Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: Hey everyone! Here is something tasty for you all. I got a prompt for the following: Big city lesbian Weiss moves to Patch, where closet lesbian Ruby works as a baker. Sparks fly and sexy times occur. Naturally, I took things and ran with it.
I'm not gonna lie, I had way too much fun with this. My aunt was a baker (aside from a tattoo artist and a biker. Bitch was butch, 'Imma tell you whut) and growing up I spent a lot of time in her kitchen, watching and learning. And I've always had a thing for incorporating food into my writing, so prepare get really, really hungry. Oh, and thirsty. I know I did.
You've been warned.
Enjoy.
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Baker's Dozen
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Watching Ruby Rose knead bread dough is like watching a work of art in a museum.
Watching her do it when she doesn't think anyone is watching is even better.
First there are her hands, which are large but too large; a peachy pink that get washed soft over and over again every day, strong with short nails and slightly knobby knuckles, the kind you get when you crack them too much. And flour. I don't think I've ever seen those hands when they weren't covered in flour.
Strong hands, but not rough-looking at all. Hands that can shape delicate flutes on a tartlet crust or fix a tiny broken motor on the mixer or, so I hoped, unfastened a button so slow and perfect, sliding a finger down the space between breasts, sliding past a slight mound of belly, sliding down...
I take a gulp of coffee to keep me still and watch how she grabs a hunk of sunflower rye or cornbread with red pepper slices, or whatever delightful concoction is in her bowl today, and drops it onto the breadboard, her hands dancing it into a perfect round, her fingers disappearing inside, then out, inside again.
Kneading and kneading.
I watch those fingers turn and poke and stretch the dough. I feel heat weeling up between my thighs, try not to squirm. I watch her with my lips parted like I'm waiting for a kiss.
And then she stops. I hold my breath. She pushes up the sleeves of the white shirt she's wearing beneath her apron and begins to knead some more, the wiry chords of her arm muscles flexing, girl muscles but still firm and gently-looking. The kind of arms that make you wonder what it would be like to be inside the circle of her body, to feel those arms tighten and pull you against her, what that would be like to be that close.
It's warm in here and the windows are sweating from the steam in the kitchen; it's still morning cold outside. I should go. I should get up and walk out of here as best I can and get to work on time for a change; the walk would do me good right now. If I could only just stand up and go.
But I could stay and watch those hands for hours.
Yeah, I know I've got it bad. And I don't quite know what to do about it.
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Everyone back home in Atlas told me I was going to hate moving to a small town outside Vale, even if I had always wanted to move somewhere 'picturesque'. In a small town where everybody knows everybody's business I'd have to watch my Ps and Qs, they said. Growing up in the city and having natural luck to get away with a whole lot of stuff, I hadn't had to work very hard at being discreet. Who was going to know and who was going to care?
So I've been laying low, working at the local branch office of my father's business, trying to make it look like I'm far more interested in how to balance books and make the numbers match than I am in running back and forth to Summer's Confections all day to buy coffee.
I can't sleep most nights now. I don't know if it's all that caffeine or the fact that when I do sleep I keep dreaming of those hands on my skin and then I have to get up and drink a lot of cold water just to keep from melting in my own heat.
But bless the gossips in a small town for helping me learn all I could about Ruby. I guess since some of them saw me spending so much time in the bakery, they wanted to warn me so I could be on my guard and not fall prey to her seductions.
Mmm… Ruby's seductions…
Now there's a though I can get behind. Or beneath.
You'd never know from looking at me that I've dealt with plenty of seductions by women like Ruby and enjoyed every single one of them. From the very first day I walked into her shop, if she'd ever looked at me with half a hint that she might be interested in me, I'd have fallen on my back so fast I might have ended up with whiplash.
It's funny being femme. Sometimes you hate the fact that no one knows, and you have to go out of your way just to make sure someone realizes you're available, because you look so straight. Not to say that Ruby looks butch or anything. She hits that sweet spot right in between; not femme, and not butch - all woman and just my type.
The type that knows.
