Page 54 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

“It’s just a flare,” he says, “but you have to let yourself have it.”

Let myself have it.

Like I’ve been holding back on purpose.

But I get what he means: surrender. Stop fighting. My hands clutch the mattress so tight my fingers go numb, but I force them to relax.

He watches my every move.

No judgment, no shame.

Just intense, steady focus.

He takes the sheet from my hands and peels it away, exposing the curve of my thigh, the sticky shine of sweat and slick that makes me want to vanish.

He doesn’t flinch. He just folds the sheet, lays it at the foot of the bed, and says, “It helps if you breathe.”

“Hard to breathe when my lungs are melting,” I say.

He almost smiles.

Almost.

“Slow, then. In and out.”

I try, just to prove him wrong.

Instead, I gasp. It’s like every cell in my body is trying to come out through my skin. Every point of contact is electric.

I squeeze my knees together, but the friction makes it worse.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken, pupils dilated until his irises are a rim of caramel.

“You can touch yourself, if you want,” he says.

No tease or innuendo.

I should be mortified.

Instead, I’m desperate.

My hand, as if acting of its own accord, begins a slow pilgrimage up the inside of my thigh.

It's a shaky journey, my fingers trembling so intensely that at first, I fumble, the destination elusive—a private hell wrapped in anticipation and dread.

Each attempt feels like a million miles to reach, but finally, when I do make contact with that feverish skin, it's as if I've ignited a wildfire beneath my flesh, an unseen static charge dancing along nerve endings that are already frayed and hypersensitive.

The sensation spreads outwards like lightning across a night sky, swift and undeniable in its path. Every inch I cover sends a jolt up my spine, sharp enough to blur the lines between pleasure and pain—a dissonant harmony only known to those caught in the grip of their own body’s betrayal.

Breath catches in my throat, tight and suffocating; it feels as though I'm drawing air through syrup. My hips move involuntarily against the pressure of my palm— my body conducting its own symphony of desperate need —a danse macabre where I am both composer and instrument. The instinct to retreat battles with the primal urge to seek more: more touch, desperate strife for release, and the crave of everything I’m terrified to want.

The room disappears momentarily into a haze— fuzzy around the edges —and there's nothing left but this intensity that's singular in its focus.

It's terrifying how much it consumes me; how easily it strips away layers of self-imposed restraint until I am raw beneath Callum's steady gaze—a single entity existing only for this moment.

I gasp at the shock of it all, my breath leaving me in one ragged exhalation that sounds far too vulnerable for comfort.

The guttural noise reverberates off walls like an echo chamber—it shames me even as it binds us closer in this shared space.

Without conscious thought guiding me, my hips buck against my palm again— relentless now —and there’s no denying the inevitability of where this is leading.

Yet through the mortification rises another sensation: liberation found only when surrender becomes second nature.

When yielding is acceptance rather than defeat.

I want to disappear into thin air from embarrassment—to close my eyes and pretend this is someone else's reality altogether.

But simultaneously— and perhaps more urgently —I find myself wishing for time’s mercy: for this relentless tide never to cease and this once unfamiliar yet now all-consuming rhythm never to break pace until every fiber has sung its song.

I gasp, and my hips buck against my palm. I want to die. I want to never stop.

He watches, silent and solid as a mountain. His breathing is just a little faster than before.

“That’s good,” he says, voice low. “Don’t fight it.”

I press harder, chasing the edge.

My back arches, legs splay, and for a second I forget he’s even here.

I’m just heat and friction and hunger, so intense it’s almost pain.

Then I remember. He’s right there. And for some reason, that makes it better.

I glance at him and the look on his face is so raw, so hungry, it nearly tips me over the edge.

My body tenses, every muscle drawn taut as a bowstring.

His voice, deep and resonant, slices through the haze enveloping my senses like a beacon in a storm-tossed night. Callum's words come as a lifeline, tethering me back to reality even as I stand on the precipice of surrender.

"You're doing perfect, Juniper," he murmurs, his voice a melody that weaves through the chaotic symphony of my body's demands.

