Page 74 of The Pumpkin Bride

As he walked away from the rocky shore and visible to unknown eyes, he kept his steps unhurried. The moment he was under the forest’s cover, he ran. The earth rumbled under his footfall, the fallen logs crouched in fear as he leapt over them, until finally, finally, his cottage lay ahead. Windows aglow, chimney puffing warm smoke.

He slammed the door open, then closed and latched it.

The warm scent of fresh bread greeted him, along with something savory. The sandglass trickled the cook time of whatever was in the oven. He tossed his bag and tools onto the bench, then swiveled his gaze, but the cottage was empty.

Not in the kitchen, the dining area, or before the fire.

“Marigold!” he called. “Where are you?”

No answer. Fear shot through him as he tore through the back door. She’d tidied the yard and set the laundry for tomorrow’s wash day. The animals were all penned and fed, but he had no time or patience to admire her handiwork.

“Meg?” Out of doors, they agreed to use her alternative name.

Only the wind through the trees answered.

Saints, she wouldn’t have gone foraging alone, would she? Not without her basket. He ducked back into the house to check, panic rising in his throat.

Her cloak hung by the door, and her basket sat on the bench.

“Marigold?” He barred the second door, pleading in his voice.

“Jask?” she answered from the loft. “What’s wrong?”

She was safe. Relief flooded through him as he kicked off his boots and bounded up the stairs, where he found his princess knuckling her eye.

“Did I burn supper?” she asked. “I fell asleep while reading.”

“I’m sorry.” He hauled her to him, needing her body close to his to prove she was here and whole. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Her eyes flew open. “For what?”

“Last night.” He cupped her cheek and searched her eyes. “And leaving you alone today.”

She knit her brows together. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Her pinch was sharp on his chest.

“Ow. I believe you’re supposed to pinch yourself.”

“This way’s better.” Her arms were caught between them, and she slid her palms up to his shoulders.

“Why did you ask if you were dreaming?”

“Because . . .” She traced the line of his collarbones. “I’ve dreamed this scenario several times now, and then I wake up before . . . Well, you don’t need the details, but it’s getting a bit . . . frustrating.”

Desire pooled between his hips. He was desperate for her, but he needed her to take the lead. Yesterday he’d botched their encounter and would not repeat that mistake.

“I do need the details.” He brushed her curls from her forehead. “To help ease your frustration. Tell me, what happens in this dream?”

“First, you kiss me,” she said.

“Like this?” He curled forward to brush his lips against hers. A tease, then more. She tasted of mint and honey. Of promise. This wasn’t enough—small bites and nibbles of her were never enough. He swept his tongue across her lips, and she opened for him.

Merciful heaven, she was his favorite flavor.

The vibration of her soft moan set his blood aflame. His daydreams had hardened him, but this turned him to rock. With her arms locked around his neck, the soft mounds of her breasts flattened against his chest as she lifted herself on her toes. He dropped his hands to her rounded ass, pressed her close so she could feel her effect on him.

He broke the kiss, desperate for his next instruction. “Then what?”