The kind that can look past the heels you wear to work and the lipstick and the girly clothes. The kind that can love all that about you and still know what you are beneath the clothes - not just any woman, but special. One who would fall on your back for them, let them touch you all over, let them reach inside your body, fuck you hard and soft and whatever it takes to make you both feel so good about what it is that you are.
But since I'm not so obvious to normal people, I got the whole deal on Ruby.
Ruby Rose is something of a legend in Patch. Everybody somehow knows she's a lesbian even though nobody's ever seen her with any woman at any time. Nobody could really explain it, but I could; she's too smart to get caught. It's a small town and she's got a damn good business and she'd be crazy to take a chance on losing it all.
Word is that Ruby inherited the bakery from her mother, Summer, when she passed away a few years back. The woman was a master baker, and taught her daughter everything she knew. Everybody ate Ruby's bread and took Ruby's cookies home to their kids and ate her cakes for birthdays and baby christenings and stopped by for Ruby's coffee. Sometimes I think the whole damn town would go hungry if not for her.
I wonder if any of her lovers - who no one had ever seen - realized this.
Probably not.
I want to be one of those women no one's ever caught her with.
I want those hands kneading me.
On a belt under her apron Ruby wears a measuring cup that looks like it was made to last a hundred years. She wears clean, crisp, white pants that cut her ass just right and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She wears a full-length, white apron slung over her neck and tied real loose, and clean white sneakers that don't make a sound when she walks. Her dark, shoulder-length hair is loose around her face, which is the color of fresh cream, her cheeks almost a perpetual rosy color. Even in winter her hair curls up at the back of the collar when she's moving around the kitchen in heat.
That collar, those curls. I have to keep my hands in my coat pocket or flat, fanned on the countertop when I order my morning coffee. I look the other way when she slides that little waxed paper bag of cannoli my way; stop myself from reaching across the counter to touch her neck, smoothing those curls, to stop myself from touching her face real slow. I think her forehead would smell like butter, that her skin would be slightly glazed all over with a fine dusting of sugar, that if you put your mouth to her skin it would always come away tasting sweet.
I'm thinking Valentine's Day would be the time to make my move, because that's when everybody goes all crazy for romance and hearts and flowers and wanting to be loved. Ruby can't be all that different from everyone else, can she?
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Today is Friday the thirteenth, and not a soul on the street fails to comment on it. I don't feel all that unlucky, just a little racy knowing I've got just today to figure out how I'm going to pull off the seduction of the town lesbian. I don't if she has a girlfriend no, but only for a minute, because something tells me I'd sense it if she did. At this point I don't think it would matter if she was dating my own best friend - if I'd been in town long enough to have one.
When I hit the doorway of the bakery, I almost swoon. It's the clouds of moist heat that gather inside, rain on the window, plus the scent of something sweet and deep, along with something fresh, like fruit juice, underneath it all. And there's Ruby. She's behind the counter, smiling widely at me. It must have been my reaction to the aroma that wrapped around me as I came inside. I wrinkle my nose like I'm sniffing for more and look at her, as if to ask what's making such a delicious smell.
Her eyes actually lit, wide and open, more so than I remember ever seeing them. She motions me over. I've never been this close to her aside from her pouring my coffee or taking my money when I paid for bread or muffins or those slices of all-natural white cake with caramel-covered nut crust swirl and feathers of toasted coconut. Or crème brûlée custard on a toasted almond crust. Or shiny pecan buns, moist and slippery as the flesh of my thighs right now.
I'm weak. I don't think she's ever really talked to be before. Specifically to me. And she still isn't - talking… not yet at least.
I step up to the counter and she's still smiling and motioning me even closer. I most in like I'm in a trance, move in for a kiss, to touch my lips to her cheek, her lips.
Desire bubbles up within my belly, there are tiny flutters between my legs; like wings. I wonder if she can see down my blouse, see my breasts nestled in the pink, lacy, silk demi-cup I bought mail order just in case something like this ever happened.
