Sinfully Delicious: Six Scintillating Stories of Sweets, Treats, and Happily Ever Afters

by Gauthier, Crystal L.

  He trembled when she ran her hands down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach hidden by the fabric from her touch. She slipped her fingers beneath the linen to his warm flesh beneath.

  The fire caught down below, offered scant light to their hiding place, enough that when she looked to meet his eyes, she saw no hesitation, no command to stop, in them.

  His shirt dropped heavily above their heads, forgotten for the feel of hard muscle beneath her hands. He was smooth chested where the men of her race were hairy, the lack on him emphasizing the lean perfection of his frame, so unlike the stocky musculature she was used to.

  When her palm passed over his nipple he hissed in a breath and she paused.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Just a whistle from the steam. Get back to work!”

  She grinned.

  He blushed, bit his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from making any more noise.

  This was wrong.

  She knew it, knew the danger touching him presented, the danger of their every breath, hunted and betrayed as they were, but she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, went willingly into his arms when he reached and pulled her close, her fingers tangling into his hair when he tipped her head back and stole her breath in a kiss.

  He broke away to nip at her throat.

  Her fingers clenched in his hair, the start of a moan barely breaking her mouth before she fought it back.

  “What was that?”

  “For the Gods’ sake! Just a rat or something in the rafters!”

  “Should we check, my lord?”

  Rollu tensed against her, not in the way she would have preferred, but the threat washed away all arousal as they waited in tense silence.

  “Do you see a ladder to get up there? Stupid fools. No wonder you’ve not caught them yet!”

  “Apologies, Lord Bajin.”

  She nearly laughed in relief at the sound of the chair moving when his lordship rose, the door to the bedroom closing as he locked himself away for the night.

  Rol’s arms tightened about her, and she leaned into his warm chest.

  The heat of him, his firm body pressed against her curves, was enough to comfort her to sleep.

  And sleep was a safer pastime for them both.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He woke fa r warmer than he remembered going to sleep.

  The woman draped across his chest, burrowed into his side, was likely the cause, that and the heat of the fire dying out now in the morning light.

  Rol could hear the soldiers from the night before moving about below.

  He’d listened to them for a time before allowing sleep to claim him.

  None wanted to find another ladder to reach the attic. No tracks to suggest that anyone had been up there before their arrival in the cabin the night before.

  He’d breathed easier at their indifference.

  Easier still as they prepared to move out at their master’s command, daylight streaking through the muddied windows of the cottage, the world waking to rejoin the hunt.

  No one had made mention whether the Fox would venture with his hunters or if he would remain at the cabin to await their return.

  Tasiya shifted in her sleep, and he curled his arms tighter around her to offer comfort.

  She stirred, and he pressed his finger to his lips to call for quiet.

  Her eyes blinked tiredly up at him, the sleep in her gaze holding sway. When she raised her hand to cup his cheek, he thought it would be to push him away, the start of a violent outburst at being held by someone she barely knew, but she smiled, drew him close.

  It was not the best kiss he’d ever shared.

  Not that he had shared many in his life, but neither had eaten the night before, nor washed their mouths out with water or mint. They’d spent the day running and were filthy from all they’d encountered in their flight.

  But it was a kiss he would remember for the rest of his life.

  She kissed him, and it was equal parts comfort and desire.

  For a moment, outside of the straights they found themselves in, she was simply a woman and he a man. Not a princess and a baker. Two people, desired and desirous.

  She laughed when she drew away, face pinched tight with distaste and amusement.

  He grinned at her in the darkness of their hideaway, enjoyed the playful way she mocked herself and him from her attempt.

  That he was bare chested and she in nothing but a linen shift and borrowed shirt, didn’t matter.

  For a flash, he could imagine her waking in a bed beside him, the air filled with the scent of flour waiting to be kneaded for the day.

  He’d bring her fresh muffins, baked at the crack of dawn.

  She’d kiss him with the taste of blueberries on her tongue.

  It was so domestic.

  So right.

  So very impossible, considering all around them.

  “Are the horses saddled and ready to ride?”

  “Yes, Lord Fox.”

  “Then get moving. Find them. I want patrols around the city doubled. And I want Erasto and his men forestalled from entering the woods. We will find her first or I will have your heads!”

  Rol didn’t say that the king would have them just as swiftly once the princess was returned.

  Her return was not guaranteed.

  The door slammed, and horses whinnied outside the wooden walls of the cottage.

  He waited, uncertain all that had been within the house had left.

  “Bloody prick.”

  He bit his tongue at the harsh voice beneath the loft.

  “Muck out the horse stalls. It’s the bloody woods! Can’t the damn horses shit in the forest? But no…had to keep them warm. Stupid beasts slept indoors and us left standing guard outside in the rain.”

  “Lower your voice. You know how he is. He’s probably out there waiting for us to complain.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Keep your voice down!”

  The two men argued only a few moments, their complaints and derision accompanied by the sound of pans and brooms banging against the meager furnishings of the room.

