Page 63 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
The console between them becomes an annoying barrier, and Marigold shifts in her seat, trying to get closer without breaking their connection. Meadow senses her frustration and smiles against her lips, the curve of his mouth a promise that there will be time for more, for better, for fewer obstacles between them.
His tongue traces the seam of her lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance. She grants it with a soft sigh that he captures as if collecting her breath to keep as his own.
The first touch of his tongue against hers sends a shock wave through her body, a current of desire that leaves her fingers tingling and her toes curling in her worn boots.
Meadow explores her mouth with the same thoroughness he applies to everything in his life — methodical yet passionate, deliberate yet instinctive.
He tastes every corner, memorizes every reaction, and adjusts to every unconscious guidance she gives. When she gasps at the gentle scrape of his teeth on her bottom lip, he notes it and repeats the action, drawing out another small sound of pleasure.
The kiss evolves, becoming a dance of give and take.
Marigold, initially passive in her surprise, now matches his rhythm, her tongue meeting his, her hands exploring the solid planes of his shoulders through his flannel shirt. She can feel the heat of him radiating through the fabric, his body a furnace of contained power.
The windows begin to fog with their shared breath, creating a cocoon of privacy in the otherwise exposed parking area.
Marigold vaguely registers the sound of distant traffic, a reminder of the world continuing beyond their bubble of intimacy. It seems impossible that time hasn't stopped for everyone else too, that the universe isn't pausing to acknowledge this shift between them.
Meadow's hand moves from her face, trailing down her neck, lingering at the pulse point where her heart announces its rapid beat against his fingertips. He follows the line of her collarbone, exposed by the wide neckline of her dress, his touch feather-light but leaving fire in its wake.
The white floral pattern seems to bloom beneath his hand as it travels lower, skimming over the fabric that covers her breast.
Even through the material, she feels the heat of his palm as if the dress were made of gossamer rather than cotton.
Her body responds without conscious permission, arching slightly into his touch, seeking more. A small moan escapes her, the sound swallowed by their joined mouths but felt by both of them, a vibration that spurs Meadow to deepen the kiss even further.
His tongue becomes more assertive, exploring her with increasing boldness.
It's no longer just her mouth he's claiming — it's a preview, a promise of how thoroughly he could explore the rest of her body. The thought sends a liquid heat pooling in her core, a sensation so intense it makes her thighs press together instinctively.
Meadow's experience is evident in how confidently he reads her body's signals, and how effortlessly he builds her desire with just his mouth and the barest touch of his hand. There's wisdom in his restraint, in how he holds back when everything in her wants to rush forward.
He's teaching her patience in the most exquisite way.
When they finally break apart, both gasping for air, Marigold feels dizzy with want. Her lips are swollen and sensitive, tingling with the memory of his. Meadow's chest rises and falls rapidly, his control visibly fraying at the edges.
His hand still rests at the curve of her breast, neither advancing nor retreating, waiting.
"Should I stop?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper in the confined space of the car.
The question hangs between them, weighted with implications and possibilities.
Marigold's answer isn't verbal. She responds with a soft, inviting moan that comes from deep within her chest, a sound of yearning that communicates more clearly than words.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, meet his, conveying permission —no, encouragement—for him to continue.
That's all Meadow needs.
His mouth captures hers again, this time with renewed hunger.
The hesitation is gone, replaced by a certainty that makes Marigold's breath catch. His tongue claims her mouth more deeply, more insistently, mimicking the intimacy they both crave.
Dinner will grow cold. The others will wonder about their delayed return.
For now, there is only this — Meadow's mouth on hers, his hand beginning a careful exploration of her body, and the growing realization that everything between them has irrevocably changed.
Meadow's handslides down her body with unhurried confidence, as if they have all the time in the world —as ifthe car isn't parked in a semi-public space where anyone could walk by.
His palm glides over the thin fabric of her dress, mapping the gentle slope of her waist, and the flare of her hip, before returning upward with deliberate intent. Marigold holds her breath, anticipation drawn tight as a bowstring in her chest.
