Chapter 23
Marigold
The first kiss had been about confusion, emotion, and the hunger of two people trying to explain with lips what words kept failing to say.
But this—this moment, this hush between heartbeats—was something else entirely.
Eb holds me like I’m made of magic, his hands cradling my jaw, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is warm, and his voice is low, thick with emotion.
“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I don’t.
Instead, I reach for him, threading my fingers into his tux jacket lapels and tugging him closer.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
We back toward the overstuffed couch facing the glittering Christmas tree, and I swear the cookie ornaments wink at me like they know what’s about to happen.
I sink into the cushions, Eb following, bracing his weight on one forearm while his other hand gently explores the curve of my waist, my hip, then higher, as if memorizing every inch.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
No frantic tugging or wild flinging of clothes.
Just his touch, reverent and steady, and my soft sighs filling the air between us like falling snow.
When he finally removes the last barrier between us—my glittery teddy now a puddle on the floor, his silk boxers beside it—Eb pauses.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, awe in his voice, like I’m some rare celestial body that’s landed on his living room couch instead of a cookie-smeared small-town baker who has spent the last two days knee-deep in royal icing and heartbreak.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I murmur, brushing my fingers across his jaw, then letting my palm rest over the hard beat of his heart.
He presses a kiss there.
And then another.
Down my collarbone.
Between my breasts.
Across the soft dip of my stomach.
Every touch is slow. Intentional.
And it sets me on fire.
“Fuck, Honey, you taste so good,” Eb growls, licking into my mouth with delicious intent.
It’s like he’s staking a claim—not just of my body, but of the cracks in my heart too.
There’s just something about him that makes me want to trust him, makes me want to believe he’s being honest and truthful when he says he never meant to hurt me.
“I swear, Marigold. Never wanna hurt you. I just want to make you feel good. Wanna protect you. Wanna claim you again, mate.”
“Oh, Eb,” I moan and open for him.
His hand slides down my sides, like he’s memorizing every inch of me. His kisses make me weak, conjuring wetness between my thighs, and I want him more than ever.
Somehow, we slide off the couch, and wind up on the thick carpet right between the beautiful tree and the roaring fire inside the beautifully decorated fireplace.
“Fuck, Honey, gotta taste you,” he growls, licking a path down my body, between the valley of my breasts, my soft belly, and my sensitive thighs.
Eb uses his wide shoulders to press my legs open, his eyes are glowing with his animal, and they are locked on mine as he leans down and licks my pussy.
“So sweet. My Honey,” he growls, pressing one then two fingers inside as he latches onto my clit and sucks.
His hands grip my wide hips and he shoves his face into my slit, sucking, licking, fucking me so good.
Better than good.
It’s perfect.
I’m so wet, it’s dripping down my thighs onto the rug.
But I’m too far gone to care about any of that.
“Eb!” I yell his name, clutching at his hair with my fingers.
He moans, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure rolling through me, and oh God, I start to come. Hard.
“Delicious, Honey,” Eb growls and kneels between my thighs.
I can’t move. I can hardly breathe.
Holy fucking shit, my mate is so good at eating pussy.
“That’s right. And I love eating your pussy, but right now I’m gonna fill it with this cock. Gonna claim you, mate. Wanna do it right this time. You want that too, don’t you? Tell me.”
“Yes. I want that. I want you to claim me, Eb. I want to be yours,” I whisper, eyes wide as he strokes his long, hard length, rubbing the pearl of precum leaking at the tip all over his mushroomed head.
Then he places himself at my entrance, and my mouth opens in a silent moan as he presses inside slowly, so fucking slowly.
Oh, God.
I feel every hot, hard inch of him as he stretches me—slowly, reverently—like he’s savoring the moment just as much as I am.
My back arches off the plush rug, the thing adding some cushion beneath us but honestly, I wouldn’t care if we were on asphalt—as long as he never stops doing that right there. Oh God!
My hands fly to his shoulders to anchor myself, to feel the raw power straining beneath his skin.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice ragged. “You’re so tight. So wet. Such a good girl, taking me so good.”
Heat spirals low in my belly, and my entire body quakes under the weight of his words.