I catch myself when my eyes start to close. She raises a fork to my lips like a present, speared with a tiny piece of something pink and fluffy, like cotton candy covered in chocolate.
Oh baby.
She directs the fork to my lips and I open them on command, taking the gift inside. Something sweet and deep breaks on my tongue; my mouth wells up with saliva. I think about the pink of it; like pink the tinder underside of a breast set free, pink like the skin of a vulva, all shower fresh and warm, my tongue roaming around to seek out and find every inch of sweetness, the citrusy aftertaste a surprise. I worry about drooling. I swirl it around my mouth, take it in, inhale it. I taste an orange cream chocolate from one of those samplers I had a while back.
I want to tell her it's like sex on a fork, but that's too bold, too early in the dance. She's close still, watching me, silent. I open my eyes wide now, finally able to open my mouth.
Then she speaks softly, the natural lilt of her voice bleeding through like a bell against the clang of coffee cups and beaters in the kitchen.
"You like it? It's blood orange cheesecake iced with a bittersweet chocolate glaze. Did it special for Valentine's Day this years. It's the blood orange that makes it pink. They're in season right now."
She beams, and I'm so wet I'm starting to chafe.
The pride in her voice is obvious. Hands in her pockets, shoulders dropped back, a slight smile drawing tiny lines around her lips like a picture frame. She makes me want to leap over the counter, pull her head down into the pink silk of my too-far-open shirt, and whisper, "You are magical," wrap my legs around the clean white apron over her clean white pants, beg her to take me right then, right on the kneading board covered with flower and dabs of bittersweet chocolate glaze.
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It takes three more trips to the bakery that day for me to get up the nerve to do what I have to do. All that coffee and anxiety is making me feel dry-mouthed, and it's now or never.
While she's ringing up the roasted red pepper and cilantro quiche with butter crust that going to end up being my supper, I finally manage to find my femme courage and make my intentions known. At least to one of us.
"So, what are you doing for Valentine's Day?" I ask her.
"Nothing," she says. She kicks an imaginary pebble with the toe of of her shoe in a spot-on 'aw shucks' routine.
I'm tempted to look down too, but I keep my eyes glued to her, making sure she can feel them.
"How come?" It almost hurts to keep my voice this even.
More kicking at nothing. Good God, I've turned her into a twelve year old boy.
"I dunno. I don't go in for that stuff. Romance and stuff. It's weird."
Yeah, I think so too. If you do it their way. But I can't say that. Instead, I say, "Yeah, me neither. Maybe we should hang out and do nothing together."
She stops kicking, going still. I wait. There's a buzzing in my ears. Bubbles flip and broil in my stomach. It tickles and makes me want to squirm in my shoes, but I will it away.
She lifts her head, swings it up slow like she's trying to get unstuck from something.
I don't think she knows. She doesn't see it. Too long stuck here in this town. I don't know if she's ever seen my kind before - her kind before. How would she know what I looked like?
Oh, you sweet, sweet dolt, I think. You haven't seen anything yet.
She finally speaks. "Well, uh, sure. Why don't you come over tomorrow night? I'll be here after I close up."
She moves her eyes around the room as if to remind me, or maybe herself, where she means.
I say I will; like it's no big deal at all. Like I'm not already thinking about what to wear, what looks best when it's taken off. Like I'm not planning what I'll scent myself with to draw her in close, how I want her to remember me when she first sees me naked and vulnerable and writhing beneath her.
I smile and turn and take my steps just so, knees bent to roll my hips slowly, knowing she's watching me walk out the door.
"I'll try to save us one of the cheesecakes-" I hear her call out to me.
But I'm already out the door.
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I manage to stay away from the bakery all day Saturday until the streets and the lights outside the bakery are dark and the moon is large, ringed with silver bracelets of cold. I can feel the air dry the inside of my lungs; it almost hurts to breathe. Inside it will be warm and moist as always.
Ruby's alone in the bakery when I walk in. She's got an apartment in the back, but it's tiny and it's obvious she prefers being in the shop. The radio is playing low and I keep wondering if she knows why I'm really there.
