Page 26 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)
HEATED CURIOSITY
~ M ARIGOLD~
The evening light filters through the windshield, painting golden stripes across Marigold's hands as she fidgets with the hem of her white floral dress.
Her mind races in light of their discussion, the tension between them so palpable, that she forgets to breathe. It’s at that moment when Meadow turns to her, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
Then his lips are on hers, rough yet firm, and the list of uncertainties and wonders revolving around embarrassment in her head scatters like startled birds taking flight.
The kiss steals her breath, her thoughts, her very sense of self.
For a heartbeat, she freezes, the shock of his boldness holding her captive.
Meadow Calloway, the stoic yet calm Alpha who speaks more to his horses than to people, is kissing her with an intensity that makes her fingers curl against the seat leather.
His beard scrapes gently against her chin, a pleasant friction that grounds her at the moment even as her mind struggles to catch up.
When did they park? They discussed needing something in the pharmacy. Things. For her. The discussion of Heats. Temporary relief. This is the ‘temporary’ notion.
Yet here they are, his mouth claiming hers with a confidence that makes her stomach flutter.
Marigold's surprise melts like morning frost under a persistent sun. Her lips softened beneath his, parting slightly in invitation.
The taste of him floods her senses — coffee and mint and something uniquely him, an earthy sweetness that reminds her of hay fields after rain.
She leans into him, her heartbeat quickening to a staccato that drowns out the rational part of her brain, the part that's trying to remember why this is complicated.
"Meadow," she murmurs against his mouth, but it's not a protest — it's recognition, acceptance, perhaps even gratitude.
He pulls back just enough to look at her, his eyes reflecting the dying light, turning them from their usual brown to pools of liquid amber.
His gaze holds a question, a pause that gives her space to retreat if she wishes.
But retreat is the furthest thing from her mind.
The ranch, the responsibilities, the dinner back at the ranch, probably still steamy warm, and the others waiting for us to return so we can eat in unison — all of it fades to insignificance compared to the heat building between them.
Marigold reaches up, her fingers threading through his thick hair, answering his unspoken question by drawing him back to her.
This second kiss deepens immediately, no hesitation in either of them now.
Meadow's hands cradle her face, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasts the growing urgency of his mouth.
His lips move against hers with slow, deliberate intent, each movement a conversation in itself — telling her how long he's wanted this, how much he's restrained himself, how completely he intends to savor her now.
The console between them becomes an annoying barrier, and Marigold shifts in her seat, trying to get closer without breaking their connection.
Meadow senses her frustration and smiles against her lips, the curve of his mouth a promise that there will be time for more, for better, for fewer obstacles between them.
His tongue traces the seam of her lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance. She grants it with a soft sigh that he captures as if collecting her breath to keep as his own.
The first touch of his tongue against hers sends a shock wave through her body, a current of desire that leaves her fingers tingling and her toes curling in her worn boots.
Meadow explores her mouth with the same thoroughness he applies to everything in his life — methodical yet passionate, deliberate yet instinctive.
He tastes every corner, memorizes every reaction, and adjusts to every unconscious guidance she gives. When she gasps at the gentle scrape of his teeth on her bottom lip, he notes it and repeats the action, drawing out another small sound of pleasure.
The kiss evolves, becoming a dance of give and take.
Marigold, initially passive in her surprise, now matches his rhythm, her tongue meeting his, her hands exploring the solid planes of his shoulders through his flannel shirt. She can feel the heat of him radiating through the fabric, his body a furnace of contained power.
The windows begin to fog with their shared breath, creating a cocoon of privacy in the otherwise exposed parking area.
Marigold vaguely registers the sound of distant traffic, a reminder of the world continuing beyond their bubble of intimacy. It seems impossible that time hasn't stopped for everyone else too, that the universe isn't pausing to acknowledge this shift between them.
Meadow's hand moves from her face, trailing down her neck, lingering at the pulse point where her heart announces its rapid beat against his fingertips. He follows the line of her collarbone, exposed by the wide neckline of her dress, his touch feather-light but leaving fire in its wake.
