Page 29 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"This isn't right," he mutters deep in his chest, even as his hand begins to move with a knowing urgency. "She's wounded. Broken. She needs time..."
His breathing is ragged, words barely audible beneath the pounding water.
But his body, alive with awakened hunger, ignores the protest.
In his mind, Marigold isn't broken at all — she's magnificent and whole, a vision of strength that makes his heart race. He imagines her small frame pressed snug against his, her poised, ballet-trained body arching with a grace that leaves him breathless.
Her emerald silk hair — how would it look darkened by the shower spray, slick and clinging to her porcelain skin?
His strokes become more insistent, driven by the intoxicating images.
In this private fantasy, she's willing and eager, her Omega nature responding fully to his Alpha call. He pictures her bending forward, his large hand circling gently yet possessively around her delicate throat —not to hurt, never to hurt— but to anchor her as he claims her from behind, completely and without reservation.
"You're safe with me," he whispers to the phantom Marigold, his imagination conjuring the soft, irresistible sounds she might make, imagining with total clarity the way her body might yield, accepting him with an implicit, unspoken trust.
The tension coils tighter within him, his muscles straining as he works himself faster, his mind lost in the fantasy of her.
His hand wraps around his thick cock, already swollen and hard, the veins pronounced beneath his palm. He strokes slowly at first, savoring the heavyweight in his grip, the ache building low and unforgiving.
Water sluices down his body, but when he glances down, he sees the beading at the tip — thick, milky, unmistakably not the work of the shower. He brushes his thumb across the sensitive head and shudders. It’s been years since he’s been this hard.
Since he’sfeltthis kind of need.
Not since Eliza.
Not since love still felt possible.
He fists himself tighter, his movements growing rougher. The hunger he thought long buried now pulses through every nerve, raw and undeniable. He pictures Marigold turning to look at him over her shoulder, those stunning eyes dark with desire, trusting him completely.
Her small frame presses snugly against him, her poised, ballet-trained body arching with a grace that leaves him breathless. He imagines her emerald silk hair, darkened by the shower spray, slick and clinging to her porcelain skin.
The way she’d gasp when he grips her hips. The soft whimper she’d let out when he thrusts in deeper, the trust in her submission undoing him completely.
His breath turns ragged.
Each movement of his hand is more desperate now, more consuming, hips jerking forward into nothing but air and steam. He groans low in his throat, a primal sound swallowed by the rush of water.
His free hand slams against the tile for balance, forehead pressing hard into the coolness of the wall. He pictures her mouth parting, head falling back, her soft moans wrapping around him like silk.
"Marigold," he growls, the name torn from his throat as release claims him, his body shuddering with the force of it. "Mari..."
He spills over his hand, hot and thick, his orgasm hitting like a wave that steals his breath and leaves him gasping. The slickmess is quickly washed away by the cascading water, but the shame lingers —immediate and cutting.
The intensity leaves him momentarily stunned, leaning heavily against the shower wall.
As reality crashes back, shame creeps in at the edges, dark and familiar. He's known the woman all of a day, barely exchanging more than necessary words with her.
This isn't him — never him.
He's always been the controlled one, the Alpha who doesn't let instincts override reason. He closes his eyes against the rush of emotion, the heat and want that have filled the room with their heavy presence.
"Get it together," he mutters, mouth twisted in self-reproach.
The water begins to cool, and Meadow shuts it off with more force than necessary. He steps out, reaching for a towel, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The steam in the room seems to bear witness to his lapse, his disgrace. Marigold doesn't need him in her life — a widowed Alpha who promised himself never to care again.
"She deserves peace," he says, self-contempt lacing the whisper. "Not me."
A single towel around his waist, Meadow moves to the sink, and splashes cold water on his face, trying to wash away the last traces of his desire. He remembers the wariness in her eyes when she'd realized an Alpha had caught her.
