Page 62 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
As if i need more of a sign, she slowly licks her lips as if they’re dry like the Sahara Desert, while her eyes lower to mine, so briefly, so subtle.
Yet, the message is so fucking clear.
I wanted to be civil.
To claim I don’t act before using logic.
But that simply goes out the door when it comes to Marigold.
And I can’t dare to regret what I do next.
Which is why I’m leaning in before I can second-guess
Claiming those delicate lips like my life depended on it.
12
HEATED CURIOSITY
~MARIGOLD~
The evening light filters through the windshield, painting golden stripes across Marigold's hands as she fidgets with the hem of her white floral dress.
Her mind races in light of their discussion, the tension between them so palpable, that she forgets to breathe. It’s at that moment when Meadow turns to her, his expression unreadable in the shadows.
Then his lips are on hers, rough yet firm, and the list of uncertainties and wonders revolving around embarrassment in her head scatters like startled birds taking flight.
The kiss steals her breath, her thoughts, her very sense of self.
For a heartbeat, she freezes, the shock of his boldness holding her captive.
Meadow Calloway, the stoic yet calm Alpha who speaks more to his horses than to people, is kissing her with an intensity that makes her fingers curl against the seat leather.
His beard scrapes gently against her chin, a pleasant friction that grounds her at the moment even as her mind struggles to catch up.
When did they park? They discussed needing something in the pharmacy. Things. For her. The discussion of Heats. Temporary relief. This is the ‘temporary’ notion.
Yet here they are, his mouth claiming hers with a confidence that makes her stomach flutter.
Marigold's surprise melts like morning frost under a persistent sun. Her lips softened beneath his, parting slightly in invitation.
The taste of him floods her senses — coffee and mint and something uniquely him, an earthy sweetness that reminds her of hay fields after rain. She leans into him, her heartbeat quickening to a staccato that drowns out the rational part of her brain, the part that's trying to remember why this is complicated.
"Meadow," she murmurs against his mouth, but it's not a protest — it's recognition, acceptance, perhaps even gratitude.
He pulls back just enough to look at her, his eyes reflecting the dying light, turning them from their usual brown to pools of liquid amber.
His gaze holds a question, a pause that gives her space to retreat if she wishes.
But retreat is the furthest thing from her mind.
The ranch, the responsibilities, the dinner back at the ranch, probably still steamy warm, and the others waiting for us to return so we can eat in unison — all of it fades to insignificance compared to the heat building between them.
Marigold reaches up, her fingers threading through his thick hair, answering his unspoken question by drawing him back to her.
This second kiss deepens immediately, no hesitation in either of them now.
Meadow's hands cradle her face, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasts the growing urgency of his mouth. His lips move against hers with slow, deliberate intent, each movement a conversation in itself —telling her how long he's wanted this, how much he's restrained himself, how completely he intends to savor her now.
