One Week in Provence: Chapter 3

The Market

The town smelled like sun-dried tomatoes, orange blossom, and lust.

The Saturday market was alive—vendors shouting, children laughing, scents of lavender oil and melting cheese.

We walked side by side. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel.

He reached past me to grab figs, and his hand brushed mine.

Just skin. Just contact.
But it shattered me.

His fingers curled around mine, slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

The air between us changed. Became charged.
Everything else blurred—the tourists, the stalls, the shouting. All I could hear was my breath, and how ragged it had become.

We ate fresh bread and olives under an olive tree.
He fed me a slice of peach.

When the juice ran down my chin, he wiped it with his thumb.
And then he licked it.

I moaned. Soft. Involuntary.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low. “This place is very French. People notice… pleasure.”

My thighs clenched.

God help me—I wanted to be noticed.

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