My thighs tremble, and my heart races. Every fiber of my being wants to please him.
To be his.
To feel this over and over again until I don’t remember anything but his body moving against mine.
He bottoms out, buried deep inside me now, and I gasp—my breath catching somewhere between overwhelmed and completely undone.
But he doesn’t move. Not yet.
Instead, he leans in, brushing his lips along the curve of my jaw, then down to the shell of my ear. And when he speaks, his voice is a vow.
“Mine.”
It’s not a question. It’s not a tease. It’s a claim.
And his Badger agrees—rumbling deep inside his chest, a sound that vibrates through my bones and settles somewhere molten between my hips.
“Yes,” I whisper, my own voice shaky with need. “Yours.”
The first thrust is slow.
Measured.
Torturous in the best possible way.
He pulls out almost all the way before sliding back in, sending ripples of pleasure dancing up my spine.
I cry out, fingers clawing at his back as my hips lift to meet his.
“Look at me,” he says, voice hoarse with hunger. “I want to see your eyes when you fall apart for me.”
I do.
And what I see in his gaze nearly breaks me—pure, unfiltered devotion.
Not just lust. More.
This isn’t just sex.
This is something bigger.
Something fated.
And with the snow outside and the decorations everywhere, it feels like maybe this is a real Christmas miracle. Like maybe he is.
He rocks into me again, and again, his pace building until our bodies are locked in perfect rhythm.
My skin is slick with sweat, tingling from his touch, his praise, his sheer presence.
“Oh, God, Eb—”
“That’s it, Honey,” he growls, one hand sliding between us to find the bundle of nerves already pulsing for release. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
And when I do—when pleasure rips through me like a comet blazing across the night sky—I scream his name and hold nothing back.
Because he’s not just inside me.
He’s in me.
Body, heart, and soul.
“Another. I want another,” he growls, moving harder now, faster.
And I am right there with him.
“Eb!”
We move together in time with the flicker of Christmas lights and the rhythm of the storm outside, the moment building between us like a crescendo of hope, of healing, of something old as the moon and new as a freshly baked batch of gingerbread.
“That’s it. Squeeze my cock with your perfect pussy. Show me who you belong to,” he demands, voice full of gravel and promise.
And when my body obeys—when pleasure spirals out from my core in blinding waves and I cry out, breaking apart for him—Eb goes feral.
His mouth closes over my shoulder.
I gasp, arching into him.
Then he bites.
A sharp press of teeth and power, claiming me with his Badger’s mark.
The magic flares between us like a snapped wire sparking to life—hot, bright, binding.
I feel it.
His soul tangling with mine.
The orgasm that tears through me makes the others feel like warm-up acts.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. Just feel. Just fall.
I cry out again, the world fracturing around me, and all I know is him.
Eb. My mate.
By the time we collapse into each other, trembling and sticky and sated, the room is quiet.
Except for the slow, steady hiss of wind against the wall of windows and the soft crackle of the fire he must’ve lit earlier.
The snow has picked up outside, layering the world in glittering white.
A hush falls over everything.
A hush that feels like peace.
Like home.
I rest my cheek against his chest, smiling as I feel his heart thudding beneath my ear.
Strong. Steady.
Mine.
“I should be mad at you still,” I murmur into his skin, too boneless to move.
“You bit me, too, you know,” he murmurs, grinning like a fool as he rubs the spot where I nicked him.
“Lightly. You’ll survive.”
I sniff. But I’m so happy I can’t keep up the facade of aloofness.
“Barely.”
I huff a laugh, fingers tracing lazy circles over the center of his chest, right above where his heart lives.
“So, does this mean we’re claiming each other now?” I ask, even though I’m sure Witches or whatever the magic I’ve inherited makes me, don’t actually do that.
His chest rumbles.
“Oh, Honey. You’ve been mine since the moment I saw you standing inside The Cookie Hive under the glow of those fluorescent lights with powdered sugar on your cheek.”
Eb kisses the top of my head then and he leans in and whispers, “You’re not just my mate, Marigold. You’re my forever.”
And this time, I believe him.
Because the truth is, he’s my forever too.