Page 13 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

Instead of following the gesture, his gaze remained focused on her.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Tell me, little photographer,” he added, “what do you see?”

“Something beautiful.” She met his eyes, refusing to look away. “Something worth capturing.”

Gathering her courage, she reached out, lightly touching the back of his hand where it rested on his arm. He stiffened at the contact but didn’t pull away. Encouraged, she traced her fingertips up his arm, following the lines of muscle and tendon. His skin was not exactly like human skin, more like the finest leather, but she could feel his pulse thrumming beneath her palm.

“You can touch me too,” she whispered, her heart racing. “If you want.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” She leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Humans bring trouble.” His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder, but it held an element of pain that made her chest ache.

“Not all of us.” She took a step back and raised her camera again, framing him against the sunlight dappled trunk. “Some of us just want to see the world… and maybe capture something beautiful.”

Dropping her camera, she closed the gap between them again, pressing her palm against his chest. His heart thudded beneath her touch, a rapid rhythm that betrayed the effect she was having on him. “Prove you’re not afraid of me. Touch me.”

A growl tore from his throat, and he grabbed her hips, pulling her against him until there wasn’t an inch of space between their bodies. She gasped as heat flooded her veins, her pulse skyrocketing. He was so much bigger than her, but instead of feeling intimidated, she felt… protected. Safe.

“Little photographer,” he murmured, his breath fanning across her cheek as he leaned down. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Am I?” she breathed. Her fingers drifted across his chest, exploring the contours of the powerful muscle beneath the warm skin. “And what are the stakes?”

His grip tightened on her hips, and for a dizzying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. His mouth hovered mere inches from hers. She could almost taste him, earthy and male and wild. But then he released her abruptly, stepping back and putting distance between them.

“We should keep moving,” he said, his voice rough.

Her skin tingled, craving more of his touch, but she managed a shaky nod. “Then lead the way.”

CHAPTER 7

Thorn swore under his breath as he followed Sylvie down the trail, automatically raising a vine that hung down in her path and pushing aside some branches that were close enough to the path to scratch her delicate skin. She was a remarkably exasperating female.

So why was it that every time that she teased him, he wanted to snatch her up into his arms and kiss that pretty little mouth?

She’s human, he reminded himself—a destructive, untrustworthy human—but it was hard to summon his usual antipathy. She was fascinated by her surroundings, but her fascination didn’t lead her into carelessness. Even when she was concentrating on the subject of her photographs, she was careful about where she stepped and what she touched.

She stopped again when she spotted a bird perched on a branch high overhead. As she lifted her arms to raise her camera, her shirt rose as well, revealing a few more inches of bare, creamy skin. His tail lashed as he fought the urge to put his hand on her back again and run his fingers across that tempting little strip of bare skin. She had told him he could touch her…

No. It was bad enough that he’d given into temptation once and he could still feel the press of those slender curves against his body.

He was so focused on fighting the urge to touch her again that it took him far longer than it should have to realize what the trees were trying to tell him. He only had enough time to give a resigned sigh before the bushes rustled and Bront burst through them, launching himself at Sylvie and practically knocking her down. He started to admonish his dog, but she’d already bent over him, hugging as many of his necks as she could reach, and running her fingers through his fur.

As Bront’s tail wagged happily, the suspicion that his own tail would be just as enthusiastic if she were hugging him the same way didn’t improve his temper.

“Fluffy,” she cried happily. “You found us. Aren’t you a clever boy? Yes, you are.”

She scratched under the central head’s chin, and his dog threw himself down on the ground and flopped over on his back like an oversized puppy.

“Do you want your belly rubbed too?” she cooed as she ran her fingers through the thick, short fur that covered Bront’s stomach. “See,” she added triumphantly, looking up at him. “I told you he was lonely.”

“And disobedient.”

The closest head gave him a smug look, not at all fazed by his annoyance, and he sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle against his dog’s infatuation with her.

Not that he could entirely blame the animal.

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