“Don’t talk about my mother right now,” I manage to say once I’ve got my breath back. “Fuck, Marigold.”
I slide my fingers beneath the soft fabric of her underwear, and Marigold tilts her hips up, helping me shimmy her panties down to her ankles. Then I settle my weight over her again and catch her mouth with my own, devouring that hitch in her breath when I reach down between us and slip my finger into the wet heat between her lips.
“I want you,” she says, reaching for my cock again, but I cant my hips back and out of reach.
“Wait,” I say. “My turn first.”
I make my way down her body, leaving a trail of kisses in my wake. She spreads her knees for me automatically, and I lick her there, earning a shudder that buries something hot in my stomach. I do it again, tasting her sweetness, skimming one hand up her soft thigh, the other finding her breast, thumb rubbing over her peaked nipple.
I want to make her come. I want to make her say my name again—to groan it, to lose all that perfect self-control and cry out.
She squirms beneath me as I keep going. My entire body feels too alive: tingling, half-numb with pleasure, even though she isn’ttouching me anymore. I rock my hips down against the mattress, chasing what friction I can as Marigold twists the bedsheets in her grasp, knuckles blanched white.
My world has condensed down to the quiet little sounds Marigold makes past gritted teeth, her blond hair fraying loose from its bun to sprawl across the pillow. One of her hands is tangled in my hair, almost painfully tight as she arches up to meet my mouth. I slide two fingers inside her heat, working from the inside and out, chasing every sharp breath, every clench of her body. She hums something soft and wordless, arching into my hand again as I tease my tongue against her clitoris. At last she moans, thighs tightening on either side of my head as she crests.
For a moment she lies there limp, breathless, and satiated—but not for long. That hand in my hair tugs, and I follow up the length of her torso again, letting her catch my lips in hers, tasting herself in my mouth.
“My turn,” she murmurs, and grips my shoulder as she pushes and I go easily, rolling onto my back.
Marigold shifts down until she hovers over my hips, teasing her hand along my length.
When her mouth finds me, I shudder. My head drops back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, because…god, Marigold is too good. It’s indecent. It’s euphoric.
Marigold takes her time. She urges me closer and closer to the brink, her tongue teasing me until I tangle a hand in her hair and she grips my waist, holding me still even when I want to twist and writhe.
I come when Marigold decides I’m allowed to come—after she’s brought me to the edge a dozen times only to relent, dragging out my torment until I’m begging for release, clawing at her shoulders and scalp as I gasp her name again and again.
The aftershocks of my climax surge through me like heavywaves as I drop back against the pillow again, sweat beading on my forehead. “You’re—”
You’re everything to me. I don’t need anything else. I don’t need anything but this.
As if she knows what I meant to say, Marigold smiles. She makes a pattern of sloppy kisses back to my mouth, and I close my eyes, breathing in the nearness of her.
“I do, you know,” I murmur. It takes Marigold’s answeringWhat?for me to realize I’d never said the first part aloud.
I draw back from the kiss just enough to see her properly. Her hair is tousled from my fingers, cheeks still apple-pink with exertion. I wouldn’t say I’m a brave person, generally. But with her looking like that, it’s easier than it could be to just…say it.
“I love you,” I say. “I really love you.”
She doesn’t make me wait in suspense. The grin that breaks across her face is answer enough, but that doesn’t stop her from reaching out with both hands and pulling me in for another fierce kiss.
“Good. Yes. You’d fucking better, because I love you, too.”
Final Round
26
Marigold
There are only twelve contestants to make it this far, out of almost two hundred. It feels unreal—not that they give us any time to let the news sink in, because they announce the final list at tenp.m., and the first session of the next round is scheduled less than a day later. Because who needs more practice at this point, I guess.
Or maybe I should try to view it as a good thing. If I’m not ready now, I never will be.
My father’s flight lands in Sweden late that evening. The man literally skived off two performances at the Phil to be here for me, which sounds like it should be no big deal but is actuallya very big deal.He envelops me in a hug the moment he spots me in the hotel lobby, pulling me in tight where I can breathe in the warm scent of him, his familiar fingers pressing into my spine.
“How are you feeling?” he asks when we finally part, his hands still braced against my shoulders, luggage forgotten at his feet.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I think I’m just…I’m trying not to obsess too much, you know? It won’t help anything to get anxious about my stupid malfunctioning brain.”
