Page 67 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
Yet here she is, pleading with this man to continue touching her, to keep stoking the fire that threatens to consume her from within.
"Please," she adds, the word barely audible, hardly more than a breath shaped by desperate lips. Her voice trembles like a leaf in autumn, clinging precariously to its branch before the inevitable fall.
Meadow's response is a groan that seems torn from the very core of him, a sound so primal it makes the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. His eyes, usually warm brown and calm as still water, have darkened to nearly black, only a thin ring of amber visible around dilated pupils.
They fix on her with an intensity that makes her feel simultaneously exposed and cherished.
"You don't know what you're asking," he says, the words rough-edged, his chest rising and falling rapidly with labored breath. A muscle jumps in his jaw, evidence of the war being waged behind his composed exterior.
"I do," she insists, though, in truth, she doesn't know exactly what she's asking for — only that the absence of his touch has become unbearable, a physical pain radiating outward from her core. "I want this. I want you…to help…me? Relieve me? Please, Meadow."
The confession costs her something —pride, perhaps, or the illusion of control she's maintained so carefully.But the relief of honesty outweighs the discomfort of vulnerability. She is tired of pretending, of denying what her body has known from the first moment she met him.
Meadow's hand uncurls, resuming its place on her thigh. The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of her lace underwear, branding her.
With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. The tenderness of the gesture contrasts sharply with the barely contained desire evident in every line of his body.
He leans forward, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of her neck as he brings his lips to her ear. His breath is hot against her skin, sending a cascade of shivers down her spine.
She tilts her head instinctively, offering more of herself to him, an unconscious gesture of submission that draws another groan from deep in his chest.
"This isn't how I imagined our first time," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears. "Not in a car, not like some desperate teenagers." His lips brush the shell of her ear as he speaks, each word a caress that makes her shudder. "You deserve better than this."
"I don't care," she whispers back, turning to catch the corner of his mouth with hers. "I just need?—"
He silences her with a kiss, deep and thorough, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with newfound urgency. When he pulls back, they're both breathing hard, the windows of the car completely opaque with condensation.
"I know what you need," he says, his thumb tracing patterns on her inner thigh, each circuit bringing him incrementally higher. "I can smell it on you. Feel it." His voice drops even lower. "But I need you to understand what this is."
Confusion penetrates the haze of desire.
"What do you mean?"
Meadow sighs, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes close briefly, as if gathering strength, before meeting her gaze again.
"This—what I'm offering you right now—it's just to ease the burning. To take the edge off until you're ready."
"Ready for what?" she asks, bewildered.
His smile is soft, almost sad.
"Ready to fully give yourself to the one you truly desire." His hand finally reaches the juncture of her thighs, cupping her through her dress, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. "This is just a favor, Marigold. A taste of what you could have when you're ready to accept it completely."
The words make no sense through the fog of arousal clouding her brain.
Who else would she desire? How could he think this was anything but completely overwhelming in its intensity?
She opens her mouth to question him further, but his fingers press more firmly against her center, sending a jolt of pleasure that steals her ability to form words.
"Let me do this for you," he whispers, circling his thumb over the spot where she's most sensitive, even through the layers of clothing. "Let me show you how good it can be."
There's something in his voice —a vulnerability beneath the confidence— that tugs at her heart. As if he's offering a piece of himself while simultaneously holding something back.
It's confusing, and maddening, but the pressure of his hand is making it impossible to think clearly.
That claiming ownership of him cupping her dripping pussy like it’s his to claim.
And his to feast on.
