Page 55 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
She’d buck. Whine. Whisper filthy little things that only make me want to ruin her more.
I’d keep her there, riding the edge, making her beg, making her melt.
And then — just as she starts to tremble — I’d lean back, reach for the buckle of my jeans, and free the beast that’s been straining for her all damn day. Veiny, thick, throbbing with the kind of hunger that only she could satisfy.
Because tonight, I don’t want to take her.
I want her to ride me like she owns me.
"Meadow?" Her voice cuts through my fantasy, bringing me back to the reality of the parking lot, the open hood, the distance between us.
Fucking hell…
I clear my throat.
"Almost done," I lie, though I haven't accomplished anything but torturing myself.
I force myself to focus on the motor oil cap, unscrewing it with fingers that don't feel like my own. The cap comes away, and I reach for the bottle of oil I brought from my trunk. The mundane action does nothing to quiet my thoughts, which continue their dangerous trajectory.
In the sanctuary of my mind, I see her reclined against the passenger seat, her dress hiked up, her legs parted in invitation.
I see myself moving over her, covering her body with mine, protecting and possessing all at once. I would whisper against her skin all the things I cannot say aloud — how her scent drives me wild, how the curve of her smile makes my heart stutter, how I've never wanted anyone with this fierce, consuming need.
I shake my head sharply, trying to dislodge the images.
This is inappropriate.
Unprofessional.
Unwelcome, surely.
Marigold came to Willowbend to escape, not to be the object of yet another's desire. I know just a hint of her history, and the last thing she needs is me, losing control like some untried teenager.
The bottle of oil slips in my grasp, nearly spilling.
I catch it just in time, my reflexes faster than my scattered thoughts.
"Do you need help?" she asks, and I hear the soft scuff of her shoes against asphalt as she takes a step toward me.
"No!" The word comes out too sharp, too loud. I modulate my voice. "No, thank you. Please, stay there. The ground is…dirty."
It's a pathetic excuse, but I need her to keep her distance.
If she comes closer, if her scent intensifies, if I have to look directly at her while my body is in this state... I'm not certain of my ability to maintain the careful facade of professional distance I've constructed.
I pour the oil slowly, watching it disappear into the engine's depths.
My hands have steadied somewhat, but my heart continues its frantic rhythm. The hard length between my legs has not abated; if anything, my body has grown more insistent in its demands.
With each breath, I try to reclaim control.
In. Out. Focus on the task.
Not on how it would feel to have her underneath me, responding to my touch with sighs and whispers. Not on how I would worship every inch of her body, erasing the memory of rejection with adoration. Not on how perfectly we would fit together, as though designed by some cosmic hand for this very purpose.
I replace the cap, tighten it securely. The simple action requires all my concentration. When I finally straighten and lower the hood, letting it close with a definitive thunk, I still don't turn around immediately.
Instead, I stare at my hands, at the smudges of oil that somehow made their way onto my skin despite my care.