She's a little different now that no one's around; a little more animated. A little more herself, I think. The self she can't be when she's on display.
We sit and I talk about nothing at all until there's a familiar song on the radio and I start swaying to it without thinking about it. Ruby grins at me.
"I bet you like to dance, huh?"
"I do." I smile. "Want to dance with me?"
There. I've said it. Turning point. No going back now. Either I'm in her arms or I'm out the door in the next couple of minutes.
"With me?" She acts surprised, but I've been around the block enough to know it's an act. "I'm not much of a dancer."
I wonder how many times it's started out this way.
"No better time to learn," I say, standing up and motioning for her to join me.
With the singer crooning on about lost loves, I take her hand, which feels as smooth and warm and clean as I knew it would, and put it around my waist. I put my arm around her shoulder, resisting the urge to slide my fingers through her dark hair that are still speckled with flour. She's sweating - but only a little. I grin and slide my other hand into the one that's dangling by her side.
"You want to dance slow, like this?" she asks, going limp. I feel a little like I'm being baited. I nod and try to get us synced up with the music.
All the while she's staring at me like I've grown a second head. And then she starts to laugh.
"Wow, you really wanna dance that bad?"
I stop moving. That just about does it; I'm sick to death of drowning myself in caffeine and eating twice my own weight in pasty to get this sad-ass closet case to realise she's got a willing victim right here in front of her.
And now this. I feel my dignity slipping away through my fingers like sand, and figure what the hell. So I reach up and kiss Ruby Rose square on the lips. I slide my fingers through those dark locks that have been as tempting as chocolate shavings for weeks; they feel like wet silk between my fingers. I arch into her, my breasts pressing into hers and slip my leg around hers, molding my body into hers so she can't possibly miss the kind of heat I'm giving off.
I may not get what I want tonight, but I'm definitely going to give her taste of what she's missing.
After what feels like about three years, I let go of her and push her back onto her feet and stare at her as if to ask what she plans on doing next.
Ruby looks at me sideways, almost glaring, and if I hadn't seen that look in the eyes of plenty of women that reminded me of Ruby, I'd think she was mad at me. But the look isn't about anger - it's about being careful.
"You aren't exactly the shy type, are you?" Her voice is low, petulant.
"You like shy?" I ask, amused. I'm looking her straight in the eyes.
"No. Not really. Just most people… most women I've been with… they aren't full-time like you. Mostly just sad women who want to forget for a little while that they're married to someone they can't stand being touched by. Others that just want a little vacation from their lives, a little adventure, or just passing through. And when it starts to get over their heads or there's a chance of getting caught, they run away, tail between their legs." She returns me stare, cocking her head to the side. "You're not like that, though. You're a different kind altogether, aren't you?"
Something about that makes me feel really proud, like I've just won a contest. So I'm Ruby's first real lesbian, her first real pure femme.
"And do you like that?" I smile coyly. I know for a fact she does.
"I could get used to it," she says, noncommittal. But then, before I have time to think about what that means, she is beside me, her arms around me, kissing my, her lips brushing down me neck, her pelvis pressing into mine, making me step backward to stay standing.
"I don't think you should look a gift horse in the mouth," I breathe.
And she smiles. It's a new smile, a little too knowing, but it's beautiful.
I'm so heady and fluttering from being close to the one I adore that I hardly notice when she pushes me upward onto the breadboard and hoists herself up beside me. I don't know if I'm a gift or being gifted, treat or being treated, but it doesn't matter.
The flour on my back feels dry and the air of the bakery is still warm enough from so many Valentine's cakes that I don't feel a chill at all as she tugs off my sweater and skirt, running her fingers over the pearl heart trim of my red lace bra, and kneads the knuckle of her thumb in the crotch of my red lace panties before she slides them over my hips and down to the floor, grinning proudly at how wet and hot I am, smiling at the way I press myself against her hand.
She whispers, "How long have you wanted this?" and my head falls back as if it's heavy all of a sudden and I whine back,
"Forever - since I first saw you, maybe even before that."
