Page 40 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
His need to relieve his thick veiny cock yet another night to tame his immense desire for her.
"Had some trouble," he admits, keeping his voice even. "Lot on my mind."
What he doesn't say —can't say— is how she filled every corner of his thoughts, how the memory of her in his arms played on an endless loop.
How the ghost of her scent lingered in his senses long after she'd gone, sweet and intoxicating as wildflower honey.
Instead, he gestures toward the stables.
"The horses are waiting. Are you ready for this new adventure?"
Her posture shifts at the mention of the horses, her dancer's discipline evident in the subtle straightening of her spine.
"More than I'll ever be," she responds, and there's something in her voice now — a quiet conviction that hadn't been there before. "Thank you, Meadow. For giving me a chance."
The gratitude in her words makes something twist in his chest.
She's thanking him, when it should be the other way around. When she's the one breathing life back into parts of him he thought had withered away.
"You don't need to thank me," he says, rougher than he intended. He clears his throat. "You've got skill. Eye for detail. The horses will benefit from that."
The horses.
Not tame his immense desire to have her around the ranch.
Marigold steps forward then, extending her hand toward him.
The gesture is professional, and polite, but Meadow can't help noticing how small her hand looks, how delicate her wrist.
His Alpha instincts surge with the urge to protect, to shelter.
"To a good partnership," she offers.
He enfolds her hand in his, careful of his strength, acutely aware of the warmth of her skin against his callused palm. The contact sends a jolt through him that he hopes she doesn't notice.
"A good partnership," he agrees, his voice a low rumble.
He allows himself one moment, just one, to savor the connection before gently releasing her hand.
"Likewise," she says softly, and there's something unreadable in her expression now, something that makes his heart thud a little harder against his ribs.
For a breath, they simply stand there, the morning air fresh between them, filled with possibility. Then Meadow turns toward the stables, gesturing for her to follow.
It's time to begin.
8
THE PACK OF THREE
~MEADOW~
The rhythmof the brush against Maple's chestnut coat soothes Marigold's thoughts into a gentle cadence.
Stroke, stroke, pause. Stroke, stroke, pause.
So different from the one-two-three, one-two-three that once dictated her every waking moment.
"You're a good girl, aren't you?" she murmurs, watching the horse's ears twitch backward at the sound of her voice. "No judges scoring your form, no critics analyzing your extension."