  “Did you bank the fire?”

  “But once we’re done in the stables—”

  “Best to bank it to be safe.”

  It took foreve r for the guardsmen to finish their chores, longer still before Rol felt comfortable enough to allow the princess from his arms, though she didn’t move far, whether clinging to him for warmth or for comfort, he didn’t know.

  “Should we leave now?”

  He shook his head to her whispered question. “They said they were right outside, mucking stalls. In daylight, as bright as it is, even with the rain, we’d be too easy to spot. We wouldn’t make it five feet before Bajin and his men were after us.”

  She rolled onto her back, stared up at the ceiling and he followed suit, nothing better to do.

  The hard grain of the wood floor bit into his bare skin where he’d rolled off of his discarded clothing from the night before. He grit his teeth and shuffled until he felt his shirt at his side, shimmied until it was again beneath him.

  She snorted, and he looked at her, the smile crossing her lips, her amusement at his plight.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  He didn’t want to agree even as the corners of his mouth crooked upwards.

  “Do you think we can dare descending from our perch?”

  Rol very badly wanted to agree to whatever she desired, do whatever she wanted…

  But the men were just outside, and he’d struggled raising the ladder the first time. To have to do it again and in a hurry…

  He watched the smile flee her lips, understanding take its place.

  “Never mind. It was simple boredom that asked the question anyways.”

  Boredom and hunger, the same as he suffered.

  That she was kind enough to ignore the growling of his stomach was a small mercy that he aff
orded her the same. Likely, when she was old and gray, sitting in her castle tower, grandchildren on her lap, she would tell them of the baker’s apprentice and his ginger snaps—

  He scrambled from his position, knelt above her to shove his hands in his pockets.

  He always had—

  Rollu grinned and pulled out a rather soggy ginger cookie. It was warm from resting against him all night, damp from their time at the river, but it was something, crumbly as it was, and he held it between them like some mythic prize sought out in fairy stories.

  Her eyes widened at the sight.

  He expected to see her nose crinkle in distaste, but she reached for his offering and broke off half of the stale treat and shoveled it into her mouth without a word.

  They knelt that way, he with half a cookie in his hand, she with her fingers clenched before her breast as she swallowed her meager bite.

  Her silver-shot eyes blinked open.

  It took him a moment to realize she was staring back at him before he looked away.

  “Ginger.”

  “Yes.”

  She shifted towards him, raised his hand and his half a cookie to his lips, nodded for him to eat the same.

  Even as she’d scarfed her half down, he’d watched her savor the taste.

  He wasn’t so careful with his morsel, nearly choking when he shoved it into his mouth.

  “Poor little gingerbread man.”

  The title made him choke all the more, wanting to dispute the name, argue against it.

  She laughed, a full sound, no hint of hiding despite their whispered words to each other.

  Her hand landed on his back, and he coughed up a crumb at her paddling, red faced, though from his seizure or her words he couldn’t say.

  “You do not like being called my gingerbread man.”

  “I cook with more than ginger, my lady.”

  “Tasiya.”

  He met her gaze. “Tasiya.”

  “I would call you my Pastry Prince then and have you with me for all time.”

  “Princess.”

  She leaned forward, where she knelt, and where their kiss upon waking had been short and sweet, layered with the fears of the night, the relief of having made it through the same, he was not naïve enough to ignore the heat of her touch this time.

  Nor was he gentleman enough, apparently, to break away when her fingertips danced over his bare chest, moved to his shoulders, felt over his muscles to tangle in his hair.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist.

  No silks and crinolines between them.

  No corset to impede the press of her breasts against him.

  They should not be doing this. He should not be touching her, nor she touching him, a princess and a baker.

  Her Pastry Prince .

  Chapter Fifteen

  She felt hi m stiffen, prepare to pull away. “Don’t.”

  “My lady—”

  She shook her head, pulled her fingers from his matted hair to cup his cheeks.

  He was a beautiful man. Not just in form, which was pleasing enough, but his entire being screamed of his goodness, his kindness and his compassion. He was a baker and a protector, and the two were so at odds with each other, and yet he wore both mantles with such ease, the type of person who never shied from duty, no matter what that duty might be.

  She passed her thumb over his full lips, brushed over the two-day old stubble prickling his jaw.

  His hands were warm upon her sides.

  She closed her eyes and leaned closer to him, pressed her nose against the place where his throat met his collar, the hint of clove clinging to him despite their adventures from the night before.

  Her lips found the spot, kissed lightly.

  He barely moved. His breath held so tightly that she was afraid he’d suffocate himself rather than respond, but she felt his shudder, that involuntary shake, barely there, as affected as herself.

  His fingers tightened at her hips.

  She smiled against his skin.

  He broke when she nipped gently at his earlobe, not to inspire desire, just movement, and he didn’t disappoint.

  Her people were of stockier build than elves or humans.

  They had to be, working in mines and with masonry.

