Page 68 of The Pumpkin Bride

Saints, he was undone.

She shifted until she straddled his lap, her lips still pressed to his. As she cradled his head, she swept her lightly calloused thumbs along his cheekbones. He allowed his hands to roam the length of her thighs, her waist, her back. Heavens help him, he ached for her breasts, but his control was already at a breaking point. He had to stop this—he’d truly kissed her to pull her back to herself. Not press an advantage. This was going too far.

“Marigold—”

“Yes, Jask?” she whispered. He recognized the whiskey in her voice, knew that meant she was on the verge of melting in his hands.

She revived the kiss he sought to end.

He held her face. “Marigold, please.”

The picture she made in the dithering light of the candle stole his breath. Hooded eyes black with desire, chest heaving, mouth swollen . . . for Jask.

“Please what?” she asked. “Please you? Because I’d like to.”

Saints fucking preserve him.

“You don’t mean that.” His eyes pleaded with hers. “I can’t . . .”

“Liar.” She rolled her hips against his length. “There’s evidence to the contrary.”

Aching, insistent evidence. His only release since he departed Thornwick had been self-pleasure, and every time he’d pictured this woman. To have her in his arms, wanting him was both a dream and a nightmare. But he couldn’t have her. Not like this, when she was using him to distract her from the storm.

His fault, because he started it.

That said, he didn’t have to finish it.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I meant I can’t because I respect you.”

The arch in her back deflated. She sat back and drifted her hands from his hair. “Do you not respect women after you’ve loved them?”

“Of course I do. What I mean is today has been a lot and the storm has made you anxious.” He tucked a rebellious curl behind her ear. “You’re being rash, and you may have regrets in the morning. I don’t want you to . . . regret me.”

She still mourned Bram. How could she not compare a new lover to her true love? Tomorrow she’d wake up next to his large green frame and wonder what the hell she’d done.

Fire entered her eyes. “Do you think you know my mind better than I do?”

Not better, but almost as well as he knew his own. And anger was a tried-and-true antidote to her fear. Desire was more pleasant for all the obvious reasons, but anger would do.

“Yes,” he said.

She slid from his lap. The heat in her eyes twisted and intensified. Ah, balls. He’d gone straight past anger to fury.

“How dare you.” She clenched her hands into fists.

He held up his hands in peace. “Marigold, I—”

“Hush.” She drew herself to her full height, and her curls waved like a gorgon’s snakes. “For my entire life I have been managed by people who thought they knew what was best for me regardless of what I wanted. My parents, my lady’s companion, my teachers. Even my true love left me, against my wishes, to make himself worthy, whatever the hell that means. And it cost us both our happiness in this lifetime.”

Her words were darts to his heart.

Flawlessly, painfully true darts. Anyone on the periphery of the Thornwick court understood they’d use Marigold to stitch their kingdom to another and, in so doing, strengthen their hold on their own throne. Cold perhaps, but strategic. There was no advantage to be gained if they’d allowed her to marry a lowly Thornwick knight, unless they counted the swoony legends that might arise and stir the hearts of their people.

But swoony legends did not strengthen Thornwick’s defenses.

Bram folded his arms but remained seated. Now was not the time to intimidate her with his size. “Because he had to, did he not? To win your parents’ favor?”

“Now you dare to speak for him?” Her skirts whirled as she flounced toward the stairs. “You are too bold. I shared my past with you so you could understand me, not use it against me. For the record, the only favor he ever needed to concern himself with was mine.”