Wildflower: A Slow-Burn Cottage Romance

A steamy, friends-to-lovers romance set in a cozy cottage garden. Rose invites her crush to dinner, but the dessert isn’t the only sweet thing on the menu…

— Rose Everhart —

I’d cleaned the cottage three times.

The first time was practical—dusting the bookshelves, sweeping the kitchen floor, making sure Biscuit’s litter box wasn’t offensive. The second time was anxious energy I couldn’t quite contain, rearranging the throw pillows on my couch until they looked effortlessly casual instead of deliberately staged. The third time was just me being ridiculous, straightening the spice jars in my kitchen alphabetically even though Ethan would never see inside my cabinets.

Probably.

I caught my reflection in the window above the sink and realized I was biting my lip hard enough to hurt. My cottage looked beautiful—late afternoon sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains, the smell of rosemary and thyme drifting in from the garden where I’d been puttering all morning, everything soft and warm and inviting. Exactly how I wanted it. Exactly how I’d been picturing it for three months, ever since Ethan and I started dating and I’d been too nervous to invite him here.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Ethan: On my way. Need me to bring anything?

My heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when I saw his name. I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:

Just you.

Too eager? Not eager enough? I groaned and set the phone down, pressing my palms flat against the cool countertop. This was ridiculous. I was twenty-six years old. I’d had sex before—plenty of times, with plenty of people. I knew what I was doing in bed, knew what I liked, knew how to make someone feel good. The sweet, innocent thing was mostly performance, a role I’d been playing so long I sometimes forgot where it ended and I began.

But with Ethan, I wanted it to be real.

I wanted him to see me—actually see me—and I had no idea if that was terrifying or thrilling or both.

The knock on my door came exactly twenty minutes later because Ethan was the kind of person who arrived exactly when he said he would, steady and reliable in a way that made me feel safe and made me want to test just how far I could push that steadiness before it broke.

I smoothed down my sundress—yellow, with tiny white flowers, the kind of dress that made me look soft and approachable and not at all like someone who’d spent the last three nights lying in bed touching herself while thinking about what might happen tonight—and opened the door.

He was holding flowers.

“Hi,” Ethan said, and his smile was warm and a little bit nervous, which made me feel better about my own nerves. “I, uh, I know you have a whole garden of these, but I saw them at the market this morning and thought of you.”

Wildflowers, a riot of color wrapped in brown paper. Not roses—he knew better than that, knew I’d spent my whole life having people give me roses because of my name and I was so tired of roses—but daisies and black-eyed Susans and something purple I’d have to look up later. The gesture was so thoughtful it made my chest ache.

“They’re perfect,” I said, and meant it. “Come in.”

He stepped inside and I watched him take in my space—the overstuffed couch with too many pillows, the bookshelves crammed with paperbacks and half-dead succulents I kept meaning to water more consistently, the fairy lights strung above the window seat where I wrote in the mornings. It felt vulnerable, letting him see this. Like I was letting him see me without the performance.

“It’s exactly what I pictured,” he said softly, turning back to me. “Warm. Bright. You.”

I felt heat bloom across my chest, that full-body blush I could never quite control. “I’ll put these in water. Make yourself comfortable.”

In the kitchen, I filled a mason jar with water and tried to steady my breathing. Through the doorway, I could see Ethan examining my bookshelf, his fingers trailing along the spines. He was tall—six-two, broad-shouldered from years of woodworking, with calloused hands that I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a soft flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, and he looked comfortable and capable and I wanted him so badly I could barely stand it.

I’d been wanting him for weeks, maybe longer. Every time he’d walked me home from dates and kissed me goodnight on my porch—sweet, chaste kisses that left me aching for more. Every time he’d texted me good morning and asked about my day like he genuinely cared about the answer. Every time he’d touched the small of my back or tucked my hair behind my ear and looked at me like I was something precious.

He was patient. Kind. The kind of man who wouldn’t push, which meant I had to be brave enough to invite him in.

“Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes,” I said, carrying the flowers into the living room. “I made pasta—nothing fancy, just something simple.”

“Smells amazing.” He was looking at me instead of the bookshelf now, his eyes dark and warm. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can keep me company,” I said, and then, because I was apparently incapable of not being awkward, added, “I mean, if you want. You don’t have to. You can sit, or—”

“Rose.” He crossed the room in three strides and took my hands, gentle but sure. “Breathe.”

