Page 54 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
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. Herquestion 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.
