Page 78 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Besides you?” He propped his head on his pillow, then traced her shoulder. “One.”

Much as she wanted his touch, she shook it off. “Don’t lie to me, Jask Bone-Cracker. I’m a grown woman. I can take the truth. Dozens?”

He laughed.

“Hundreds?”

He scooped and flicked his shimmering hair over his shoulder. Curse the bouldered beauty of him.

“What inspired this line of questioning?” he asked.

She blew out her lips. “The little death. I experienced it no fewer than four times and didn’t instruct you once on how to bring it about.”

“Perhaps I’m a natural?” He dipped his hand under the sheet and found her breast, running his thumb over the beaded tip.

“See? This is what I mean. You know exactly how to—” she gasped as he lightly pinched her nipple “—excite me.”

“I may have only had one lover, but we loved often.” He scooted closer, then kissed her neck. “She taught me well.”

Jealousy flamed through Marigold. Which was completely hypocritical. She’d shed tears about Bram in front of this man. They were both allowed to have people in their past.

“What was her name?”

“I’ll never tell.” Jask removed her blankets, leaving only the sheet.

“Please, I must know.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” He slipped below the sheet, then spread her legs and positioned himself between them. “Allow me make it up to you.”

Her toes curled as he licked her like cream.

She gasped as he alternated between long and short strokes. “You . . .” Her gasps turned to panting. “Are avoiding the question.”

“Correct, Princess. Now allow me to help you come.”

Marigold was depleted in the best way possible.

Each of the last three days, she awoke to Jask’s hardness and happily helped him relieve it. Romps occurred when the moment carried them, which was often and unpredictable. Of the places Jask listed that first night, the goldcap tree in the forest remained, but she had high hopes for her foraging plans tomorrow.

After years of walking about half-dead, this was a joyful rebirth.

She sniffed the air—the buttermilk biscuits were ready. As she removed them from the oven, the door opened. Jask was returning from his lake bath. He’d no sooner hung his linen than he curled himself around her back, nuzzling her neck.

“Miss me?” He palmed a handful of her behind through her homespun dress.

“Every minute. Though I’m productive when you’re gone.”

“I’d prefer you were so besotted that you spent every minute wishing I’d return.”

“I can do both,” she said. “Sit, and we’ll eat.”

She’d made a mushroom-and-barley soup. Seasoned with thyme, of course. They each dished out their portions and seated themselves when the familiar bells of Alfred’s horse rang from their front yard.

Jask dabbed his lips with the napkin. “I’ll receive the delivery.”

“Invite him in while you’re at it,” Marigold urged.

Jask pushed back from the table, then crossed the front door. A pumpkin-scented breeze from the ripe fields curled through the home. “Ho, there, Alfred. Care for dinner?”