Page 68 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
"I don't understand," she manages, her voice breaking as he continues his gentle assault on her senses. "Why are you talking about someone else? There isn't?—"
"Shh," he soothes, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It doesn't matter now. Just let me take care of you."
Frustration mingles with desire, creating a cocktail of emotions that threatens to overwhelm her.
She wants to argue, to make him explain himself, but his touch is dissolving her resistance, turning her bones to liquid, her objections to sighs. The heat between her legs has become an insistent throb, demanding attention, crowding out rational thought.
"Meadow," she tries again, her voice catching as his fingers find a particularly sensitive spot. "I don't want anyone else. Just you. This isn't…ah…this isn't a favor I'm asking for."
He hesitates, his hand stilling.
For a moment, hope flares in his eyes, bright and fierce, before caution shutters it again.
"You don't know what you're saying," he murmurs, though his tone has softened. "You're caught up in the moment. In the pheromones."
There's truth in what he says — she is caught up, swept away by sensations she's never experienced with such intensity. But beneath the physical need is something else, something that's been building slowly, brick by brick, in the few days she's known him.
Trust. Admiration.
A growing affection that might be something more, given time and nurturing.
"Maybe," she admits, her honesty surprising both of them. "Yes," she says, no hesitation now. "Yes… you’re right…but…please don't stop. Just make me feel good? Pretty please?"
The groan that escapes him at her words is primal, rumbling up from deep in his chest, vibrating against her where their bodies press together.
His control visibly frayed, the careful composure cracking to reveal the raw desire beneath. His breathing grows ragged, his movements less measured, more instinctive.
"The things you do to me," he mutters, echoing his earlier words, but now they're tinged with a note of wonder, of surrender. "The way you make me feel..."
He leans in, his lips finding the pulse point at her neck, tongue tracing the rapid beat of her heart beneath the skin. His teeth graze the sensitive spot, not biting, just suggesting the possibility, and it sends a shock wave of pleasure radiating through her body.
Her head falls back against the seat, a moan escaping her parted lips.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice a rough caress. "Let me hear you. Let me know what you like."
His hand begins to move again, more purposefully now, fingers tracing the outline of her lace panties, that thin fabric between them is an annoyance, a barrier that dulls the sensations she craves, but even through it, his touch is electric.
Marigold's eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the tide of sensation washing over her. Whatever Meadow meant by his cryptic words —whoever he thinks she truly desires to have first— can be sorted out later. '
For now, there is only this:his hands on her body, his breath in her ear, the intoxicating scent of their combined arousal filling the enclosed space of the car.
Meadow's touch changes, his fingers trailing lower with deliberate intent, and Marigold holds her breath as his hand disappears beneath the hem of her dress.
The rough pads of his fingertips graze the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake, tiny mountains rising on the plains of her flesh. His eyes never leave hers, watching, gauging, learning the geography of her desires through the silent language of her expressions.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word falling like a warm stone into the pool of tension between them. His fingers trace higher, drawing invisible patterns that make her muscles twitch and flutter beneath his touch.
When he reaches the edge of her underwear, soaked through with evidence of her desire, he pauses.
"May I?"
The question hangs in the stifling air of the car, heavy with implication.
“Fuck yes,” she moans, more than ready for his tempting fingers that have tempted her all this while with ownership of hissinful touches. Marigold can only nod, words having abandoned her along with her inhibitions.
Meadow hooks his fingers under the elastic of her panties and tugs. The fabric clings to her skin, reluctant to part from her dampness. She lifts her hips to help him, a blush crawling up her neck at the wet sound the material makes as it peels away from her.
The cool air of the car—not so cool anymore with their combined heat—touches her exposed center, drawing a gasp from her parted lips.
