Page 52 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
He nods and steps back, making room for her to exit. Marigold balances the board carefully in both hands as she steps forward. The porch is small, just a single wooden step down to the path. She's navigated it hundreds of times since moving in, her dancer's balance making such trivial obstacles afterthoughts.
But today—perhaps it's the slight nervousness humming in her veins, or the way Meadow's presence seems to fill up her awareness, or simply the universe's sense of comedic timing—her right boot catches on the edge of the step. The world tilts alarmingly as she pitches forward, the carefully wrapped charcuterie board lifting slightly in her hands as her body dips toward the ground.
Time seems to stretch and compress simultaneously. She has just enough awareness to think, "Not the white dress," when suddenly, strong hands are gripping her waist, halting her fall with such decisive force that she feels weightless for a moment.
Meadow lifts her as if she weighs nothing, his grip firm but not painful. One large hand spans nearly the entirety of her waist, his fingers warm even through the fabric of her dress. The other arm has wrapped around her, just below her rib cage, a band of solid support. Her feet actually leave the ground for a second before he sets her down, steadying her with those same strong hands.
The entire rescue happens in the space of a heartbeat, a display of Alpha reflexes and strength that leaves Marigold breathless. But now comes the moment that truly steals her air—they're face to face, bodies close enough that she can feel the radiating heat of him, smell the clean scent of his skin mixed with something earthy and distinctly male. His face is inches from hers, close enough that she can see the individual flecks of darker green in his irises, the faint stubble along his jaw that he must have recently trimmed.
His hands are still on her waist, steadying her, and the point of contact feels electric, like a current running directly into her core. Their eyes lock, and Marigold watches as his pupils dilate slightly, a physical reaction he can't control. She wonders if he can smell what's happening to her body, the instinctive Omega response that sends warmth cascading through her pelvis.
Because something primal and unstoppable is happening. Between her legs, she feels the sudden slick warmth of arousal, her body preparing itself in the most ancient way for an Alpha it recognizes as compatible, as desirable. The sensation is so intense, so unexpected that she has to press her thighs together, a movement that only intensifies the awareness of her own wetness.
A small sound escapes her—a whimper so soft it's barely audible, but in the charged silence between them, it might as well be a shout. She sees the moment Meadow hears it, watches his jaw tighten, feels the slight tightening of his fingers against her waist. The scent of her arousal must have reached him now; his nostrils flare subtly, and she can actually see the pulse point in his neck quicken its rhythm.
Marigold bites her lower lip, a nervous gesture she thought she'd outgrown years ago. The pressure of her teeth against sensitive skin grounds her momentarily in the physical reality outside the magnetic pull between them. But it backfires whenMeadow's gaze drops to her mouth, tracking the movement with an intensity that makes her lips tingle as if he's actually touched them.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, so deep she feels it more than hears it. The sound travels straight to her core, awakening something equally primitive in her, something that wants to bare her neck to him, to press closer until there's no space between their bodies. The charcuterie board, still miraculously intact in her hands, is the only thing separating them, a fragile barrier of civilization between two bodies suddenly remembering they are more than rational minds.
"You need to be more careful," Meadow says finally, his voice pitched lower than before, rough at the edges. He leans in slightly, his breath warm against her ear as he adds, "Wouldn't want to bruise those pretty legs of yours."
The words, innocent enough on the surface, carry an undertone that makes her shiver. There's possession in them, care mixed with something darker, hungrier. Marigold nods, not trusting her voice, acutely aware that they are still standing too close, that his hands are still on her waist, that her body is betraying every attempt at casual friendliness with its insistent throbbing.
The moment stretches between them, taut as a wire. Something significant is happening, something that feels both inevitable and terrifying in its potential. They stand at a crossroads of possibility—one path leading back to safe, neighborly distance, the other plunging into uncharted territory that feels both dangerous and necessary.
Meadow's thumb moves in a small, perhaps unconscious circle against her side, the most minute caress. Marigold's breath catches, her eyelids growing heavy as her body leans infinitesimally closer to his.
The spell breaks when a distant vehicle backfires somewhere down the country road, the sound sharp enough to make them both flinch. Reality reasserts itself as Meadow takes a small step back, though his hands linger on her waist a moment longer, as if reluctant to break contact entirely.
"I have cheese!" Marigold blurts out, lifting the wrapped board slightly higher between them like a shield. The non sequitur hangs in the air for a moment before Meadow's serious expression cracks into a smile that transforms his entire face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and lighting his eyes with amusement.
"Do you now?" he says, the tension between them not disappearing but shifting into something more manageable, more contained. "Well, that's good. Cheese is... good."
His evident struggle to maintain the conversation in the face of their mutual awareness makes something loosen in Marigold's chest. He's affected too. Whatever just happened wasn't one-sided or imagined. The realization is both comforting and terrifying.
"And prosciutto," she adds, her voice steadier now. "And some other things. Nothing fancy."
"I'm sure it's perfect," he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes her believe he would think so even if she'd brought a pack of stale crackers and a slice of processed cheese.
He releases her waist at last, and Marigold feels both relief and disappointment at the loss of contact. His expression shifts to something more composed, though desire still lingers in the depths of his eyes, banked but not extinguished.
The air between them feels charged, like the moment before a summer storm breaks. Marigold's whimper seems to hang in the space between them, a small sound that betrays volumes. Meadow's eyes darken, a ring of amber flaring around his pupils as the Alpha in him responds to her Omega signals. His controlis admirable—no, impressive—the way he holds himself back when every line of his body suggests he wants to step closer rather than away. The growl that vibrates from his chest is primal and possessive, yet somehow tender in its restraint.
When he leans down to whisper about not bruising her pretty legs, his breath ghosts warm against her ear, sending shivers cascading down her spine. The words themselves aren't particularly suggestive, but the way he says them—low and intimate, with that slight emphasis on "pretty"—transforms them into something that makes heat pool low in her belly.
Marigold's lips part slightly, her breath quickening despite her best efforts to maintain composure. She's no blushing innocent—she's had lovers before, experienced desire—but this feels different. Rawer. More honest, somehow. Her body recognizes something in his that her conscious mind is still catching up to, some fundamental compatibility that goes beyond the simple Alpha/Omega dynamic.
"I have cheese!" Her blurted words hang between them, absurdly mundane against the backdrop of their mutual awareness. She could cringe at herself, at the gracelessness of her attempt to break this spell, but then Meadow smiles—a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating.
That smile does more to ease the tension than any words could. It humanizes him, makes him less the archetypal Alpha and more just... Meadow. A man who finds her endearing rather than awkward. Who seems to understand her need to step back from the precipice they've been approaching.
"And prosciutto," she adds, her voice steadier now, though her heartbeat hasn't quite gotten the message that they're returning to safer ground. "And some other things. Nothing fancy."
"I'm sure it's perfect," he says, and there's such simple certainty in his tone that she almost believes the hastily assembled board is something special. His eyes still hold that banked heat, but it's contained now, controlled. His hand at her waist gives one final, gentle squeeze before he releases her—a gesture that feels oddly like a promise for later.
The loss of his touch leaves her both relieved and bereft. She adjusts her grip on the charcuterie board, using the mundane action to ground herself, to pull her awareness back from the hyperfocus of his proximity.
Meadow clears his throat, glancing toward her driveway where the rental sedan sits uselessly. "I should take a look at your car," he says, his voice a touch rougher than usual. "Might be something simple."
