Page 58 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"I'm fine," she replies, but her voice has a breathless quality that belies her words. She clears her throat. "Though it is a little warm."
I adjust the temperature control, turning it down a notch. My fingers brush against the vent, checking the airflow.
"Better?"
She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is innocent, every day, but in my heightened state, it's unbearably intimate, revealing the delicate shell of her ear, the soft skin beneath.
The road stretches before us, empty and dark.
We're at least fifteen minutes fro the ranch, and I could probably sneak in a cold shower to calm my sanity from losing it.
Fifteen minutes in this confined space with her scent growing more enticing by the second, with every small movement sending fresh signals to my already alert senses.
I roll my window down further, desperate for clarity.
The cool night air rushes in, tousling her hair. A few strands come loose, dancing across her face. She reaches up to brush them away, and I catch the slight tremor in her fingers.
"Sorry," I mutter, rolling the window back up partway. "The road gets rough here. Better to have a clear view."
Another lie.
The road is perfectly smooth. But I need excuses, reasons for my erratic behavior that don't reveal the truth — that sitting beside her is the sweetest torture I've ever experienced.
She gazes out at the darkened landscape, her profile limned with silver from the occasional passing headlight. The silence between us has transformed, thick with unspoken awareness. I wonder if she can sense my state as clearly as I can sense hers.
If she knows that beneath my calm exterior, I'm fighting a battle against instincts that grow stronger with each passing mile.
The car feels like it's shrinking around us, the distance between our bodies decreasing though neither of us has moved. I can hear the soft sound of her breathing, slightly faster than normal. Can sense the heat radiating from her skin.
Can almost taste the tension in the air.
I turn on the radio, desperate for distraction.
Soft music fills the car — some contemporary melody I don't recognize. But instead of providing relief, it somehow makes the atmosphere more intimate, as if we're sharing something private.
She begins to hum along quietly, almost unconsciously.
The sound vibrates through me like a physical touch. I swallow hard and focus on the road ahead, on the yellow lines disappearing beneath the car, on anything but the woman beside me and what her presence is doing to my carefully constructed control.
Minutes stretch like hours.
Each breath feels significant, each shift of weight monumental. The rhythm of her breathing becomes the soundtrack to my thoughts, drowning out even the music from the radio.
As we approach the outskirts of the ranch, I make a decision.
Marigold's safety comes first — before my desires, before propriety, before anything else. If she's entering pre-Heat, she needs to know, and if we can prevent it, so she’s comfortable until she can figure out ‘arrangements’ even better.
She deserves the chance to prepare, to make informed decisions about her next steps.
But before I can find the right words, a new concern surfaces.
What if she's not prepared? What if she doesn't have the supplies she needs? The pharmacy would be closing soon, and the small convenience store in Willowbend hardly carries “specialized” products.
He has to restrain himself from growling at the idea of her needing to satisfy herself with some vibrating plastic.
When she could easily ride his cock that would be hard and thick, just for her…
He can’t imagine knotting in her, and that has him mentally shaking his head out of the mere idea.