  She’d heard it said that their bones were made of sturdier stuff than the bird limbs of the forest dwellers or the milk-sap humans to the south.

  Yet he moved her with the ease of a stone hauler, as though she weighed no more than a feather.

  He laid her back against their nest of clothing and blankets he’d found for them, cupped her head to ensure she didn’t crash to the flooring.

  He laid her back, and he held her stare.

  And where she had kissed and nipped to entice him to the same, when he leaned forward to press his lips to hers, her breath caught with desire, her body yearning for this male she barely knew, shouldn’t be rolling around in a loft with, and yet didn’t want to, couldn’t, pull away from.

  It was like breathing.

  If he didn’t kiss her, she would die.

  Rol mimicked he r motions. Each kiss an enticement, a seduction. Her throat. Her jaw. He was slow, taking care to build into the moment, to wait until she was wanting, before he pressed his lips to hers.

  She arched against him, her heat flush to his.

  He pulled back on a gasp, stared down at her, lost in her hoary gaze, in the feel of a woman in his arms.

  It had been a long time since—

  “Apologies.”

  She cupped his cheek, frowned at whatever expression she read on his face. “For what?”

  “I have not,” he stuttered, stumbled over his words. “It has been a long—”

  Her smile was soft and gentle. She didn’t pry, didn’t ask about his last lover or who the woman had been to him. “Do you want me, Rollu?”

  It wasn’t a question born of insecurity or sensuality.

  She didn’t ask to entice him.

  His desires, that was all she wanted to know.

  And as he stared down at her, the weight that had slowly lifted after he left Spinick, that had come to be a distant memory here in her world, slipped away entirely.

  It was not that he forgot about his lost love, just that life continued on, and he with it.

  “Yes.”

  She leaned up the small space between them, pressed her lips to his. “I want you too.”

  The only bed in the small cottage was below stairs and far too dangerous to risk using.

  There was no bedding in the loft except what he’d constructed from their clothing, no pillows to lay her head upon, no silks nor satins to comfort her as she must have in her own rooms in the palace. She was a princess in peril, and yet the way her hands stroked down his chest, ran along the waistband of his trousers, stroked his hardness beneath the thin linen—

  He forgot about everything but the feel of her beneath him.

  She sighed when he stripped the overlarge shirt from her shoulders, her unbound breasts beneath the chemise too enticing to ignore through their nearly transparent covering.

  He kissed a line across her collar bone, pressed his lips to the swell of her breast above the fabric, parted the cloth to her shimmy, watched the cotton slip from her shoulders, pushed off her body when she moved to rid herself of it, shameless in her desire, beautiful in it.

  Rol suckled the peak of her breast between his lips.

  She writhed beneath him, tangled her fingers through his hair to hold him close.

  He let his hands travel over the gentle swell of her stomach, curve beneath her back to her buttocks, raise her so he could strip the chemise from her completely.

  Her limbs trembled with his act, clenched around him were she parted her legs to cradle his body to her.

  Not yet though.

  She deserved to be worshipped.

  She deserved to be loved.

  But a man couldn’t fall in love with a woman so fast, nor a woman to a man. />
  Yet each moment he spent lost in her body, in the way she moaned and arched for him, the way she cried out when his mouth found her core, brought her to her peak, her body shuddering for him, begging for more, he found his heart a little more invested, lightened at the thought that here was a woman he could indeed fall in love with someday.

  She was strong and courageous and just.

  She very well could be perfect, and there weren’t many that he felt drawn to the way he was drawn to Tasiya.

  She pulled him to her for a kiss, wrapped her arms around his neck, surprised him in flipping their positions, her laugh infectious as she straddled his hips and his head fell back against the wooden floor with her motions.

  “Stay with me, my Gingerbread Man.”

  “That is not my name.”

  She grinned, ignored him and the faint growl that slipped from his lips to unfasten his trousers, slip his pants from his hips, pause, eyebrows raised when she looked up at his face.

  He flushed, fingers clenching along her thighs where he held her. “I—”

  “Is it a cultural thing, not to wear undergarments beneath your clothes?”

  His blush grew hotter and her smile widened, her fingers moving to his cock freed from his pants.

  He hissed when she took him in her hand and stroked up his length.

  Rol managed to pry his eyes open long enough to see her bite her lip as she touched him, feel the way she shifted on his hips with want.

  To give over control to her desires.

  It was heady, and it was invigorating, and he squeezed her thighs to let her know he was close and it had only been a moment and he wanted a lifetime more.

  She shifted, and it was the simplest of things to allow her to lead him to her core, to watch as she sank slowly onto him and her head fell back with the claiming.

  Her body rose and fell in time to his thrusts.

  She moaned.

  Her breath came out with his name.

  He pressed his lips to her throat, nipped at the meeting of shoulder and neck.

  She cried out and it was his turn to grin, to raise his lips to hers, to catch her cries and take them for her own.

  Her body tightened on his. Rol’s fingers dug into her hips and he ground against her. She shattered, her embrace pulling him into ecstasy with her.