Page 61 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"It's different. Since coming here. I guess…I thought it wouldn’t really bother me since it’s not like I had a heat with Rowan and…."
She doesn't finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air between us.
Since meeting me — meeting the men of my little pack.
The thought sends a surge of possessive pleasure through me, followed immediately by caution. I can't assume. Can't presume to know what she's feeling or why.
"The change in environment can affect hormonal balance," I offer, falling back on factual information to mask the intensity of my reaction. "New surroundings, different water, altered routine."
"Is that all it is?" she asks, and there's something in her voice — a hint of challenge, perhaps, or curiosity — that makes my pulse quicken.
Our eyes meet again, and this time, I don't look away.Can't look away.The space between us seems to contract, the air growing thicker, charged with potential.
My gaze drops to her lips, then back to her eyes. I watch as her pupils dilate, dark centers expanding to swallow the iris.
I want to reach for her. To close the distance between us.
To discover if her lips are as soft as they look, if her skin tastes as sweet as it smells. The urge is almost overwhelming, a physical ache that starts in my chest and radiates outward, settling low in my abdomen.
But I don't move. Don't reach. Don't take.
Because despite the signals her body is sending —the quickened breath, the flushed cheeks, the sweetening scent— I don't know what she wants.
What she needs.
What's best for her in this moment of vulnerability.
And her needs must come before my desires.
Always.
So I sit perfectly still, locked in this moment of exquisite tension, waiting for a sign, a word, any indication of what she wants me to do.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. The only sounds are our breathing — hers slightly faster than mine — and the distant hum of traffic from the main road.
Time seems to slow, each second expanding to contain multitudes of wanting, of restraint, of possibility.
Outside, a car passes on the street, its headlights briefly illuminating the interior of our vehicle. The flash of light breaks the spell, and Marigold blinks, drawing back slightly.
"I should probably go home," she says softly, though she makes no move to straighten in her seat, to put distance between us. “I can always come to dinner another time.”
I should agree with her.
At least, I want to, but I can’t stop myself from being rebellious.
"What if we…do something that can cool things down a bit?” he whispers, offering the suggestion slowly, realizing what he’s potentially asking of her.
“Defy cooling off?” she whispers, and I can see it in her eyes that she knows exactly what I’m referring to.
What I’m potentially asking.
Neither of us moves.
The moment hangs suspended, fragile as blown glass, perfect in its incompletion.
I know I have to make the first move.
She’s begging me with those eyes of hers, all doe and so fucking hot.
