“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 — andyet, 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,fuckyou 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, “—islook 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.”
