Page 28 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

Marigold's breath comes in shallow pants, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the rumpled white flowers of her dress. The question penetrates the fog of desire clouding her mind, offering a lifeline back to reason, back to propriety.

A chance to step back from this precipice they've approached so suddenly.

"No," she whispers, surprised by the raw need in her own voice. "Please don't stop."

The words hang in the air between them, impossibly fragile and irrevocably binding. She has never begged for anything in her life — has prided herself on self-sufficiency, on never needing to ask.

Yet here she is, pleading with this man to continue touching her, to keep stoking the fire that threatens to consume her from within.

"Please," she adds, the word barely audible, hardly more than a breath shaped by desperate lips. Her voice trembles like a leaf in autumn, clinging precariously to its branch before the inevitable fall.

Meadow's response is a groan that seems torn from the very core of him, a sound so primal it makes the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. His eyes, usually warm brown and calm as still water, have darkened to nearly black, only a thin ring of amber visible around dilated pupils.

They fix on her with an intensity that makes her feel simultaneously exposed and cherished.

"You don't know what you're asking," he says, the words rough-edged, his chest rising and falling rapidly with labored breath. A muscle jumps in his jaw, evidence of the war being waged behind his composed exterior.

"I do," she insists, though, in truth, she doesn't know exactly what she's asking for — only that the absence of his touch has become unbearable, a physical pain radiating outward from her core. "I want this. I want you…to help…me? Relieve me? Please, Meadow."

The confession costs her something — pride, perhaps, or the illusion of control she's maintained so carefully. But the relief of honesty outweighs the discomfort of vulnerability. She is tired of pretending, of denying what her body has known from the first moment she met him.

Meadow's hand uncurls, resuming its place on her thigh. The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of her lace underwear, branding her.

With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the barely contained desire evident in every line of his body.

He leans forward, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of her neck as he brings his lips to her ear. His breath is hot against her skin, sending a cascade of shivers down her spine.

She tilts her head instinctively, offering more of herself to him, an unconscious gesture of submission that draws another groan from deep in his chest.

"This isn't how I imagined our first time," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears. "Not in a car, not like some desperate teenagers." His lips brush the shell of her ear as he speaks, each word a caress that makes her shudder. "You deserve better than this."

"I don't care," she whispers back, turning to catch the corner of his mouth with hers. "I just need?—"

He silences her with a kiss, deep and thorough, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with newfound urgency. When he pulls back, they're both breathing hard, the windows of the car completely opaque with condensation.

"I know what you need," he says, his thumb tracing patterns on her inner thigh, each circuit bringing him incrementally higher. "I can smell it on you. Feel it." His voice drops even lower. "But I need you to understand what this is."

Confusion penetrates the haze of desire.

"What do you mean?"

Meadow sighs, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes close briefly, as if gathering strength, before meeting her gaze again.

"This—what I'm offering you right now—it's just to ease the burning. To take the edge off until you're ready."

"Ready for what?" she asks, bewildered.

His smile is soft, almost sad.

"Ready to fully give yourself to the one you truly desire." His hand finally reaches the juncture of her thighs, cupping her through her dress, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. "This is just a favor, Marigold. A taste of what you could have when you're ready to accept it completely."

The words make no sense through the fog of arousal clouding her brain.

Who else would she desire? How could he think this was anything but completely overwhelming in its intensity?

She opens her mouth to question him further, but his fingers press more firmly against her center, sending a jolt of pleasure that steals her ability to form words.

"Let me do this for you," he whispers, circling his thumb over the spot where she's most sensitive, even through the layers of clothing. "Let me show you how good it can be."

There's something in his voice — a vulnerability beneath the confidence — that tugs at her heart. As if he's offering a piece of himself while simultaneously holding something back .

It's confusing, and maddening, but the pressure of his hand is making it impossible to think clearly.

That claiming ownership of him cupping her dripping pussy like it’s his to claim.

And his to feast on.

"I don't understand," she manages, her voice breaking as he continues his gentle assault on her senses. "Why are you talking about someone else? There isn't?—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It doesn't matter now. Just let me take care of you."

Frustration mingles with desire, creating a cocktail of emotions that threatens to overwhelm her.

She wants to argue, to make him explain himself, but his touch is dissolving her resistance, turning her bones to liquid, her objections to sighs. The heat between her legs has become an insistent throb, demanding attention, crowding out rational thought.

"Meadow," she tries again, her voice catching as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. "I don't want anyone else. Just you. This isn't…ah…this isn't a favor I'm asking for."

He hesitates, his hand stilling.

For a moment, hope flares in his eyes, bright and fierce, before caution shutters it again.

"You don't know what you're saying," he murmurs, though his tone has softened. "You're caught up in the moment. In the pheromones."

There's truth in what he says — she is caught up, swept away by sensations she's never experienced with such intensity. But beneath the physical need is something else, something that's been building slowly, brick by brick, in the few days she's known him.

Trust. Admiration.

A growing affection that might be something more, given time and nurturing.

"Maybe," she admits, her honesty surprising both of them. "Yes," she says, no hesitation now. "Yes… you’re right…but…please don't stop. Just make me feel good? Pretty please?"

The groan that escapes him at her words is primal, rumbling up from deep in his chest, vibrating against her where their bodies press together.

His control visibly frayed, the careful composure cracking to reveal the raw desire beneath. His breathing grows ragged, his movements less measured, more instinctive.

"The things you do to me," he mutters, echoing his earlier words, but now they're tinged with a note of wonder, of surrender. "The way you make me feel..."

He leans in, his lips finding the pulse point at her neck, tongue tracing the rapid beat of her heart beneath the skin. His teeth graze the sensitive spot, not biting, just suggesting the possibility, and it sends a shock wave of pleasure radiating through her body.

Her head falls back against the seat, a moan escaping her parted lips.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice a rough caress. "Let me hear you. Let me know what you like."

His hand begins to move again, more purposefully now, fingers tracing the outline of her lace panties, that thin fabric between them is an annoyance, a barrier that dulls the sensations she craves, but even through it, his touch is electric.

Marigold's eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the tide of sensation washing over her. Whatever Meadow meant by his cryptic words — whoever he thinks she truly desires to have first — can be sorted out later. '

For now, there is only this: his hands on her body, his breath in her ear, the intoxicating scent of their combined arousal filling the enclosed space of the car.

Meadow's touch changes, his fingers trailing lower with deliberate intent, and Marigold holds her breath as his hand disappears beneath the hem of her dress.

The rough pads of his fingertips graze the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake, tiny mountains rising on the plains of her flesh. His eyes never leave hers, watching, gauging, learning the geography of her desires through the silent language of her expressions.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word falling like a warm stone into the pool of tension between them. His fingers trace higher, drawing invisible patterns that make her muscles twitch and flutter beneath his touch.

When he reaches the edge of her underwear, soaked through with evidence of her desire, he pauses.

"May I?"

The question hangs in the stifling air of the car, heavy with implication.

“Fuck yes,” she moans, more than ready for his tempting fingers that have tempted her all this while with ownership of his sinful touches. Marigold can only nod, words having abandoned her along with her inhibitions.

Meadow hooks his fingers under the elastic of her panties and tugs. The fabric clings to her skin, reluctant to part from her dampness. She lifts her hips to help him, a blush crawling up her neck at the wet sound the material makes as it peels away from her.

The cool air of the car—not so cool anymore with their combined heat—touches her exposed center, drawing a gasp from her parted lips.

"Look at you," Meadow breathes, his voice reverent and strained. "So perfect."