
He fumbles with the zipper of my pants.
Yes.
I push myself off the seat so he can push my pants down to my ankles, then drop back down, thighs shamelessly spread open.
His finger trails the side of my thong. I rock myself against him and release his finger from my mouth. Both his hands trail up my ass then down my thighs all the way to my knees, and back up, bringing my arousal to dangerous levels. Then his hands move to the insides of my thighs and slowly make their way up. The higher they get, the harder I breathe. I writhe under the teasing of his large, warm hands so close to my pulsing middle.
“Fuck, Alexandra, you’re so soft.” He teases the fabric of my thong then grabs my thighs and pulls them wider apart. With painful slowness, he makes his way to my center. He rubs my clit through the fabric of my G-string. “You’re soaked. You fucking soaked your panties,” he growls. “My turn to do a tasting,” he says as he slides under the fabric and dips his finger in my folds, causing me to stop breathing under his knowing hands. He circles my clit teasingly, the only sound my hitched breathing and his heavy panting.
The feeling is so intense and so good, I want it to last forever. “Oh, my god, Christopher, don’t stop. Don’t stop. Keep going.”
He stops, and his fingers leave me.
I whine and push my hips toward him. “Please.”
A sucking sound comes from him. “Oh, fuck. You taste delicious. So sweet. I shoulda known.”
He pinches my nipple through my top, and I moan again. He pulls my top and my bra down and takes my breast in his mouth while the palm of his hand gently presses my nub. The drumming of his fingers on my clit intensifies my pleasure, and when he pushes the fabric of my thong to the side and teases my folds, making slow circles around my clit without ever touching it, I nearly lose it.
He nibbles on my breast with sheathed teeth, bringing excruciatingly delicious almost-pain that travels to my insides. I move my hips to the side to try and meet his finger with my clit.
He presses the flat of his hand on my pelvis to make me stop, then drums his fingers on my clit before finally, finally stroking it steadily, full on.
I moan, pleasure mounting in me like a tidal wave under his constant caress. His scent intoxicates me as I lean into his head. “Ohmygod, ohmygod Christopher, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He takes his mouth off my breast.
“Please,” I beg him.
He takes my other breast in, and I squeal as he sucks the nipple then nibbles on it, the intense pleasure rapturing my body.
My orgasm builds in my toes, and as Christopher sucks harder on my nipple, a low wail escapes my mouth. Pleasure strikes through me like lightning, and as I come undone, he plunges two fingers inside me, his thumb still working my clit.
The tremor that seizes my body is such that the belt that ties my wrists comes loose. I hold onto it for dear life. My blindfold slips off, and the sight of Christopher working me right here, in the middle of his bakehouse, only occupied with my pleasure, might be my undoing. His curls tickle my skin as he sucks my breast, and his dark hand plunges between my pink thighs, the veins on his flexed forearm bulging. As I let out a cry, he gently presses his free hand to my mouth, stifling my sounds of ecstasy.
I come undone, shaking and out of breath, my heartbeat at its max. He slows his motions, cups my pelvis, and leans down to kiss my belly, gathering the last tremors of my orgasm.
I slowly come down from my high, drop the belt to the floor, and bring my hands to his head.
Ohmygod what is happening.Since I’ve gotten out of my own way and told him I wanted everything from him, he’s given me the best kiss ever, and not one, but two orgasms in one day, and he hasn’t even dropped once piece of his own clothing.
Yet.
He moves my panties back in place, pulls my bra, my tank top, and my pants up, then brings my wrists to his mouth and kisses them.
I wrap my arms around his neck while he helps me to stand on my wobbly legs.
His erection pulses against my stomach as he holds me tight against him. “God, I want you so badly,” he says, smoothing my hair, his eyelids hooded.
I start to lower myself to him, but he won’t let me.
“Not here,” he says, his mouth grazing my temple. “Not now.” His voice is raw with want. “Not like this.”
Men might bring misery, but I’m discovering they can also bring pleasure beyond my wildest imagination.
These were the best orgasms of my life, and he only used his fingers.
And his mouth.
My god, his mouth.
He lets go of me.
“Is the tasting over?” I ask.
He chuckles. “For now. I have to go pick up Skye.” He presses his lips to my head and sends me off with a quick slap on my butt.
“Stairs okay now?” I ask him.
“Huh?”
“You said you had guys refinishing the staircase.”
“Right.” He checks his phone. “Yup, all good.”
I feel like lingering in his arms, kissing his full lips one last time. Who knows when the next opportunity will be? But it’s just sex, right, so I guess I shouldn’t. I can’t let my needy feelings get in the way with him. It would ruin everything.
But darn it, sex has never felt this good. In the past, at best, I was happy if it was not too messy. Sometimes, I’d feel some arousal from the friction, that I’d take care of in private, later, without the guy.
But this afternoon, as I walk up the stairs to my room, I feel relaxed and energized.
More than that.
I feel alive.
Alexandra two-point-oh.
And when I reach the top of the stairs and push the door to my bedroom open, as I’m reflecting that I didn’t notice anything different on the staircase, I’m stunned.
Oh.
My.
God.
My bedroom.