Chapter 12
Marigold
The world narrows to his heartbeat.
To the warmth of his hands, the soft rumble of his breath against my neck.
When Eb carries me upstairs, it isn’t rushed or clumsy.
It’s sure. Steady.
Like he’s been waiting for this—for me—longer than he wants to admit.
The second Eb closes the bathroom door behind us, it’s like the world stops spinning.
He turns the water on, and the air in the tiny bathroom turns misty in seconds, the sound of running water filling the silence between us.
He sets me down gently, and for a moment, we just stand there—steam curling around us, Christmas lights from the bakery window casting a golden glow through the frosted glass.
His fingers brush over my cheek, sweeping away a streak of flour I didn’t know was still there.
His eyes never leave mine—not when his fingers tug gently at the bow of my apron, not when it falls to the floor between us with a soft whisper.
“I should probably say something romantic right about now,” he says, voice husky, lips curved in that crooked half-smile that makes my insides turn to cinnamon sugar.
“You just carried me up a flight of stairs and turned my knees to jelly with a kiss,” I whisper back. “You’re good.”
His grin deepens, and that damn dimple finally makes an appearance. I’ve been waiting for it all day.
Then I watch as one hand goes behind his head and he tugs off his undershirt in that hot boy move I’ve only ever seen in movies or read about in books.
Good Lord, he is fine.
I’m nervous, but I don’t want to be. So, I follow suit.
Together, we strip. And by the time we’re both standing nude, I swear to God, I am so turned on my thighs must be glistening with it.
Eb’s eyes are glowing in the steamy bathroom, and I can almost feel that lusty growl of his reverberating in the very air.
“Get in the shower, Honey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Before I forget all about soap and hot water.”
I do as he says, mostly because I’m afraid if I stay still, I might combust.
The tile is warm against my back, and the water turns everything golden—my skin, the air, the sharp angles of his jaw as he steps in after me.
My breath catches when his hands find my waist.
Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just there. Grounding me.
“You smell like vanilla,” he says, almost reverently, his voice low and rough with something that feels a lot like awe.
“Probably the frosting,” I manage to say, even though I’m already dizzy from the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m something worth savoring.
His hand curves around my hip, slow and deliberate.
“You feel sublime, Honey.”
That word hits something deep inside me—something tender I don’t always let people see. I suck in a breath and try to joke, deflect, anything.
“I—I’m too big—”
Eb cuts me off with a look. Not a glare, not even a frown. Just a look so steady it makes my heart stop.
“Have you seen me, Marigold?” he asks softly, guiding my hand to his chest.
His body is solid heat beneath my palm. His heart thumps hard against my fingertips. His cock brushes my belly, and it’s thick and long and hard—for me.
Eb is real. Alive. Undeniably here.
“Look at us,” he says, voice like velvet and thunder.
I do. I tip my chin up and let my eyes roam, just like he wants. From the sharp line of his jaw dusted in stubble, to those piercing green eyes that seem to see everything.
Higher still, the wet mess of dark hair curling over his forehead with shocks of white on either side.
He’s tall—towering, even—wide in the shoulders, with strong arms and chest, every inch of him built like a wall I want to climb.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way he watches me while I’m looking.
Like he’s memorizing me back.
Like he’s just as fascinated.
And while I’m busy staring, he’s doing his own inspection.
His gaze dips to where the water trickles over my breasts, down my soft belly, over the swell of my hips.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t leer or judge.
He studies me.
Drinks me in.
“Every inch of you is fucking delectable,” he murmurs. “I mean it, Marigold.”
My name sounds like a secret on his lips. A promise.
And when his hands slide to my waist and he pulls me closer, our bare bodies slick and hot under the spray, I finally believe him.
He sees me.
Wants me.
All of me.
And that might just be the sexiest thing of all.
His hands move slowly—up my spine, over my shoulders, into my hair—and I swear I melt into the water.
Every touch is a question.
Every kiss is an answer.
There’s nothing rushed about it. Nothing practiced.
Just heat and laughter and mouths exploring like we’ve only just learned what it means to want and be wanted back.
He washes my hair like it’s some sacred act, whispering things I can’t quite catch over the sound of my heartbeat.
And when it’s my turn, when I press close and trace my soapy fingers down the line of his back, over his perfect ass, and he lets out a sound that’s part growl, part prayer.
We don’t rush.
We don’t need to.
It’s all in the way our bodies move together—like a secret only we know.
