Page 23 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

“Don’t,” he warned, voice rough.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lingering there. The air between them grew thick, charged with something dangerous. When she looked up again, those blue eyes were dark with intent.

“Make me.”

CHAPTER 12

Make me.

Sylvie’s challenge hit Thorn like a bolt of lightning, crackling through his blood and setting every nerve ending aflame. His grip faltered as desire surged through him, primal and urgent, and his control snapped like a dry branch. He knew better—knew all the reasons this was dangerous. Trust a human, and they’d tear your heart to shreds. His sister’s fate had taught him that lesson in blood.

But the challenge blazed in those blue eyes, and his body moved before his mind could stop it. His arm shot out, bracing against the tree trunk behind her, caging her more firmly between bark and muscle. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t shrink away.

This is a mistake, his mind screamed, but when his mouth crashed down on hers, reason shattered. The kiss was pure instinct—rough and hungry, claiming. Her gasp vibrated against his lips, sweet and startled. Instead of pushing him away, her fingers threaded into his hair, grasping the sensitive base of his horns as she pulled him closer.

He told himself it was just to keep her quiet, to stop that clever mouth from drawing the poachers back. But when her lips parted and her tongue brushed his, the lie crumbled. Her taste flooded his senses—honey and sunlight and something uniquely her. The scent of her filled his lungs until he could barely breathe.

He wanted more, needed more, and he lifted her higher against the trunk. Her legs immediately wrapped around his waist, and she gasped as he settled her over the thick ridge of his sheath. He took everything she offered, his tongue sliding over hers in a searing kiss. He drank her in, devouring her until nothing else existed but the feel of her body pressed against his and the soft, breathy noises she made as he explored her mouth.

It was madness, pure and simple. Although the poachers were beyond the range of his senses, they could double back and stumble upon them, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough. He deepened the kiss, claiming every inch of her mouth, his fingers tangling in her hair. She moaned, pressing soft curves against hard muscle. His hips rolled instinctively, seeking relief for the aching hardness of his cock, and she whimpered as she rode his swollen sheath. He needed to be inside her, needed to claim her as his own.

He wanted her now. Right here, against this tree, surrounded by his forest. The thought of taking her, of sinking into her wet heat while the poachers lurked nearby, sent a primal surge of desire through him. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to hear her scream his name while she came around his cock. Let them find him like this, a wild satyr claiming his mate in his forest. They would run in terror, or face his wrath. Either outcome was acceptable to him.

One small shred of sanity remained, enough for him to order Bront to guard, but he didn’t wait to see if the dog obeyed, couldn’t look away from her to check.

“Need you,” he growled against her lips, his fingers digging into her hips.

“Then take me,” she whispered back, her hands tightening around his horns. “I’m yours.”

He was lost. His control shattered, broken into a million pieces by her words. He didn’t care if this was a mistake, didn’t care if the whole world came crashing down around them. All he cared about was claiming her as his.

He fumbled at her clothes, desperate to touch bare skin, to feel the heat of her. She whimpered as his fingers found their way under her shirt, finding the soft curve of her breast beneath a small scrap of lace. He groaned, grinding his hips against her as he explored the small, perfect mounds. They nestled in the palm of his hand, her nipples pebbling under his touch, and she arched into him, her head falling back against the tree trunk.

“Yes,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please, Thorn.”

Hearing his name on her lips drove him wild, and he yanked her top up and tore impatiently at her flimsy bra, freeing her breasts, small and pale with stiff little pink nipples that begged for his mouth. He obeyed their summons, bending his head to suck one into his mouth, laving his tongue over the tight bud. Her cry echoed through the forest, and the thought that someone might hear them only added to the rush of pleasure. He wanted to make her scream his name for the world to hear.

“Thorn,” she whimpered, her fingers twisting in his hair. “We need to—oh gods—we need to stop.”

“No.” The denial tore from him, rough as gravel. She couldn’t stop this. Not now. He’d die if she did.

“But the poachers?—”

He lifted his head to stare into her eyes. “You’re mine, Sylvie. They can’t have you. They won’t.”

She trembled, her eyes wide. “I don’t want them, Thorn. Just you.”

He claimed her mouth again, kissing her with all the desperation and hunger burning inside him. She met him kiss for kiss, her tongue sliding over his. He needed her, needed to be inside her, to feel her clench around him. His cock was so hard it ached, straining against his sheath.

And then his hands were at her waist, tugging at her shorts, desperate to feel her wet heat. His tail flicked in agitation, his horns aching as he kissed her with bruising force. The button on her shorts came undone and he moved away just enough to yank them down, revealing a tiny scrap of lace that did nothing to cover the most intimate parts of her. He groaned, pressing his mouth to her neck, nipping and sucking at the delicate skin there. She tasted like sin and salvation all at once.

He had to have her, had to claim her. Nothing else mattered.

He lifted her higher against the tree, his fingers digging into her hips. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, arching to meet his touch. He could feel her heat against the soft fur covering his lower body, and he ground his hips against hers, needing to be closer, to have nothing between them.

His hand slipped between them, finding the soaked lace of her panties. He growled, ripping them away, desperate to touch her, to feel the slick heat of her arousal. He slid one finger between her folds and groaned at the wetness he found there. She was ready for him, her body welcoming him.

“Mine,” he growled, claiming her mouth again. “You’re mine, Sylvie.”

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