Chapter 33
Marigold watched him finish the last sip of his Moonlight Mocha, the way his shoulders finally dropped in relief, as if a substantial burden had been physically lifted by the dark, creamy liquid.
Her heart ached with a deep, weary love.
A month ago, he had violently refused a simple cup of coffee she’d offered.
Every rejection, every stony stare, had been a fresh reminder of the lie he believed—that she was manipulative and dangerous.
It had broken her heart each time, knowing he thought the worst of her, that he believed their genuine love was a manufactured spell.
She had heard his apology—simple and heartfelt. He had admitted the truth of Ellie’s betrayal and his own blindness. Now, all that remained was the space between them, weighted by a decade of loss.
Marigold took a slow breath, letting her own turbulent emotions settle into a quiet resolve.
She had her truth. He had confessed his pain and regret.
There was no need for further recrimination.
She looked at his waiting face, seeing the honesty that finally shone in his golden-brown eyes, and finally said the words she knew she should have uttered the moment he confessed everything.
“I accept your apology,” she whispered. “I just wish it hadn’t taken us ten years to get here.
Maybe it’s finally time we stop letting old ghosts haunt us. "
The effect was instantaneous. A genuine, unrestrained smile—the kind that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners—spread across his face. As she watched his face, her heart felt lighter.
His large hand reached across the table, palm up, calloused. Goldie looked at that hand for a second, her own pulse fluttering. It was the hand of a protector, the hand of the boy who had once held her heart. Shaking off the last vestige of fear, she placed her smaller, softer hand in his.
He didn’t hesitate. With a decisive, powerful yank, he pulled her toward him. She tumbled out of her chair, a surprised gasp escaping her lips, and landed securely in his lap. His arms instantly encircled her waist, holding her tight against the solid, familiar expanse of his chest.
"Always a stubborn one, my little Goldie,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough sound that vibrated against her ear.
“I’m the stubborn one?” she laughed.
His hand immediately brushed through the gold and green strands of her hair, a tender, intimate gesture she hadn’t realized she desperately missed, before finding the back of her neck and cupping it, pulling her head up. His mouth, warm and searching, found hers.
For a second, Goldie thought about pushing away, but his scent, the taste of him, and the warmth of his arms melted away her resistance.
When his tongue danced across the inside of her mouth, it was a sudden, electric shock, stealing the breath from her lungs.
She stopped thinking, stopped fighting, and let herself simply exist in the orbit of his touch.
As his hands slid under the hem of her sweater, the cool air vanished, replaced by the searing friction of his palms against her midriff.
His rough fingers felt impossibly hot against her flushed skin, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he grazed.
He shoved her sweater over her head. His fingers slid down her rib cage, finding the hem of her pants and tugging them off.
His hands traced a path, brushing over every inch of skin he could reach. Her breath hitched, a soft sound she couldn’t suppress, as her body betrayed her, arching into him, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by the intensity of his touch.
The harsh, jarring sound of shattering porcelain wasn’t a tragedy; it was the final barrier breaking between them.
Goldie gasped, the wind knocked out of her as he plopped her onto the now-clean table.
The world narrowed to just the heat radiating from him—the raw, possessive scent of myrrh and leather that she had spent ten years trying to scrub from her skin and soul, yet she couldn’t.
She didn’t give much thought to the chaos of being exposed in front of the cafe windows.
He was all urgency, his mouth crushing onto hers in a searing, desperate claim that silenced every argument, every accusation, every doubt that had plagued them.
Goldie’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to touch him.
The friction of his palms against her skin as he stripped her of the undergarments felt like a wildfire in the dry autumn air; she was shivering, not from the cold, but from the sudden, overwhelming exposure.
She felt vulnerable, stripped bare not just of her clothes, but of the defenses she’d worn like a shroud.
She felt the cool air touch her bare skin, a sudden jolt of exposure.
His lips moved from hers, trailing hot, wet kisses down her jawline to her throat.
For a brief, terrifying flash, her mind flickered to the storefront windows, to the reality that they were on display in the heart of Pumpkin Hollow.
The thought of being seen sent a jolt of panic through her, but it died the moment his mouth was on her breast, his teeth grazing, his tongue teasing, sucking in her nipple with a rhythm that snapped the tether of her reason.