I laughed, a little bit breathless. “I’m nervous.”

“I know.” His thumbs traced circles on the backs of my hands. “Me too.”

“You are?”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “I’ve been thinking about tonight for three weeks. Ever since you texted me asking if I wanted to come over for dinner, I’ve been trying not to get ahead of myself about what that might mean.”

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. “What do you think it means?”

“I think,” he said carefully, his eyes searching mine, “it means you’re ready for me to stay longer than just a goodnight kiss. But if I’m reading that wrong—”

“You’re not.” The words came out in a rush. “You’re not reading it wrong. I want—” I had to stop, take a breath, force myself to be brave. “I want you to stay. I want you to stay tonight, and I want more than just kissing, and I’ve been wanting that for so long I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out the right way to ask you.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “You just did.”

And then he was kissing me, finally, properly, not the careful goodnight kisses we’d been sharing but something deeper, hungrier. His hands came up to cup my face and I made a sound that was probably embarrassing but I didn’t care because he tasted like coffee and something sweet and I’d been waiting for this for so long.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

“Dinner,” I managed. “We should—it’ll burn—”

“Right. Dinner.” He didn’t move. “And then?”

“And then,” I said, feeling brave and terrified and desperately turned on all at once, “we’ll see what happens.”

Dinner was both easier and harder than I’d expected.

Easier because we fell into conversation the way we always did—talking about his latest commission (a dining table for a couple in Victorian Quarter), my struggle with a particular story arc, the documentary about bees he’d watched that had him convinced we needed to plant more wildflowers in the community garden. He was easy to talk to, always had been, and I loved the way he listened like every word I said mattered.

Harder because I couldn’t stop thinking about what came after.

Every time he looked at me, I felt it low in my belly. Every time his knee bumped mine under the table, I had to resist the urge to climb into his lap. By the time we’d finished eating and I was clearing plates, I was wound so tight I was shaking.

“Let me help,” Ethan said, standing.

“I’ve got it—”

“Rose.” He took the plates from my hands and set them on the counter, then turned me to face him. “You’re nervous again.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lied. “I’m just—”

“Wound up?” His hands settled on my hips, warm and steady. “Overthinking?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you overthinking?”

I bit my lip, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. “I want this to be good. I want you to—I don’t want to disappoint you.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Disappoint me? Rose, you could never—”

“You don’t know that.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I know I seem—people think I’m all sweet and innocent, and sometimes I play that up because it’s easier, but I’m not really—I mean, I’m not inexperienced, I know what I’m doing, but what if I’m not what you—”

He kissed me quiet.

“Listen to me,” he said against my mouth. “I don’t have expectations. I don’t need you to be anything except exactly who you are. And whoever that is—sweet or not sweet, experienced or not—I want her. All of her. Okay?”

I nodded, feeling tears prick at my eyes because that was exactly what I needed to hear and hadn’t known how to ask for.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Good.” He smiled, then took my hand. “Now show me your garden. I’ve been dying to see it.”

The evening air was warm and golden, that perfect late-spring weather that made everything feel like a dream. My garden wasn’t much—a small plot behind the cottage where I grew herbs and vegetables and way too many flowers—but it was mine, and I’d been tending it with the same nervous energy I’d put into cleaning the house.

“It’s beautiful,” Ethan said, crouching down to examine the rosemary. “You’ve got a good mix here. Companion planting?”

“I read a book about it,” I admitted. “The tomatoes are supposed to help the basil grow better, and the marigolds keep pests away from everything.”

“Smart.” He stood, brushing dirt from his hands. “You’ve got good instincts.”

The way he said it—simple, genuine—made me blush again. I watched him move through my garden, touching leaves and asking questions about what I was growing, and felt something settle in my chest. This was what I wanted. Someone who was interested in the things I cared about, who didn’t rush, who made me feel like we had all the time in the world.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a small patch I’d been experimenting with.

“Lavender,” I said, moving to stand beside him. “I’m trying to grow enough to dry for sachets. It’s supposed to help with sleep.”

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t been sleeping that well lately.”

“No?” He was close now, close enough I could feel the warmth of him. “Why not?”

I looked up at him, heart pounding. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

The air between us shifted, went electric. His hand came up to cup my cheek and I leaned into it, unable to stop myself.

“What have you been thinking about?” he asked quietly.