It's so gentle, yet it carries an authority that compels me to listen.

"Let it happen," he continues, coaxing me with a patience that feels as boundless as the sky above the ranch on a starry night.

It’s strange how such simple words can wield so much power—how they can pierce through layers of defenses crafted over years of self-reliance and solitude.

The sound of his voice reverberates within me, settling into every crevice until I'm made up of nothing else but sound and sensation. There's a tender command in his tone—a reassurance that I am seen, understood, even cherished in these raw moments where I’ve laid myself bare before him.

My fingers falter momentarily against heated skin, caught between hesitation and urgency.

I close my eyes briefly, allowing the darkness behind my eyelids to swallow any lingering embarrassment. His presence is a guiding light—steady and unwavering amidst the tumult of my vulnerability—a beacon that promises safety if only I relinquish control long enough to accept it.

Each nerve ending tingles under this newfound freedom— the liberty to feel without restraint —as if allowing myself this indulgence is an act of self-acceptance I’ve denied for far too long.

There's something transformative about surrendering to what my body craves; it's as if I'm shedding old skins like a serpent, becoming something new and unknown yet fiercely alive.

His voice anchors me once more in this vast sea of sensations when he repeats softly but firmly: "Juniper.

" It's not just my name; it’s an invocation—a reminder that while I'm lost in these waves of desire—I'm never truly untethered from reality or from him. The strength in his tone offers solace amid tumultuous waters—a promise that together we’ll navigate whatever comes next.

In that moment, suspended between fear and longing—I realize I've crossed an unseen threshold into trust: trust in another person to hold space for both fragility and strength without judgment—as well as trust within myself to embrace what unfolds naturally without flinching away out of pride or fear.

It feels as though time stretches infinitely around us—the world paused in deference to this pivotal moment where pleasure converges with liberation beneath Callum’s watchful eyes.

Slowly but surely—as if responding intuitively to some unspoken cue—I begin letting go completely; each frayed tension unraveling until all that's left is pure experience distilled down into its essential parts: touch, breath, heartbeat—the rhythm underlying everything else.

As my hand moves with newfound confidence across familiar yet foreign terrain—I let myself succumb fully to sensations coursing through every fiber—all hesitance dissolving into clarity born from mutual acceptance shared between two souls who understand each other deeply despite circumstances surrounding them being anything but ordinary or expectedly conventional.

The orgasm hits so hard my vision goes white at the edges.

I claw at the sheets, at my own leg, anything to ground myself. The world goes silent, just the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

I ride it out, wave after wave, until I’m trembling and boneless and spent.

When it’s over, I’m limp. Panting. Sheets twisted under me, sweat cooling on my skin.

Callum is still there.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t touched me, but I feel as if he’s the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the mattress.

I manage a weak laugh, because what the fuck else do you do after a performance like that?

“Five stars,” I say, voice wrecked. “Would recommend.”

His lips curve, but just barely.

“Noted.”

For a minute, we’re silent. He hands me the glass of water, careful not to touch my skin.

“You should eat something when you can.”

“Maybe later,” I say, “if my legs work again.”

He stands, starts to leave, then stops.

“If it gets worse, call for me.”

I want to protest, but I don’t.

I just nod, because I know it will get worse, before it gets better.

He leaves, and I collapse back into the ruined sheets, already feeling the next wave building at the base of my spine.

I could fight it.

But the idea of riding it out— just this once —make me want to surrender into this pleasurable domain.

The second wave hits before I can even finish a glass of water.

So much for the rumors that post-orgasm euphoria resets your brain.

Mine is still short-circuiting, frying all its own wiring, refusing to let me ride out the aftermath in peace.

The air in the room is thick with musk, my own.

It sits on the tongue, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Sheets are a disaster zone. I can’t even look at the wet spot without wanting to die, but I don’t have the energy to remake the bed.

Instead, I flop on top of it, thighs slick, shirt damp, still panting.

My fingers are trembling, the muscles in my hands already sore from the earlier death grip.

I stare at the ceiling and wait for the next round of humiliation, which comes in the form of another creak at the door.