“You’re so fucking soft, Honey. Are you wet for me?” he asks, falling to his knees, lifting one of my legs and draping it over his shoulder.
I’m so turned on, so out of breath by the mere idea of him eating me out, I just let him.
My eyes are wide as he latches onto my pussy with his talented mouth, and I moan loudly.
“Eb!”
I fist his hair as he growls and licks me from ass to clit, long, slow swipes that get faster and faster.
My pussy is aching, clenching on air.
“Please,” I beg.
“You need to come, Honey? Need me to fill this perfect pussy?”
My heart squeezes. My breath catches.
No one has ever talked to me like this before, and I am so here for it.
His words are filthy, but they ignite something inside me.
Something hot and dirty that I didn’t know I needed. But I feel it now.
And crazy as it is, I trust him to take me exactly where I need to go.
“Taste so fucking good. Like the sweetest honey. C’mere,” he grunts and pulls me closer to his face with one big hand on my ass, while the other is busy sliding up my inner thigh.
His mouth works me like he’s starved.
Like I’m dessert and dinner and every damn craving he’s ever denied himself.
His fingers dig into my thighs, spreading me open, grounding me against the slick wall of the shower as steam curls around us like a spell.
I whimper and nod, sighing in relief when he finally pushes two thick fingers inside.
“Fuck, you’re tight. Hold on,” he growls, sucking on my clit and making me see stars.
And I do.
I hold on.
To his hair, mainly—but he just groans when I tug, the low, primal sound vibrating against my core like a secret he’s only telling my body.
“Eb,” I gasp, my voice ragged. I don’t even know what I’m begging for.
He answers with a growl and curls his fingers—and holy shit, that’s it.
The orgasm rips through me like a live wire—hot, consuming, perfect. My knees buckle, my head falls back, and I see stars behind my closed eyelids. Holy fucking shit. It’s so good I want to cry. Or laugh. Or climb him like a damn tree and never come down.
But I don’t get the chance.
Because I’m still high, still shaking, still catching my breath when he turns me around.
His grip is firm but reverent as he places my palms against the cool tile.
My body obeys on instinct, trusting him completely—something that would terrify me if it didn’t feel so right.
His hand traces down my spine, slow and steady, until it cups my hip and pulls me back.
I feel him—hot and heavy, poised at my entrance—and my body tightens in anticipation.
“Eb,” I whisper again, but it sounds different this time.
Softer. Needier. A prayer, not a protest.
He leans in, his chest against my back, lips at my ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps.
“I can’t.”
“That’s my good girl,” he growls.
Then he pushes in.
Sweet Geezus.
He’s thick.
So damn thick it feels like I’m splitting open, like he’s carving a space inside me that no one else has ever touched.
My hands press flat against the wall. My forehead follows, lips parted as I moan his name again.
He groans like he’s just found heaven.
“Fuck, Honey. You feel like a dream.”
His hips roll, slow and deep, giving me time to adjust—and when he pulls out and thrusts back in, the stretch is mind-numbing in the best possible way.
Every nerve ending sings.
Every thought is burned away until all that’s left is the delicious fullness of him, the wet slap of skin on skin, the steam and the heat and him.
I push back to meet his rhythm, my body greedy for more.
More of him. More of this.
Our movements build, faster, harder, as the shower continues to rain down on us, steam clouding the glass, our moans echoing in the tiled room like a duet only we can sing.
His hands roam—gripping my hips, sliding around to tease my breasts, to thumb over my nipples until I cry out, trembling, caught between pleasure and the desperate climb toward another peak.
“You gonna come for me again?” he growls.
“Yes, oh my God—yes, please.”
And when he reaches between us, fingers rubbing through my slick, strumming my needy clit like a master, I explode again—louder this time, his name breaking from my lips as I come apart around him.
“Fuck, Honey, you're squeezing my dick so damn tight!”
And then, he follows me into oblivion with a savage growl, thrusting deep one last time before pulsing inside me, holding me so tight I know he never wants to let go.
For a long moment, we stay like that.
Breathing. Shaking. Clinging.
When he finally pulls out, it’s with a soft, tender sound of regret—and a kiss pressed to the curve of my shoulder that makes my heart clench.
He helps me turn, his strong arms wrapping around me as water sluices over our bodies. He kisses my temple and murmurs something I don’t catch.
But I feel it.
In the way he touches me. In the way he holds me.
Like maybe he’s already mine.
Eb moves first after several long moments when we’re both just trying to find our breaths.
