There is something special about these markets, set up under big tents on the river’s edge in the fresh air. Even though the tents are open, the air is filled with whiffs of the fresh produce and special homemade foods as you pass the stalls.
Saxon and I walk casually, hand in hand, stopping at every single vendor. We’re in no rush and don’t feel like fighting the busy crowds so we just take it as it comes, chatting to the vendors and sampling some of their goodies.
I spot the familiar lady standing at the next stall, although she has aged considerably. “Oh my God. Sax, you have to try this fudge,” I yell as I pull him along to the stall. “Twelve-pack mixed please,” I ask the lady as Saxon raises his eyes at me. “What?”
“That good, huh?” he smirks.
“It’s the best. I used to get it all the time when I was a kid and Dad would bring me here,” I tell him excitedly. The lady who has been manning this stall and making these delicious sweet treats for as long as I can remember hands me my bag of goodies and Saxon pays her before I can even reach for my purse. “Thanks.”
He smiles down at me. “If it makes you smile like that I’ll buy everything she’s got.”
Heat warms my cheeks and I smile shyly.
“Well done, son,” the vendor says to Saxon. “A happy wife is a happy life.”
“Don’t I know it.” He winks at her. I laugh and shake my head as he pulls me away from the stall.
“Come on, you have to try some,” I say, holding the bag right up to his face.
“How can you still be eating after our late lunch and all the food samples you’ve had in the last couple of hours?” he asks laughing at me.
“There’s always room for fudge,” I answer him seriously. “Besides I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and hungry.”
Saxon’s face breaks into that huge grin which melts my insides. “That’s what I love about you, Brooke.”
“What? That I’m fat?” I ask with mock horror. My mouth hanging open and eyes wide.
“Shut up,” he says, laughing as he pushes me, nearly into another shopper, before quickly grabbing my wrist and pulling me into him.
He wraps his arms around my shoulders and places his head into my neck. “Shit, I’m sorry, Brooke. You’re so damn little, I forget how strong I am.” His voice is serious, but I can feel the laughter rolling through him from the quick breaths on my neck and his shaking shoulders.
Lifting my hand, I slap him across the back of the head and he quickly pulls away from me a huge grin on his face.
I take another piece of fudge and stuff it into my mouth before huffing at him and walking away.
“Don’t eat too much fudge, we’ve still got dinner,” he scolds me.
“Yes, Dad.” I hear his quick footsteps catching up to me and I duck away as he nears. I’m not nearly quick enough, probably because I’m more concerned about the bag of fudge in my hand, and he easily wraps his arm around my shoulders, able to hold me tight against him.
I reach into my bag of fudge and go to shove one in his mouth. He grabs my wrist before I can make contact and looks down at me before he brings it to his mouth. He eats the fudge out of my fingers painfully slow, purposely torturing me.
My body quakes with need, and I squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the pressure he’s building there. He hasn’t taken his eyes off mine and I stand there stunned, in a trance of lust.
When he’s finished nibbling the fudge and my fingers, he slowly licks them clean, taking each one into his mouth and slowly sucking, licking and nibbling it.
He releases my hand from his mouth and intertwines our fingers. “You’re right, that’s fucking good fudge,” he says calmly and pulls me along, as if he didn’t just turn me into a puddle of mush.
Saxon and I walk along the riverbank past the markets. This is such a beautiful part of our city, it’s hard to believe it’s downtown. The river runs through gorgeous green gardens with lush grass and foliage all around it.
Spread all along the grass of the riverbank are families, young couples, and even some elderly, sitting on the grass and enjoying the bustling atmosphere of street musicians, artists, and even little stalls with hair extensions and spray-on tattoos.
The markets are only held on the last weekend of every month so it’s always packed and brings the best the city has to offer, not only in produce and handmade materials, but the finest performers, too.
Saxon and I stop in front of a street artist who is spray painting a large piece of cardboard. We watch as he randomly sprays the card, and it resembles nothing except a huge mess of colour. He continues his random spraying, every now and then altering the paint by blotting the cardboard with pages from a magazine.