“This,” I breathed. “You being here. What it would feel like to—”

I didn’t finish the sentence because he was kissing me again, deeper this time, and I melted into it. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing against him. I could feel how much he wanted me, could feel the evidence of it even through our clothes, and it made me bold.

“Inside,” I managed between kisses. “Let’s go inside.”

We barely made it through the door.

He pressed me against the wall of my living room, his mouth on my neck, and I heard myself make sounds I didn’t recognize—desperate little gasps that should have embarrassed me but didn’t because he groaned in response and pulled me tighter against him.

“Rose,” he breathed against my throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I said, and my voice was shaking but I meant it. “I want you. Please.”

His hands slid down to my thighs, lifting me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist on pure instinct. He carried me to the couch—thank god it was only a few steps—and laid me down gently, covering my body with his.

“Is this okay?” he asked, even though he could probably feel how badly I was trembling with want.

“More than okay,” I said. “Please don’t stop. Don’t—”

He kissed me quiet again, and I felt his hand slide up my thigh, under my dress, his calloused palm warm against my skin. When his fingers brushed the edge of my underwear, I gasped against his mouth.

“Tell me if you want me to slow down,” he murmured.

“Don’t,” I begged. “Please don’t slow down, I’ve been wanting this for so long—”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and I stopped breathing, stopped thinking, just felt the first perfect pressure of him touching me where I’d been aching for him to touch me. I was already wet, embarrassingly wet, and I knew he could feel it.

“God, Rose,” he groaned. “You’re so—”

“Please,” I whimpered, and I could hear how desperate I sounded but I didn’t care. “Please, I need—”

He found my clit with his thumb and I cried out, my hips lifting off the couch. His other hand slid under my dress to cup my breast, and when he rolled my nipple between his fingers I shattered, just from that, from his hands on me and his mouth on my neck and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally being touched the way I’d been craving.

“That’s it,” he murmured against my ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And I did. I let go completely, let myself feel everything, let myself be loud and messy and desperate because he was holding me through it, whispering praise against my skin—”so beautiful, you’re so beautiful, I want to make you feel good”—and I’d never felt more seen or more wanted in my entire life.

When I came back to myself, trembling and gasping, he was looking down at me with something like wonder in his eyes.

“We should,” I managed, my voice wrecked, “we should move to the bedroom.”

His smile was slow and wicked and full of promise.

“Lead the way.”

My bedroom was bathed in the last golden light of evening, warm and soft through the gauzy curtains I’d left open. Ethan closed the door behind us even though we were alone, and something about that small gesture—the intentionality of it, the implication that what happened next deserved privacy—made my breath catch.

“Come here,” he said softly.

I crossed to him on shaking legs, still trembling from the orgasm he’d given me on the couch. When I reached him, he cupped my face in both hands and kissed me slowly, thoroughly, like we had all the time in the world even though I felt like I might die if he didn’t touch me again soon.

“I want to see you,” he murmured against my lips. “Can I?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and he reached for the zipper at the back of my dress. His fingers were steady even though I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself back. The dress slipped down my body and pooled at my feet, leaving me in just my bra and underwear—pale pink, nothing fancy, but the way he looked at me made me feel like I was wearing something expensive.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t a line, it was just true, the way he said it.

“Your turn,” I managed, reaching for the buttons of his flannel.

He helped me, shrugging out of the shirt and then his undershirt, and I let myself look at him properly for the first time. Broad chest, muscled from years of physical work, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. I wanted to touch him everywhere, wanted to learn every inch of him, but I didn’t know where to start.

“What do you want?” he asked, reading the hesitation on my face.

“I don’t—” I bit my lip. “I want everything. I want you to—I want to make you feel good, but I also want you to—” I was blushing so hard I could feel it in my ears. “I need you to touch me again. Please.”

“I can do both,” he said, guiding me backward toward the bed. “Lie down.”

I did, and he followed me down, kissing my neck, my collarbone, the tops of my breasts. His hands slid behind me to unhook my bra and I lifted up to help him, and then his mouth was on my breast and I gasped, arching into it.

“Sensitive?” he asked, smiling against my skin.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He took his time, tongue and teeth and gentle suction that had me squirming, one hand palming my other breast while his mouth worked magic on the first. When he switched sides, I felt the ache between my legs intensify, felt myself getting wetter, and I pressed my thighs together trying to ease it.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured, his hand sliding down my belly to hook in the waistband of my underwear. “Let me see how much you want this.”

