Page 25 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

He whistled for Bront and the hound dashed out of the bushes to join them. He could have sworn there was a knowing smile on the dog’s faces but he did his best to ignore it.

He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Come on. It’s not far now.”

She accompanied him, her grip strong and sure, and he found himself smiling, more content than he’d ever been.

CHAPTER 13

Sylvie’s mind spun as she tried to process what had just happened. Thorn had taken her up against a tree in the middle of the forest, with the possibility that the poachers were lurking nearby, and she’d loved every minute of it. Her body ached but it was a deeply satisfying ache and when she glanced up and saw him smiling, she couldn’t help but beam back at him.

A flicker of something she couldn’t read crossed his face, and his smile faded.

“We should keep moving.”

“Of course. The cabin.”

She bit back a sigh, but she wasn’t entirely surprised that he was reverting to his previous ways. They had time, and the idea of spending the night in a cozy cabin with him sent a warm flush of pleasure through her. Especially after the way he’d taken her against that tree, hard and dominant, but ever mindful of her pleasure. Her legs trembled a little as she remembered the wayhis fingers had dug into her hips, the way he’d growled her name as he’d thrust inside her.

She’d had lovers before, but none of them had ever made her feel the way he did. And the way he’d stretched her, the slight burn as he pushed his way inside, that had been a whole new level of pleasure. She wasn’t sure she could even walk straight anymore. Her hand dropped to her stomach as she remembered the way his knot had felt as it swelled inside her. She couldn’t believe how good it had felt, the way it had stretched her to her limit, making her entire body quake as he’d filled her with pulse after pulse of his seed. It felt so right, so perfect, as though they were made for each other.

The path they followed wound through more of the ancient trees, and as they walked, vines began to curl down from the canopy just as they had covered the walls of the shelter, covered with the same small fragrant flowers. It was like walking through soft scented curtains as the vines swirled around them and she gave him a delighted smile.

“This is wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it,” he growled, and she shot him a puzzled look. “The forest is attuned to… me.”

The way he hesitated made her suspect he’d been going to say something else but she didn’t pursue it.

“Then you should feel this way more often,” she teased, reaching for one of the vines. It twined around her fingers in a gentle caress, and he growled again, glaring at the vine. She raised an eyebrow. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, but he was clearly unhappy.

Her stomach churned at the thought that he might be regretting what had happened. She tried to release his hand, but his fingers immediately tightened around hers, not painfully but inescapably. Since she was perfectly happy holding his hand, she stopped trying to pull away.

Confusing male. Or perhaps confused male, she amended, her heart suddenly aching for him. Bront butted his heads against her free hand, and she gently stroked his ears, grateful for the dog’s less complicated affection.

They rounded the last bend in the path and her steps faltered at the sight in front of her. The cabin rose from the forest floor like a living thing, its walls flowing seamlessly from massive tree trunks that must have stood for centuries. But calling it a cabin felt wrong—this was something else entirely. She’d teased him about living in a treehouse and while this was only a few feet above the ground, it had the same feel. Nature itself had been coaxed into creating shelter, living branches woven into intricate patterns to form the walls and roof. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the natural architecture, casting dappled shadows across weathered wood.

Her fingers itched for her camera, wanting to capture the way moss draped like velvet curtains along the curved walls, how delicate pink flowers peeked through trailing vines. The whole structure seemed to pulse with life, as if it might shift and grow while she watched.

Her gaze drifted to him, taking in the powerful lines of his body, the wild grace in his movements. He belonged here, she realized—this magical dwelling was an extension of him, beautiful and untamed and unlike anything she’d ever known.

“This is… yours?” The words came out barely above a whisper, filled with wonder.

His only response was a grunt as he led her up onto a wide porch and pushed open a door that seemed to grow right out of the trunk of an ancient oak. He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.

Bront bounded past them both, his tail wagging with such enthusiasm it made his whole body wiggle. The hound shot her what could only be described as a knowing look before disappearing into the depths of the living house. She followed him, her breath catching at the sight. The interior wrapped around her like a warm embrace, somehow both wild and welcoming. Dried herbs dangled from beams formed from living branches, their subtle fragrance mingling with cedar and woodsmoke. Hand-carved furniture dotted the space—a table that looked like it had grown straight from the floor, chairs with backs that mimicked unfurling ferns.

Her photographer’s eye noticed the unexpected details: a sleek radio nestled among leather-bound books, delicate glass jars filled with what looked like starlight, a worn blanket draped across a huge armchair. Each item told a story about the male who lived here.

That scent though—earth and forest and something distinctly him—made her chest tight with wanting. She lifted her camera, framing the way sunlight spilled across a collection of crystals on the windowsill.

“You can stay here until it’s safe.”

His gruff voice cut through her thoughts. He stood near the door, arms crossed, as if trying to maintain distance even in his ownhome. Hmm. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that—did that mean he wanted her to go? But he sounded more as if he were trying to convince himself, and she remembered the way his hand had tightened around hers.

Her gaze drifted to the huge bed tucked into an alcove—a gorgeous piece that looked like living branches had woven themselves into the perfect resting place. Her lips curved into a teasing smile as she turned to him.

“At least the bed looks big enough to share.”

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