A Taste of Honey

by Rose Lerner

  She wanted to be good enough, and he’d never even told her how wonderful she was out loud.

  He kissed the curve of her cheek and along her jaw, downy as a peach. “You’re beautiful,” he said before he could think better of it, and kissed her neck so she’d not see him waiting for her reaction.

  She sucked in a breath. For the compliment, or the kiss? He shaped her body with his palm. “You’re like—”

  Oh Lord, he couldn’t say she was like a sweet-smelling lump of dough, round and soft and full of promise. He couldn’t say she was like honey on his tongue. He had thoughts that weren’t about the kitchen, didn’t he?

  “Like—”

  She went perfectly still. He could feel her listening even when he curled his hand where her buttock rolled into her thigh, his fingertips inches from her cunt. Her breath stuttered hopefully.

  “Like summer,” he said, pleased with the thought, and she sighed in satisfaction. “When the trees are laden with fruit and everything is warm and growing.”

  “There really is something wanton about summer, isn’t there?” Her voice was lazy and content.

  He took hold of her hips and rolled them until he lay on his back, Betsy sprawled atop him. She sat up, a leg to either side of him, looking a trifle dizzy and perplexed. Mmm, he liked that. He could see all of her. “Beautiful.”

  She blushed and smiled. Her hair was tumbling down, on the side. “Should we, outdoors?”

  “We’d hear someone coming.” He twisted that loose hair around his finger. “So soft.”

  It was a miracle, the way she looked. There was more architectural mastery in the tilt of her nose than any half a dozen cathedrals one cared to name.

  Would she be charmed if he said that? Or would it sound pompous, as if he were trying to be poetic when he was only a confectioner? He’d never even seen a cathedral, only engravings of them in a textbook.

  He tugged at her skirts, and she rose up on her knees to gather them out of the way while he unbuttoned his breeches.

  “You…” she said hesitantly.

  Oh God, what? He held his breath.

  “You’re quite handsome yourself.” Her smile was half sly and half self-conscious.

  Somehow it didn’t matter that he’d already known she must think so. He puffed up like a soufflé.

  She took his cock in her hand. “And your proportions are very good.”

  Ohh, she drove him wild. He’d asked her that dunnamany times about a sugar sculpture: Are the proportions tolerable?

  Her mouth curved as she frigged him. “You like that, don’t you?”

  He grunted and thrust into her fist, unable to think of a clever answer. She filled his vision, stray bits of raspberry bush and sky around the edges of her.

  “I love your eyes,” he told her.

  “You do?” she said, sounding surprised and flattered, and shut them. “What color are they?”

  Did she really think he didn’t know? “Green with honey in the center.”

  She opened them, blinking. “I always thought of them as hazel.”

  “Same thing.”

  “I like your nose,” she offered shyly, even as her hand tugged familiarly at his cock.

  His fingers dug into her thighs. His nose? But it was enormous and lumpy.

  “It’s so friendly from the front, and so severe from the side.”

  “Please,” he got out. “Please.”

  “Do you want something?” she teased.

  He remembered that he did. “Would you…”

  “Mmm?”

  “…put your mouth on it?”

  Her hand stopped. Betsy looked down, scrunching up just the left side of her face. “I…” She licked her lips uncertainly and his cock jumped in her hand.

  She laughed. “Why not, I suppose.” She rustled away down his legs, and he almost changed his mind with wanting her back.

  She leaned forward, her mouth inches from his cock poking through her fist. “It looks like we’ll be getting better acquainted,” she told it.

  He flexed his hips so it bobbed a greeting. Speaking for it in a little high voice seemed like too much, but the idea made him swallow a laugh.

  Her lips brushed him, feather light, and then she closed them around the head of his cock.

  Oh. Oh. He hadn’t thought it would feel that good. He hadn’t thought it would be quite so overwhelming to see her bent over him, eyes closed and mouth around the most sensitive part of him. Taking him in. Tasting him. Her hair tickling the soft skin at the crease of his thigh.

  She hesitated, and then her tongue licked at him.