He reaches between my legs, rinsing his cum from my thighs, and he drops a tender kiss on my temple, stepping outside of the shower first—which I appreciate.
I need a moment to myself to process all this.
I mean, magic? Fated mates? Earth shattering sex?
Can this really be my life?
A few minutes later, and we’re both wrapped in towels, just standing in the middle of my bakery apartment like we haven’t just rewritten our entire universe, he leans down and kisses me once more.
“I didn’t plan any of this,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “But I’m not sorry.”
I smile, my heart racing.
“Good. Because I’m not either.”
Eb closes the space between us, and I swear the air is charged with electricity and desire.
He leans his forehead against mine.
That’s all it takes for the rest of the world to fall away.
When he kisses me again, it’s slower this time—deep, reverent.
A promise instead of a plea.
But I’m not sure if this means anything more than the moment, and I’m too far gone to want to spoil it.
Our bodies are still damp from the shower, but I don’t mind.
He cups my cheeks, and now warmth starts building in my gut, mingling with heat between us, and the sound of his low growl vibrates through me like thunder.
I feel safe.
I feel wanted.
I feel seen.
When he whispers my name, it isn’t just a sound—it’s a promise.
Like he’s inviting me to be with him, to let the world slide away and just feel.
And I want that.
I want that a lot. With him.
“Stay with me, Honey. Right here with me,” he growls, and I nod, rising on my toes to kiss him.
It’s soft at first, hesitant, but the moment his hands slide around my waist, the kiss deepens, turning molten.
The towels slip from our bodies, forgotten. His skin is warm against mine, his heartbeat a steady, grounding drum beneath my palms.
He walks me backward until I fall onto the bed, a laugh catching in my throat that quickly dissolves into a breathless sigh as he follows, bracing his big, beautiful body over me.
Outside the window, snow is falling—slow, steady flakes blanketing the night in white while the heat between us builds.
Eb’s gaze holds mine, full of reverence and hunger and something deeper.
Something that feels dangerously close to being more than I could ever have hoped for.
Before I can let my fear, and misgivings run away with me, he moves.
He kisses my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder, each touch stripping away a layer of fear until there’s nothing left but us.
His voice is a low rumble against my ear when he murmurs, “You feel so good, Honey. You feel like home.”
And in that moment, I think maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he feels like home to me too.
The world narrows to the sound of our hearts, the taste of his lips, the slide of his hands along my skin.
I’m not sure if I believe in fated mates, but Uncle Uzzi’s app sure knows how to pick a holidate, if I do say so myself.
Will it last?
I don’t know.
Does anything?
All I know is when Eb looks at me—really looks at me—it’s like he’s seeing something I didn’t even know I’d been hiding.
Something tender. Hopeful. Real.
Then he leans in, intent glittering in his emerald eyes, his breath warm against my lips, and all my questions dissolve.
His hands frame my face, strong and steady, and the world narrows to the space between us.
My pulse, his heartbeat, the snowy hush outside—it all blurs together until there’s nothing left but this quiet, aching certainty blooming in my chest.
And when he finally positions himself between my thighs, taking his thick cock in hand and fitting it to my dripping slit, everything inside me unfurls like it’s been waiting for this moment all along.
“Fuck,” he growls.
I clutch at his waist.
This isn’t just desire—it’s connection.
It’s warmth in the middle of winter.
It’s the feeling of being found.
His body fits perfectly against mine, and when we move together, it feels like we’ve done this a thousand times.
“This feels so right. So impossibly right. Tell me you feel it, too,” he commands.
“Eb!” His name slips from my lips like a prayer, and he flexes his hips, moving deeper, touching me so good I stop thinking altogether.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“Mine, Honey. You’re mine,” he repeats as he pistons his hips. His mouth closes over my neck, and I feel it—the pleasure building, long slow tendrils of ecstasy unfurling throughout my body.
And right when I think I might combust, I feel something sharp and white hot against my skin.
“Ouch!”
But then it’s replaced by the most intense climax I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
“Mine,” he growls, thrusting harder, faster, prolonging every bit of my pleasure.
“Eb,” I moan his name, clinging to him like he’s the only raft in this tsunami of emotions I’m trying not to drown in.
And everything slows, deepens, blurs—snow and breath and warmth tangling together until there’s no beginning and no end, just one perfect heartbeat shared between us.
When he whispers my name again, I whisper his right back, and the rest of the night melts quietly around us like snow in firelight.