She shudders, that kind of shudder of realization at being wanted by a woman. She unbuttons her pants and slides them off, kicking off her shoes, wraps her arms around me as if I'm something that might slip away, and pushes me gently down on my back.
Ruby Rose makes love even better than she makes bread and cookies and pies and cakes. She touches me all over slow, achingly slow, and kisses my face and breasts and belly with creamy wet kisses that make me spread my legs wide, arch my back up to press hard against anything of hers just to get some relief. And when her fingers finally slide between my legs, my center overflows with want of her and opens easy and hot to draw her deep inside. She cries out my name, surprised at how easily I accept her, and Ruby fucks me as sweetly at her eight-minute frosting.
Her want is hot enough for me to feel the steam rising from her body, her fingers kneading me as though I were cookie dough, her mouth hungrily lapping up my cream, her tongue tracing sweet glazed circles through my aching flesh, her head bobbing up and down so I can see how wet and shiny her mouth is while I cry out her name and tug at those dark chocolaty locks.
My legs lift to wrap around the back of her head and my back lifts up off the breadboard. I can tell by her groan against me, the way her lips keep on me, the way her fingers gather inside me, thrusting higher and deeper without asking, simply taking, knowing everything is freely given, that Ruby Rose has never had a woman want her wholly like this before, has never had a real love to call her own.
I arch my back, straining up against those strong fingers slipping, twisting, filling me; those slim and strong arm muscles wrapping around my hips to keep me steady as I come whining, keening, shivering and crying out, grinding my ass hard against the smooth, flour-dusted wood.
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It's warm lying beside the oven. Ruby lies silently beside me while I come back down to my body, her fingers resting on my hip bone, her cheek nestled against my hair.
I snuggle closer; the breadboard is wider than you'd think if you saw it in the daylight, but I'm not afraid of falling off. I'm facing her; her shirt is open, the plain white undershirt and white underpants still on. I cuddle against her, kiss her neck and place my hands on the bottom edge of her shirt, sliding up slowly so the material gathers on the backs of my hands.
Her breath catches, she stops my hands and holds them tight against her heart.
"Aren't you tired?"
It sounds like she's afraid I'm not satisfied.
"Not tired, just relaxed," I whisper. "And I want to touch you now."
She stiffens slightly beneath my hand. Her heart is beating so fast I can hear it; I almost expect it to start thumping out of chest like an old cartoon character does when they're in love. Or getting chased by something wild.
"I don't… I mean… usually I…"
Then it hits me. Ruby's used to straight girls who liked getting fucked all night but never offer anything in return. No touch back, no tongue back. That might make them gay, and apparently that's going too far.
Those bitches.
"Don't you want this?" I murmur against her chest. "Do you want me to touch you? To love you?"
She turns to face away from me, mumbles into her arm, into the makeshift pillow the dish towel has become. I lean in to listen and there's only one word I hear.
Never?
Ruby the lesbian goddess of cunnilingus is a virgin?
Chaste despite sexually servicing what seems like a third of the married women in town, if you can trust the stories. In her thirties and never been touched.
Jackpot, I think, but then I panic; the thought of getting up and - like a magic trick - my clothes appearing on my body and just like that I would be out the door.
But that doesn't happen.
Rolling my eyes upwards and both cursing and thanking the gods for making me brave enough to bring Ruby out, all the way out, I remember everything I know about girls and sex and surrender and what it means, and prepare myself for anything.
I slowly slip my hand inside the clean white t-shirt she's wearing beneath her open shirt and caress her belly with my open palm. She gurgles something low and deep inside her throat. Her stomach contracts under my touch, new nerve endings coming to life within her for the first time.
I feel terribly powerful and daring - a new feeling for me. She settles her shoulder closer to me, stretching out her legs; I try not to think about her feet in her white socks hanging over the end of the breadboard, but I do and I giggle. She smiles at me as she strokes my hair with her hand.