The white floral pattern seems to bloom beneath his hand as it travels lower, skimming over the fabric that covers her breast.
Even through the material, she feels the heat of his palm as if the dress were made of gossamer rather than cotton.
Her body responds without conscious permission, arching slightly into his touch, seeking more. A small moan escapes her, the sound swallowed by their joined mouths but felt by both of them, a vibration that spurs Meadow to deepen the kiss even further.
His tongue becomes more assertive, exploring her with increasing boldness.
It's no longer just her mouth he's claiming — it's a preview, a promise of how thoroughly he could explore the rest of her body. The thought sends a liquid heat pooling in her core, a sensation so intense it makes her thighs press together instinctively.
Meadow's experience is evident in how confidently he reads her body's signals, and how effortlessly he builds her desire with just his mouth and the barest touch of his hand. There's wisdom in his restraint, in how he holds back when everything in her wants to rush forward.
He's teaching her patience in the most exquisite way.
When they finally break apart, both gasping for air, Marigold feels dizzy with want. Her lips are swollen and sensitive, tingling with the memory of his. Meadow's chest rises and falls rapidly, his control visibly fraying at the edges.
His hand still rests at the curve of her breast, neither advancing nor retreating, waiting.
"Should I stop?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper in the confined space of the car.
The question hangs between them, weighted with implications and possibilities.
Marigold's answer isn't verbal. She responds with a soft, inviting moan that comes from deep within her chest, a sound of yearning that communicates more clearly than words.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, meet his, conveying permission — no, encouragement —for him to continue.
That's all Meadow needs.
His mouth captures hers again, this time with renewed hunger.
The hesitation is gone, replaced by a certainty that makes Marigold's breath catch. His tongue claims her mouth more deeply, more insistently, mimicking the intimacy they both crave.
Dinner will grow cold. The others will wonder about their delayed return.
For now, there is only this — Meadow's mouth on hers, his hand beginning a careful exploration of her body, and the growing realization that everything between them has irrevocably changed.
Meadow's hand slides down her body with unhurried confidence, as if they have all the time in the world — as if the car isn't parked in a semi-public space where anyone could walk by.
His palm glides over the thin fabric of her dress, mapping the gentle slope of her waist, and the flare of her hip, before returning upward with deliberate intent. Marigold holds her breath, anticipation drawn tight as a bowstring in her chest.
When his fingers finally reach her breast, the touch is feather-light — a question, a request for permission that her body answers with an arch that presses her more firmly into his palm.
His thumb brushes over where her nipple pebbles beneath the fabric, a gentle circular motion that makes her inhale sharply. The white flowers printed on her dress seem to bend and sway with his movements as if even they are responding to his touch.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against her lips, the word warm and rich as honey.
His palm cups her breast more fully now, the heat of his hand burning through the thin cotton, searing her skin beneath. He kneads gently, testing the weight and fullness, learning her body with the same patient attention he gives to everything that matters to him.
Meadow pinches her nipple lightly through the dress, just enough pressure to make her gasp.
The sensation shoots straight to her core, igniting a pulse of need that makes her thighs clench.
He watches her face as he does it again, slightly harder this time, clearly cataloging every minute response — the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips, the pink flush spreading across her cheeks.
"Too much?" he asks, his voice gravel-rough with restraint.
Marigold shakes her head, unable to find words as he continues the exquisite torture, alternating between gentle squeezes and sharp pinches that ride the perfect edge between pleasure and pain.
Her nipples become painfully sensitive, every touch sending jolts of electricity down her spine, pooling like liquid lightning between her legs.
She shifts in the passenger seat, her body restless with growing need.
The leather creaks beneath her as she wiggles, trying to find relief from the mounting pressure. The movement only seems to intensify the ache, drawing her attention to the slick heat gathering between her thighs.
Embarrassment flares through her as she realizes how wet she's becoming — how quickly her body is responding to his skilled touch.