Page 23 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

FAVOR IN THE MIDST OF A HEATED SILENCE

~ M EADOW~

My fingers trace the dipstick methodically, but I register nothing about the oil level.

All I can focus on is Marigold standing just feet away, her white dress catching the fading light like a beacon. My body betrays me with each breath I take, each inhalation of her scent sending electricity down my spine.

I grip the hood support harder, knuckles whitening, as if the cold metal might somehow ground the current running through me.

The sedan's engine blurs before my eyes. I blink, forcing myself to concentrate on the task.

Low oil. Simple problem. Easy fix.

But my mind refuses to cooperate, dragging my attention back to her—to Marigold Everhart, former ballet dancer, current source of my unraveling.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and the motion ripples through that white dress like water over smooth stones.

It's modest enough — hitting just above her knees — but on her, it might as well be a siren's call.

The fabric clings to the gentle curve of her waist before flaring slightly at her hips.

Her posture, even in casual waiting, betrays her ballet training — spine straight, shoulders back, neck elongated.

A queen without a throne.

My throat constricts. I swallow hard, tasting the dryness of restraint.

"Is everything okay?" she calls, her voice carrying across the empty parking lot like silk unfurling.

I nod without looking up.

Looking up would be dangerous.

Looking up would mean seeing those eyes — those deep, expressive eyes that seem to hold galaxies of hurt and hope in equal measure. I've seen those eyes too many times in the short period since she arrived in Willowbend.

They haunt me — taunt my very being again and again.

"Just checking the levels," I manage to say, my voice rougher than intended. "Won't take long."

But it will. It has to.

Because beneath my button-down shirt, my body has responded to her proximity with embarrassing eagerness.

The hard length pressing against my zipper is a reminder of my biology's betrayal, of what it means to be an unmated man in the presence of someone like her. Someone whose chemistry calls to mine like a lock seeking its key.

I lean deeper into the engine compartment, grateful for the concealment the car provides. My jeans have become a prison of the most exquisite torture. I slide my hand down to adjust myself discreetly, providing momentary relief that only serves to heighten my awareness of my condition.

Then the breeze shifts, and I freeze.

Her scent — God, her scent. It drifts toward me, carried on the evening air, wrapping around me like invisible tendrils.

Sweet but not cloying, with notes of vanilla and something uniquely her.

But beneath that is the primal aroma that bypasses all rational thought and speaks directly to the most basic part of me.

Arousal.

Not full-blown heat —something subtler, like the first whisper of autumn in late summer.

My fingernails dig into my palms, creating half-moons of pain that ground me momentarily. Marigold may not even be aware of the message her body broadcasts.

Many omegas don't recognize the early signs, especially if they've been on suppressants or haven't experienced a full cycle before.

The oil dipstick trembles in my hand. I replace it carefully, movements deliberate and slow, buying time while fighting the impulse to turn around, to look at her fully, to devour her with my eyes.

In my mind, I've already abandoned this farce of car maintenance.

I've already straightened, walked to her with purpose, and watched her eyes widen as she read my intentions. I've already felt her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips as I tilted her chin up. I've already claimed those lips that part slightly whenever she's thinking deeply.

Absolutely — here’s an expanded version of your scene, staying true to your style while deepening the steamy, gritty intensity and stopping precisely at the moment you requested:

The fantasy expands, uninvited but unstoppable.

I imagine pulling the car over on the quiet country road we’ll take back to town.

The headlights illuminate nothing but empty fields and distant trees, all shadow and silence.

Her question dies on her lips as I reach for her — not in answer, but in need.

My hand finds the nape of her neck, threading through those soft strands of hair, tugging just enough to make her eyes flare wide.

I imagine the gentle catch of her breath as I draw near, the subtle arch of her back as instinct overtakes caution. Imagine her hands — tentative at first, then bold — grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, dragging me in like she’s starving for something only I can feed her.

In my mind, I prowl toward her across the center console, my movements slow, deliberate. Giving her every opportunity to say no. But she doesn’t. She never does.

Her pupils dilate, her breathing quickens, and she tilts her head back like a woman offering up worship. I can almost taste her — that addictive, maddening scent of hers, earthy and sweet, like crushed petals and sin.

I would cover her with kisses — starting at her temple, tracing the delicate shell of her ear, nipping down the elegant column of her throat to the hollow at its base where her pulse flutters like captured wings.

I’d linger there, tongue flicking, lips dragging, until she whimpers and shifts in her seat, aching for more.

The world would blur and disappear, just the two of us and this tight space crackling with want. Her heat would draw me in like gravity. My hands — these same hands now smeared with engine grease — would turn reverent, mapping her curves like scripture.