  His hips jerked upwards, and she choked.

  “Sorry,” he said hoarsely, holding very still. After a moment she bobbed her head. Oh Lord.

  That was blasphemy, wasn’t it? But this felt like prayer, it did—this immense silent asking and hoping in his chest. Please, God, let me be this happy.

  “You’re so beautiful.” He repeated it until he didn’t know what he was saying, only that he meant it more than he’d ever meant anything in his life. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, with each wet slide of her mouth over his skin, his hands fisted in the sheet.

  She went slow and so careful and that was good, like taking small bites of cake to make it last longer, he didn’t want this ever to end.

  “I’m going to—”

  But she didn’t stop. Instead she tightened her mouth around him and sucked. Her teeth scraped him clumsily, and somehow that was what made him spend.

  She sputtered a little, and distantly he thought, I should stop shaking, but he couldn’t.

  When it was over, he lay like a beached fish, gasping. He’d been terribly selfish. He’d spilled his seed in her mouth.

  She swallowed, making a face, and reached for the flask of lemonade.

  “Kiss me first,” he blurted out. “If you don’t mind.”

  She grimaced, but she did it. When he slipped his tongue between her lips she mostly tasted like Betsy and her lunch, but a faint flavor lingered, salty and earthy like mushrooms.

  He’d spilled his seed in her mouth, and she’d swallowed it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you think you might return the favor?”

  “I can think of nothing I’d like better,” he told her honestly.

  * * *

  When they got back to the bakery, Mrs. Lovejoy was knocking on the kitchen door.

  “Oh, there you are!” she said with brittle gaiety. There were dark circles under her eyes. “Do you think we might have some fresh figs? They’re Sir William’s favorite.”

  Still warm and relaxed from their day in the sun, Robert laughed. He didn’t mean it in an ill-natured way, but he saw Mrs. Lovejoy stiffen.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He couldn’t quite stop smiling yet. He even felt in charity with Mrs. Lovejoy, since her money would let him propose to Betsy. “Figs are out of season another month at least.”

  “Green figs, then.”

  “I haven’t any on hand and they take weeks to make.”

  By the time she left, Robert had agreed to a little tree for the temple lawn hung with candied figs from the jar in the cold room, and his smile had long gone.

  Chapter 5:

  Saturday

  When Betsy let herself into the kitchen, Mr. Moon was already kneading dough for brown bread ice cream, sleeves rolled above his elbows. He gave her a shy smile, and it occurred to her that now she might tell him something.

  “I like watching you knead dough,” she confessed.

  His forehead creased. “You do?” Tendons shifted in his forearms, the strength and dexterity of his hands terribly evident.

  She nodded. “It displays your arms to great advantage.”

  He ducked his head, ears going red, but his mouth curved. “Does it now?”

  A brand-new thought occurred to her. “I—” How bold was too bold? “You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t consider taking your shirt off to do it, would you?”

>   He blinked. “I can’t see no harm in it, I suppose.”

  Watching him unknot his apron ties and unbutton his waistcoat, with a few bashful glances in her direction, was as good for thrills and suspense as the transcript of a really good murder trial. Better, maybe. She held her breath.

  Slipping his braces back over his shoulders, Robert retied his apron and resumed kneading. Now she could see the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders too. Her mouth watered.

  “If I’m to do this,” he said, “then you’d ought to work in your shift.”

  The idea was terribly shocking, and she loved it at once. She winked at him, straining behind her head for the buttons on her dress. She winked! Betsy Piper, shopgirl and seductress.

  Soon there was nothing but shift and apron between her and his eyes. Her first thought was how cool it was, and how unfair to be obliged to wear stays, a petticoat, and a dress in the heat of summer.

  Her second thought was that her shift was threadbare with washing and patched under one arm. She was poor, which was why he wouldn’t think of marrying her. Maybe she hadn’t ought to remind him.

  Then she saw he was hard, and thoughts fled. Yet he made no move towards her, but smiled, continuing to work his dough.

  Oh. She flamed up like a fire splashed with brandy. They were to go about their business, then. Behave as if it were any day, with both of them half-naked and his cock poking his apron into a fine awning.

