Page 21 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

The third time it happened, she couldn’t resist anymore.

“You know,” she called out, lowering her camera, “I think you might actually enjoy my company if you’d let yourself.”

The knife in his hand stilled mid-slice, and his shoulders tensed.

“I mean, Fluffy clearly loves me.” She ruffled the dog’s fur and grinned at him. “You’ve got competition.”

His laugh caught her completely off guard—deep and rich, rolling through the clearing like distant thunder. The sound hit her right in the stomach, leaving her breathless and wanting to hear it again.

The sound of his laughter faded into the morning air, but its effect lingered, warming her from the inside out. She lowered herself to the ground near where he worked, crossing her legs beneath her. He worked with practiced efficiency as he prepared their breakfast, but she caught the slight hesitation in his movements when she shifted closer.

“I’m not scared, you know,” she said softly, the words spilling from her lips before she could stop them. “Not when you’re here.”

Her cheeks heated at the admission, but she forced herself to look up. He had gone still, his knife suspended above the herbs he’d been chopping. His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that stole her breath. She expected him to look away—he always did—but this time he held her gaze, something unreadable flickering across his face. The moment stretched, delicate as a spider’s web, and she found herself leaning forward unconsciously, drawn by the heat in his eyes.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough as gravel, and she blinked, unsure if he was replying to her confession or simply giving hera command. But then he stood and walked away, leaving her staring after him.

He returned moments later, some of the moss from the shelter in his hand. He placed it on a bare patch of ground, then stroked it softly with his fingers. The moss began to grow and spread rippling across the ground beneath her until it formed a thick carpet.

“So you’ll be more comfortable.” His gaze met hers briefly, his expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, sinking into the velvety softness of the moss.

She watched him prepare the rest of their breakfast, but he didn’t look at her again, his focus entirely on his work. But she didn’t miss how his fingers trembled, just a little, as he sliced fruit, or the way his tail lashed behind him as he worked.

When he’d finished, he brought her a plate of food. He knelt to set it down, his face close enough that she could count the silver threads in his beard. His eyes flickered to her mouth, and for a dizzying moment, she thought he might kiss her again.

But then he pulled back, rising to his feet with a swift, fluid movement. He busied himself with cleaning the knife and putting it back in his belt sheath and avoiding her gaze. Her stomach twisted with disappointment, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, his hands in her hair.

He’d given in to temptation twice, but he seemed determined not to repeat it. She was going to have to ensure it happened again, and next time, she’d make sure he didn’t have a chance to pull away

CHAPTER 11

Thorn stalked the perimeter of the clearing, his hooves crushing twigs and leaves beneath them. The morning sun filtered through the canopy, but he barely noticed its warmth. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts, all centered on the small human female inside the shelter.

Her laughter from breakfast still echoed in his ears. The way her eyes had sparkled when she’d teased him about Bront’s affections. The soft curve of her smile. He growled and shook his head as he strayed to even more dangerous memories, of her mouth opening to his, of the feel of her body beneath him, of the softness of her skin beneath his hands.

The kisses had been a mistake, he told himself, but the words rang hollow. It wasn’t like him, to act on emotion rather than logic, but holding her in his arms had felt like breathing, like living, after a lifetime of merely existing. She’d been right when she said that satyrs had a reputation as hedonists, but he’d never indulged in the delights of wine and women, blocked first by responsibility and then by grief.

But he wanted to indulge in her, to feast on her body until they were both drunk from pleasure.

He paused, leaning against a tree, his hand splayed on its rough bark. The sap pulsed slowly beneath the surface, and the slow, steady heartbeat of the forest seeped into him. It was a comfort, that constant presence, a reminder that no matter what happened, the forest remained, enduring and eternal.

But that discordant note was still there. Time to go.

He returned to the shelter. She’d changed clothes but the oversized white t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder was just as enticing as the ripped shirt had been. He suspected he would find everything she wore equally appealing.

She was checking her camera bag, completely unconcerned about the danger lurking in his woods. Something protective and fierce rose in his chest, and he swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. His fingers brushed against his horns, a reminder of exactly what he was – and what she wasn’t.

“We should get going.”

His voice came out harsher than he’d intended but she only looked up at him and smiled, undeterred by his surliness.

“Of course. Give me two seconds to grab my stuff.”

She finished packing up her camera bag, and jumped to her feet, then shot him a guilty look.

“Your ankle seems a lot better than it did before breakfast,” he said dryly.

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