He pulled them off slowly, and I felt exposed and perfect and desperately turned on all at once. When he settled between my thighs, pressing them open with gentle hands, I nearly came from the anticipation alone.

“You’re soaked,” he said, sounding awed. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. “Please, Ethan, I need—”

“I know what you need.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh, then higher, and when his mouth finally found me I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets.

He was good at this—patient and attentive, using his tongue to trace slow circles around my clit that had me gasping and squirming. The first touch was almost too much, too intense after how wound up I’d been, but he gentled it, backing off to lick broad strokes through my folds instead, tasting me thoroughly.

“You taste so good,” he murmured against my pussy, and the vibration of his voice made me moan. “I could do this for hours.”

“Please,” I begged, not even sure what I was asking for.

He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked, and I nearly came apart, my hips bucking against his mouth. But just before I could tip over that edge, he pulled back, leaving me shaking and desperate and so close I wanted to cry.

“Not yet,” he said, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “I want to make this last.”

He went back to teasing me, his tongue tracing patterns that had me writhing, getting me right to the edge and then backing off. Once, twice, three times he brought me so close I could taste it, and each time he denied me I heard myself making sounds I didn’t recognize—whimpers and gasps and broken pleas.

“Please,” I finally sobbed. “Please, I can’t—I need to come, please let me—”

“Show me,” he said, and slid two fingers inside me while his mouth returned to my clit.

The combination was devastating. I felt myself clench around his fingers, felt the pressure building impossibly higher, and when he curled them just right—finding that spot inside me that made everything go white—I shattered completely.

The orgasm ripped through me so hard I couldn’t even scream, just gasped and shook and felt myself clench around his fingers while he worked me through it, his tongue still moving on my clit until I had to push him away because it was too much, too good, too everything.

“You’re perfect,” he said, kissing his way back up my body. “The sounds you make—god, Rose, you’re perfect.”

I pulled him down into a kiss, tasting myself on his lips, and reached between us to palm him through his jeans. He was hard, straining against the denim, and when I managed to get the button open and my hand inside his boxers, he groaned into my mouth.

“I want you inside me,” I said, and my voice was shaking but I meant it. “I want to feel you. Please.”

He pulled back just long enough to strip off his jeans and boxers, and then he was naked above me, his cock thick and hard and mine. I wrapped my hand around him—hot silk over steel—and stroked slowly, learning the weight of him, the way he pulsed in my grip.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Rose, if you keep doing that—”

“Do you have—” I started, and he nodded.

“Nightstand. Drawer.”

He reached over, fumbling slightly, and I watched his hands shake as he rolled the condom on. It made me feel better about my own nerves, knowing he was just as affected as I was.

“Ready?” he asked, settling between my thighs.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Please, I’m so ready, I’ve been ready for—”

He pushed inside me slowly, so slowly, and I felt myself stretch around him. He was thick, thicker than I’d expected, and the sensation was overwhelming—not pain, exactly, but fullness, pressure, the ache of being opened. I gasped and he stopped immediately.

“Too much?”

“No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s perfect, you’re perfect, please don’t stop.”

He pushed in further, inch by devastating inch, until he was fully seated inside me. We both froze, breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to mine. “So perfect around me.”

I could only whimper in response, too overwhelmed to form words. He started to move—slow, careful thrusts that had me gasping with each one, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper.

“Harder,” I managed. “Please, you don’t have to be gentle, I want—”

“Tell me what you want.” His voice was strained, like he was barely holding back. “Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, and the word felt dirty and perfect in my mouth. “Please, Ethan, fuck me, I need it harder, I need—”

He groaned and thrust into me properly, deep and hard, and I cried out at the perfect shock of it. He did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that had me clinging to his shoulders and making sounds I’d never made before.

“Like this?” he asked, his voice rough. “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, oh god, yes—”

He changed the angle slightly and hit something inside me that made me see stars. I felt it building again, that pressure low in my belly, and I was babbling now, unable to stop the words from spilling out.

“So good, you’re so good, please don’t stop, I’m so close, fuck, please—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let go for me, Rose. Come on my cock.”

His hand slid between us to find my clit and I shattered, the orgasm hitting me like a wave, stronger than the first two combined. I felt myself clench around him, heard him curse, but he didn’t let himself follow—just kept moving, fucking me through it until I was sobbing with how good it felt.

