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by Victoria Blisse
Category: Erotica/BDSM Erotica/Romance
Description: Chocolate, cakes and domination, what more could a girl want? Emma hadn't stepped out of her flat in six months. When she did it was the smell of a local patisserie that lured her down the street. Every day she walked to Jacques to admire the cakes and enjoy their scent, then she discovered Jack. Jack, the patisserie owner and baker is just the dominant, commanding man she wants, but can she learn to accept her submissive nature? Will she indulge her appetite for sexual spice and ignore her good girl guilt or will she resist the temptation and regret it forever?
eBook Publisher: Total-e-bound, 2010
eBookwise Release Date: August 2010
6 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [76 KB]
Reading time: 45-64 min.
"Victoria Blisse mixes sugar and spice and delivers a very nice romance that left me smiling and hungry for more...Ms. Blisse combines perfect amounts of heat and sweet to deliver a wonderfully satisfying story. Spiced Vanilla is an utterly delicious confection of a story that definitely left me wanting seconds!" -Joyfully Reviewed
It had become a habit--a pleasant one, maybe the only one in my whole day. Around about two o'clock I would walk down the main street, past the supermarket, the cafe, the appliance shop and the carpet store, and I'd turn up a plain side street with no remarkable features. It was a short way up that street to the place I loved. Jacques.
Around six months ago, I had walked past that street and caught a delicious scent on the air. It combined almonds, vanilla, chocolate and a hint of spicy cinnamon, and as my stomach rumbled, I had to check it out. It seemed so comforting, that smell, it reminded me of happy times in the kitchen with my Mother as a child. Jacques was new then. It had opening offer posters in the window. The smell of new paint was an astringent undercurrent as I drew closer to the shiny black exterior of the shop.
At first, I thought Jacques was a cake shop, but it only took a moment looking at the artistic, architectural cakes to make me realise it was something much more. I remembered the word from my French GCSE lessons. Jacques was a Patisserie. Even back then, with the opening offers, I could not afford to try a cake. I wanted to. There were several that caught my attention.
There was a tart made with fanned-out layers of apple, a cheese cake so deep yellow it made my mouth water and a square chocolate cake with icing and the most delicate stars and sparkles decorating it. It wasn't just that they looked good either. They smelled divine, too. With every opening and closing of the door, I'd get a waft of sweet, warm bakery and confection, and I would close my eyes and imagine the tastes. Custard, cream, chocolate, fluffy sponge and crunchy meringue. It quickly became my favourite place.
I wished I could go in and buy something, but the price tags were just too high for me. I could barely afford a cheap cake let alone an artistic, expensive one. But every day, I would treat myself to their visual beauty combined with their heavenly scent.
It was a late summer day with just the hint of the approaching autumn chill in the air when I made my usual trip down to Jacques. I set off from my home at two, and I was at the window of the patisserie by two-fifteen. It was a Friday, and I could see his stock was well-depleted. All the large cakes had been sold bar a carrot cake and a sponge, and many of the shelves in the window and by the counter were nearly empty.
I closed my eyes and inhaled as the door opened and the bell jangled. The subtle scents of light summer filled me--lemon and orange, the citrus tang mellowed with vanilla and strawberries, milky cream and the gentlest caress of chocolate and warm alcohol.
The screeching of brakes pulled me viciously from my summer daydream and transported me into my nightmare. It had happened in winter almost a year ago, and it haunted my every sleeping moment and often crept into the daydreams, too.
I had been disgustingly happy. I was a lecturer in the local college, and I enjoyed my job immensely. I was engaged to John, a fellow lecturer and one of the cleverest people I knew. Not only was he clever, he was kind, generous, witty and handsome. We lived in each other's pockets. I spent the majority of my life at his house although I continued to pay the rent on the little flat which housed all my personal belongings and me on the occasional evening when our timetables didn't converge.
We'd been out for a curry with a bunch of other teachers around the festive period. It had been a great evening, and we'd all drunk a little too much. John wanted us to get a taxi, but I'd wanted to walk. I don't know why I'd insisted. It was windy and bitterly cold, but as always, John had acquiesced to make me happy.
We were laughing and joking, teasing each other like a pair of teenage kids. We kissed, and embraced. He told me he loved me, and I replied with a giggle and another kiss. I got silly when I drank wine, and I was still teasing him as we stood at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the green man.
I don't remember much after the beeping started and the green man appeared. We'd walked out into the road hand in hand, and I'd heard a car engine and a screeching of brakes.