  She couldn’t have said why the idea worked on her so, but her cunny was so eager it hurt.

  “Now,” he said, “to candy rose petals…”

  * * *

  Betsy was laying out the last of the rose petals when, without warning, Mr. Moon pressed up against her back and murmured in her ear, “Time for our elevener.”

  He’d been patient all morning, contenting himself with watching her, brushing up against her, fondling her once or twice on his way past. She’d trailed her fingers across his shoulders, leaned over to show him her tits—how unthinkably awkward that had seemed when Jemima mentioned it a few days ago!—and discovered a fondness for slapping his bum.

  Neither of them were in much mood to be patient any longer.

  He kissed her shoulder, sucking gently and then hard until tingling pressure built at the spot. He drew her arse against his hardness with a hopeful little moan. “May I?”

  Please. “Yes. You don’t—it’s kind of you to ask, but you needn’t—”

  She felt him tense. He probably thought it a criticism, he was that conscious of his inexperience, thinking her some sort of woman of the world. She’d have to own up about that one of these days.

  “I love that you ask,” she said. “You’re not obliged to, is all I mean. You can—you can have me whenever you like.”

  Then she wished she hadn’t said it. It was too close to the truth. It was the truth. He could have her whenever he liked, all of her, to be his wife, and yet he didn’t take her. But he was eager enough for this, wasn’t he?

  Maybe he thought anyone could have her whenever he liked.

  A man don’t shit in his hat and put it on his head, her mother’s voice said. Not talking about good little Betsy, oh no. Talking about Jemima, whom Mrs. Piper was convinced was the Scarlet Woman of West Sussex.

  Jemima might have kissed more boys than Betsy had fingers and toes, but she’d never behaved as shamelessly, as recklessly, as Betsy was doing now.

  Mr. Moon pulled up her shift with an approving sound, squeezing her buttocks. Fire and longing laced through her.

  Sliding the tray of rose petals aside, she bent over the table as he lifted her up and took her. Her feet dangled helplessly; he was so tall. So tall and perfect.

  Her breasts pressed against the smooth marble slab, cool even in summer. Its unforgiving edge cut into her upper thighs, but his cock made her forget it, made the discomfort a token of his hunger for her.

  His fingers landed on the back of her neck lightly enough to tickle. He went slower now. Sliding his hand into her hair, he cupped her skull gently but firmly, holding her there for him to fuck. She pressed her forehead into her folded arms and tried not to cry.

  “I’d like to decorate your breasts,” he said idly. “With rose petals, and a raspberry to cover each nipple.”

  Why say something so foolish? Candied rose petals were too dear and too laborious to waste on something like that, and they both knew it. She might as well say she’d like to see him dressed for dinner at Lenfield House.

  “Betsy?” He smoothed her back uncertainly. “Be you well? Did I—?”

  Her shoulders had gone tense, she realized. She nodded hastily.

  “I didn’t mean to knabble on. I’ll hold my tongue.”

  That wasn’t what she wanted at all, but anything she said now would come out sullen, and she couldn’t explain her mood.

  “Harder,” she said, surprising herself.

  He put his hands on her hips first, inserting his fingers between that hard marble edge and her skin. He was so awfully, horribly sweet even as he took her with punishing strokes, grunting with effort. How dare he be so sweet?

  “Is that—?” He cut himself off, and she knew he’d meant to ask if that was hard enough.

  She wished he would just pound into her, heedless. She wanted this to feel angry, so she could feel angry back.

  Would you marry me if I were rich? she’d ask spitefully, only to feel his rhythm falter.

  She knew the answer already. Aye, he would. He’d been ready to marry Phoebe Dymond, whom he didn’t care a pin for, whose blazing rows with her late husband were legend in Lively St. Lemeston, who didn’t even like cake, because she’d have come with money. It had been the widow, not Mr. Moon, who got cold feet.

  Mr. Moon would probably have been too softhearted even to row with her; she’d have browbeaten him entirely.