When I finally came down, trembling and gasping, he pulled out carefully.

“Roll over,” he said, his voice rough with need. “I want you on top.”

I did, my limbs still shaky, and he lay back against my pillows. His cock was still hard, still slick with me, and when I straddled his hips I felt powerful and desperate all at once.

“Take what you need,” he said, his hands settling on my waist. “I want to watch you.”

I positioned myself above him and sank down slowly, taking him in inch by inch. From this angle he felt even deeper, and I had to pause halfway, breathing hard, adjusting to the stretch.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Take your time. You look so beautiful like this.”

I sank down the rest of the way and we both groaned. For a moment I just sat there, feeling impossibly full, feeling him pulse inside me. Then I started to move.

It was clumsy at first—I hadn’t done this in a while, wasn’t sure of the rhythm—but he guided me with his hands on my hips, showing me the angle that felt best. And then I found it, found the perfect roll of my hips that had him groaning and had me gasping, and I lost myself in it.

“Fuck,” I breathed, riding him harder. “Oh fuck, you feel so good—”

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his eyes dark and hungry on me. “Taking what you want. So fucking perfect.”

I felt something break open inside me then, that last bit of performance falling away. I was being greedy, being loud, chasing my own pleasure and not caring how I looked or sounded, just taking and taking and—

“I need—” I gasped. “I need to come again, please touch me, I need—”

His thumb found my clit and I cried out, my rhythm faltering. He took over then, his hips thrusting up to meet me, and I braced my hands on his chest and let him take me apart.

“Come for me,” he growled. “Let me feel it. Come on my cock and let me hear you.”

I did, the orgasm tearing through me so hard I nearly blacked out, and I heard myself screaming—actually screaming—his name and fuck and please and I couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it, just shook and clenched around him while he kept fucking up into me.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Fuck, Rose, I’m—”

He thrust deep one last time and I felt him pulse inside me, felt him come with a sound that was almost a growl, and I collapsed onto his chest, both of us shaking and gasping and completely wrecked.

We lay there for a long moment, both trying to catch our breath. I felt tears on my cheeks even though I wasn’t sad—just overwhelmed by how good it felt, how right, how completely seen I felt in this moment.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling out carefully and rolling me to the side so he could look at me. He brushed the tears from my face with gentle fingers. “Are you okay?”

“More than okay,” I managed, my voice wrecked. “That was—I didn’t know it could be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I mattered,” I said, and then immediately felt embarrassed. “Sorry, that’s—”

“Don’t apologize.” He pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “You do matter. To me, you matter so much.”

I buried my face in his neck and let myself cry a little bit more, not from sadness but from relief, from feeling seen and wanted and safe all at once. He held me through it, his hands stroking my back, pressing kisses to my hair, and I realized I’d been performing for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to be held without having to be anything except myself.

“Can I tell you something?” I asked into the darkness.

“Anything.”

“I’ve been performing for so long I sometimes forget who I am underneath it all. The sweet, innocent thing—it’s not all fake, but it’s not all real either. And I was so scared you’d only want the performance, that the real me would be disappointing.”

He was quiet for a moment, his hand still moving in slow circles on my back. Then he said, “The real you is the one who grows lavender because you read it helps with sleep. The real you is the one who got nervous about dinner and cleaned your cottage three times. The real you is the one who asked me to fuck you harder because you knew what you wanted. And I want all of those versions. I want whoever you are when you’re not trying to be anything for anyone else.”

I looked up at him, even though I could barely see him in the dim light. “I think I’m falling for you.”

“Good,” he said, pulling me closer. “Because I’ve been falling for you since the first day we met.”

I kissed him then, soft and sweet, and let myself believe that maybe this was real, that maybe I could have this—someone who wanted all of me, not just the parts I’d been trained to show.

We cleaned up quickly, him disappearing to deal with the condom while I found one of his t-shirts he’d left in my laundry from the last time he’d helped me with yard work. When we finally collapsed back into my bed—him in borrowed sleep pants, me drowning in his shirt—I felt more at peace than I had in months.

Biscuit jumped onto the bed sometime around midnight, meowing indignantly at finding his spot taken, but eventually curled up at our feet with a grudging purr. I fell asleep with Ethan’s arms around me and my cat purring and the knowledge that I’d been brave enough to invite someone into my real life, not just the performance.

And it had been worth it.