All thoughts vanished, replaced by a blinding, white-hot pleasure.
He sucked on her breast for a long, rhythmic moment, his hands gripping her thighs, guiding her.
Then, his touch traveled further down, the air catching in her lungs as his hand moved between her legs.
When he found her clit, his thumb flicking it as his fingers slid in and out with teasing precision, a sound ripped from her throat—a raw, keening plea for more.
The magic that always hummed beneath her skin spiked, reacting to the sheer, unfiltered intensity of him, making the sensation deeper, wetter, and infinitely more consuming.
Her heart wasn’t just pounding; it was singing, a chaotic, dangerous melody that she knew, in her bones, changed everything.
The world narrowed until there was nothing left but the two of them, the shop around them fading into a blur of mahogany and shadows.
When he plopped her onto the table, the cool, smooth wood shocked her, but the sensation was fleeting, instantly replaced by the furnace of his body pressing against hers.
His lips were a desperate hunger, searing and demanding, forcing her to surrender every ounce of control she’d spent a decade hoarding.
His hands were everywhere, a frantic, reverent mapping of her skin.
For a brief, terrifying flash, she looked past his broad, flexing shoulders toward the windows, realizing how exposed she was—the streetlights flashing on and illuminating the street.
She was on display, vulnerable and raw. But then his mouth found the hardened peak of her nipple, his tongue hot and his pull deep, and the world outside simply ceased to exist. Every thought evaporated, burned away by the friction of his teeth against her skin and the primal, electric current that surged through her.
He moved lower, his movements confident and precise.
He didn’t hesitate—he simply claimed her.
The sensation was a shockwave, a sudden, blinding light in the center of her being that had nothing to do with magic spells and everything to do with the man who had haunted her for years.
She gasped, her head rolling back as the ceiling blurred, the hard wood biting into her fingers as they gripped the edge of the table, but feeling like a lifeline.
Pressure coiled tight in her stomach, a taut, vibrating wire of need that built with every slide of his fingers, with every knowing stroke of his tongue.
It was agonizingly beautiful. She felt the pressure swell, an overwhelming tide that threatened to shatter her composure entirely.
Her arms gave out, and she slumped onto the table, her fingers instinctively tangling into his hair, pulling him closer as if she could fuse their souls back together.
His touch was marvelous, a language he spoke fluently, one she had forgotten but her body remembered in perfect detail.
She wasn't the witch who had enchanted him, and he wasn't the monster who had broken her; in this space, there was only the raw, burning truth of their connection, exploding into a reality she had been terrified to dream of again.
Then he adjusted her hips, his hands large and possessive against her skin, anchoring her as he forced her to open wider.
When he thrust forward, it felt like an ending and a beginning all at once.
She gasped, her body instinctively stretching to accommodate his length, her core tightening around him with a frantic, desperate suction.
He was inside her; the friction was searing.
The rhythm began, a slow, deep deliberation that felt like a question he was finally answering.
In and out, a constant, grounding motion that shattered the last of her defenses.
She felt every inch of him as her fingers slid down.
The muscles of his back flexed as she gripped him, her nails digging into his skin.
With every thrust, the world outside—the cafe, the festival, the broken promises—receded, leaving only the wet, rhythmic slide of his skin against hers. Pressure built behind her navel, a golden, swirling ache that pulsed in time with his movements.
Suddenly, the dam broke. A wave of blinding, white-hot ecstasy crested within her, rippling out from her center to the very tips of her fingers.
Her body bowed, her head falling back as a guttural cry escaped her, caught in the quiet air of the shop.
She shattered, her core pulsing around him in a rhythmic, uncontrollable contraction, milking the pleasure until she was trembling, utterly unmade.
He didn’t stop, his own pace quickening, his breathing turning into a ragged, broken sound against the crook of her neck.
A moment later, she felt the sudden, heavy throb of his release deep within her.
He held her there, pulsing in her, his heartbeat slowing to match her own, the silence between them suddenly heavy.
Afterward, she was curled against him on the soft, plush velvet of the cafe bench, his scent surrounding her like a warm, protective blanket.