I’d lift that white dress inch by inch, exposing the warm golden skin beneath, the subtle swell of her hips, the sleek, toned lines of her legs.

Until the fabric bunched around her waist and there she’d be — slim yet so sinfully curved, her breasts bare beneath the thin lining of her dress, nipples tight and pebbled, practically begging for my mouth.

God, the way they strain against that fragile fabric — teasing, taunting. I’d ache to suck them, to close my lips around each peak and draw until she’s gasping, until her nails rake down my back and she moans my name like a secret she can’t keep.

And lower — fuck — I’d palm the inside of her thigh, just above the knee, dragging my touch up slow, savoring the tension in her muscles. I’d reach the edge of her panties and wonder if they’re innocent cotton or dangerous lace. Either way, I’d want them gone.

I’d tease the band with my fingers, toy with the edge until she writhes, and then slip my hand beneath.

Warm, wet, and already slick — she’d be drenched.

For me. Because of me. I’d glide my fingers through her folds, gather that velvet honey coating her, and smear it over her clit in slow, deliberate circles.

She’d buck. Whine. Whisper filthy little things that only make me want to ruin her more.

I’d keep her there, riding the edge, making her beg, making her melt.

And then — just as she starts to tremble — I’d lean back, reach for the buckle of my jeans, and free the beast that’s been straining for her all damn day. Veiny, thick, throbbing with the kind of hunger that only she could satisfy.

Because tonight, I don’t want to take her.

I want her to ride me like she owns me.

"Meadow?" Her voice cuts through my fantasy, bringing me back to the reality of the parking lot, the open hood, the distance between us.

Fucking hell…

I clear my throat.

"Almost done," I lie, though I haven't accomplished anything but torturing myself.

I force myself to focus on the motor oil cap, unscrewing it with fingers that don't feel like my own. The cap comes away, and I reach for the bottle of oil I brought from my trunk. The mundane action does nothing to quiet my thoughts, which continue their dangerous trajectory.

In the sanctuary of my mind, I see her reclined against the passenger seat, her dress hiked up, her legs parted in invitation.

I see myself moving over her, covering her body with mine, protecting and possessing all at once.

I would whisper against her skin all the things I cannot say aloud — how her scent drives me wild, how the curve of her smile makes my heart stutter, how I've never wanted anyone with this fierce, consuming need.

I shake my head sharply, trying to dislodge the images.

This is inappropriate.

Unprofessional.

Unwelcome, surely.

Marigold came to Willowbend to escape, not to be the object of yet another's desire. I know just a hint of her history, and the last thing she needs is me, losing control like some untried teenager.

The bottle of oil slips in my grasp, nearly spilling.

I catch it just in time, my reflexes faster than my scattered thoughts.

"Do you need help?" she asks, and I hear the soft scuff of her shoes against asphalt as she takes a step toward me.

"No!" The word comes out too sharp, too loud. I modulate my voice. "No, thank you. Please, stay there. The ground is…dirty."

It's a pathetic excuse, but I need her to keep her distance.

If she comes closer, if her scent intensifies, if I have to look directly at her while my body is in this state... I'm not certain of my ability to maintain the careful facade of professional distance I've constructed.

I pour the oil slowly, watching it disappear into the engine's depths.

My hands have steadied somewhat, but my heart continues its frantic rhythm. The hard length between my legs has not abated; if anything, my body has grown more insistent in its demands.

With each breath, I try to reclaim control.

In. Out. Focus on the task.

Not on how it would feel to have her underneath me, responding to my touch with sighs and whispers.

Not on how I would worship every inch of her body, erasing the memory of rejection with adoration.

Not on how perfectly we would fit together, as though designed by some cosmic hand for this very purpose.

I replace the cap, tighten it securely. The simple action requires all my concentration. When I finally straighten and lower the hood, letting it close with a definitive thunk, I still don't turn around immediately.

Instead, I stare at my hands, at the smudges of oil that somehow made their way onto my skin despite my care.

"All set," I announce to the car, to the evening air, to myself. "Just needed some oil."

Only then do I permit myself to turn, to face her — Marigold standing in her white dress against the darkening sky, her expression curious and perhaps concerned. I keep the lower half of my body angled away, partially hidden by the car's bulk.

"Shall we?" I gesture toward the passenger door, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.

She smiles — that small, careful smile that never quite reaches her eyes — and nods. As she moves toward the car, I take one last deep breath of the cool evening air, preparing myself for the confined space of the sedan, for the concentrated presence of her, for the journey ahead.

I am a professional. I am in control. I will get her safely to my place.

But as I slide behind the wheel, her scent filling the small space between us, I know the drive ahead will be the sweetest torture I've ever endured.