Slowly, oh so slowly, as if her stomach stretched on for miles, I take my time and slide my hand further up her shirt, grazing her breasts with my knuckles. I can hear my own breathing and hers, imagine it rising up into the moist, steamy air that sits inside the bakery - joined at the breath, I think to myself.
I kiss her neck, kiss her shoulders, lift her t-shirt up further and bend to trace with my touch the places my hands have been. Her skin is clean and sweet-tasting, and slightly sweaty from the heat. Glazed. All that sugar, that confectionary goodness.
She's moving down, rising up to meet my hand, still palm flat; my mouth, tiny sighs breaking from her mouth. My fingers find the swell of her breast. It's small and easy to cup within my hand and her nipple is firm as the dried currants I've watched her stir into dough and pink as her blood orange cheesecake.
She gasps; I find my courage and rise up further on my side so I can move more easily. Gently, I gather her breasts under my hand. She likes a little more pressure than I would have expected, croons out soft little cries of want as I grasp her breasts and release them slowly, rolling my thumbs over her nipples and kneading her gently as I watched her do so countless times before. And eventually, when I'm not sure many more times she can take, I smile and kiss her lips and bend my face to her chest, sucking each hard curranty nipples; one, and then the other, until her hips start to rise off the board.
She's starting to get loud. With my mouth still on her, licking a trail over her breast, I retrace my path down her belly, further, further still, slipping my fingers beneath the waistband of her cotton underwear, moving slowly over a mound of damp, curly hair. She widens her legs to greet me and she is wet and slippery and smooth as pearls underwater, she is open and gasping. In the dark, I imagine shiny deep pink like the filling of a cheesecake she fed me earlier.
She's rising and crashing her hips against my hand so hard and so new that I rise up and turn, stretching out, never moving my hand, and use the other to push off what bit of underwear still clings to her. I reach down and spread her open, gently slide a finger inside, and she jerks and cries out something I can't hear, as if she is far away and everything is muted.
As I move inside her she writhes and arches all over the cutting board, and all of a sudden, I decided that now is the time. I have to taste her, to prove to myself that she is as sweet as I knew she must be.
I throw my head down between her jerking legs and trade my finger for my tongue. She is sweet there too, sweet and fresh and slippery as cream. I lap her up, suck her sweetness into my mouth, my tongue flicking out hard and fast, then soft and slow inside her lips. I grasp her thighs on either side so I can hand on, stay with her as she bucks her hips like a wild animal, crying out her pleasure for me to hear, and then she comes shaking and gushing wetness into my mouth, the insides of her thighs trembling, her ass grinding and bucking underneath my tongue.
And then she is done.
For a few moments, she lies in my arms and we ride out the aftershocks with the heel of my hand nestled inside her lips and she sighs over and over, stretching her arms out long and languidly and tugs me up to hold me close, and for a split second, I feel completely and totally at ease, nearly drifting off right then and there.
Until she kisses me, tongue searching out all taste of her. She rolls me onto my back and I feel wetness spreading out beneath me on the table. I must have come too, when she did, and never even realized it. She gathers up the wetness on my thighs and through my hair and slides her fingers inside me.
Oh.
One. Two. Three. Yes; four - Ruby pushed my knees apart and spread me wide open, lowers her still trembling body onto mine, grinds her wetness into mine with a sudden fury I never expected, and I wrap my legs around her waist in an effort to hold on for dear life as she rides me hard and fast, her free hand grasping my shoulder, my body rising up to meet her every thrust and grind.
We are both gasping now, breathing hard and calling out, sweet bits and pieces of words able to form things like, fuck your so good, come for me, mine, oh fuck, you're so beautiful, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
And I feel the climb and rise out of us both as she comes hard and loud into me and I lock my legs around her, grasping and clawing at her back, grinding, shivering, and trembling against her as she collapses into me, done, head full of wet, dark, chocolate tresses; strands of burnt candy, warm and swirling over my breasts.
It was my sweetest Valentines Day yet.
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The End
A/N: That was tasty.
Thanks for reading!
***Will work for glomps***