  He’d never told her he wanted to decorate her breasts with rose petals. Betsy had had to remind him to pay her the mildest of compliments.

  Betsy had done that for him, because she loved him. She’d chosen his happiness over hers, and he’d chosen the Honey Moon over his own happiness. What was wrong with them?

  His fierce thrusts almost satisfied the violent heat inside her, her sudden hatred of him and herself.

  Would he have taken Mrs. Dymond like this? Would he have liked it?

  She imagined it: Mrs. Dymond’s hands on him. His moans in her ear at this moment.

  A wave of possessiveness rolled over Betsy until she choked on it, her skin tingling with rage, blood rushing to the surface. Mine.

  “Touch me,” she said fiercely. “Make me spend.” She was tired of being wholesome and cheerful. She wanted to kill something.

  The fingers of one hand flexed on her hip. He made a strangled noise, too far gone to obey.

  She couldn’t reach to do it herself at this angle. She pushed herself up on her elbows and rubbed clumsily at her own nipples. Pleasure speared through her, but not enough.

  He shuddered convulsively, spilling into her. Of course. He was satisfied, and she was left wanting.

  Someone knocked hard on the door to the kitchen.

  Betsy’s heart, already pounding, began to hammer violently in her chest.

  “Mr. Moon?” There was no mistaking those apologetically petulant tones. Mrs. Lovejoy.

  Mr. Moon pulled swiftly out of her, and by the time she pushed herself up, he was pulling off his apron. Light poured over his bare chest lovingly as syrup, dripping down the lean lines of his ribs and stomach. Of course it did. Betsy wanted to hit him.

  She ran for her clothes.

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Lovejoy,” he called, pulling his shirt on. He had so many less clothes than she—and more presence of mind, because he held the door to the cold room open for her.

  She gathered up her stays, her petticoats, her dress, her shoes. Had she missed anything? Had she left any telltale sign of her presence, like a bloody knife dropped by a murderer? She felt like a murderer, guilty and
creeping, fear driving out rage and leaving her appalled at herself.

  She scurried into the cold room and crouched there, afraid even to dress. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh.

  I deserve this, she thought.

  She wasn’t even sure what crime this corrosive guilt was for. Fornication? Wrath? Not being the perfect mistress?

  Mr. Moon opened the kitchen door. “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Oh, you know.” Mrs. Lovejoy gave a little laugh. If Betsy had to turn that laugh into words, they’d be, I know you understand how brave I am in the face of my life’s many trials. The woman didn’t ask how he did. “I wanted to see how things are coming for the assembly. No one answered at the front door.”

  Betsy hadn’t heard her knocking. They had been making too much noise.

  “I didn’t hear you.” He was still breathing hard, and probably blushing like mad. If Mrs. Lovejoy guessed…

  “Absorbed in your work, I’m sure,” she said with another little laugh, this one playful. Betsy ground her teeth. Oh, she would be here all morning. “May I see what you’ve done?”

  “I’m just candying rose petals today. Wait here, if you please, I’ll fetch out the temple.”

  Betsy shrank deeper into her corner as he came through the door, pulling it carefully shut behind him and crossing to where the sugar sculpture stood on an ice chest. In this moment, she could think of nothing but how foolish she must look. Her nose was running in the chilly air. If she were really a woman of the world, would she know how to think this all a very fine joke?

  Going back out, he did his best to shut the door quickly with his arms full, but it swung a little.

  If they were caught, he’d have to marry her—and then she’d lose her chance at ever knowing he’d chosen her freely, because he adored her, just as she was. She shut her eyes so Mrs. Lovejoy couldn’t see her, like a child hiding from bugbears.

  “Do you think an Egyptian temple would be better?” Mrs. Lovejoy asked. “After all, the Battle of the Nile was in Egypt.”

  A sob rose in Betsy’s throat. Nothing was ever good enough. Nothing.

  That temple was loving, precise, beautiful work. Mr. Moon had labored for hours over it, and Mrs. Lovejoy didn’t have even one nice thing to say. He would break his heart. He only wanted to make people happy.