Page 41 of Horned to be Wild
“Mm-hmm. Just like that.”
She pulled his mouth back down to hers, kissing him more urgently, her tongue sweeping into his mouth and tangling with his. His arms tightened around her as his tongue stroked hers, claiming her as she melted into him. By the time she finally raised her head, they were both panting. His cock pressed insistently against her stomach, and she wriggled against it, savoring his growl.
“This isn’t the place,” he said reluctantly, glancing at the road.
She leaned back and smiled up at him.
“Then let’s go back to the cabin.”
“I was going to check on the damage to your cottage.”
“It can wait. The cottage will still be here tomorrow.” As would she. “And the day after that.”
“Forever?” he whispered, his eyes searching hers.
“Forever.” she promised, and lifted her face to his.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The morning of the Harmony Glen Art Fair dawned with a crystal clarity that seemed almost deliberately crafted for the occasion. Torin stood in his workshop, carefully wrapping his final pieces in soft cloth, while Lila bustled around happily organizing her paintings and display stands. Every few minutes she would pause, dart over to press a quick kiss to his shoulder or arm, then resume her preparations.
“Are you nervous?” she asked, glancing over at him.
He considered the question, surprised to find that the gnawing anxiety he’d expected was instead a quiet, steady resolve. “No,” he answered truthfully. “Just ready.”
The decision to display his work had come gradually. Ever since he’d finally accepted that Lila loved him, something fundamental had shifted within him. The heart that had found love despite all odds could surely weather public scrutiny.
They loaded their artwork into his truck, Mabel watching with what looked suspiciously like pride from her pen. The old truck rumbled down the forest path towards town, Lila’s hand restingcomfortably on his thigh, her presence a warm, reassuring anchor.
The Town Square bustled with activity as locals and vendors finished their preparations for the Harvest Festival. Pumpkins were piled everywhere, and the scent of fried food already filled the air.
Across the street, the white tents for the Art Fair lined the boardwalk, colorful banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Artists and craftspeople from Harmony Glen and surrounding towns busied themselves with last-minute adjustments to their displays.
“We’re here,” he announced unnecessarily as he parked. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before reaching for her hand. “Together.”
Her fingers interlaced with his. “Always.”
Their booths stood side by side near the center of the fair. Her space quickly bloomed with vibrant color as she arranged her paintings—landscapes that captured the mystical quality of the woods around their home, abstract pieces that somehow conveyed emotion through color alone, and a series of small portraits of local residents, including a particularly striking one of Mabel looking mischievously regal.
His booth was much more restrained. Each piece—animals caught in mid-motion, mythological figures with expressive faces, intricate forest scenes where every leaf seemed poised to rustle in the breeze—sat on simple wooden pedestals he’d crafted specifically for the occasion. The polished wood gleamed softly against the white background of the tent.
He unwrapped the most special piece last—a rendering of two figures sitting on a porch, one small and delicate, the other large and horned, their hands almost touching between them. The detail was extraordinary, from the grain of the wooden porch boards to the subtle expression of wonder on the smaller figure’s face.
“That’s us,” she whispered, coming to stand next to him. “The night we had wine on my porch.”
He nodded, placing it at the center of his display. “The moment I started to believe this might be possible.”
“You’re not going to sell it are you?”
“Of course not, but I… I wanted people to see it.”
That realization still surprised him, but he was proud both of the piece and what it represented. He stepped back, surveying his work now laid bare for all to see. The placard at the front of his booth read simply: “Torin Stonehand, Woodcarver.”
Not anonymous. Not hidden. Just himself.
As the fair opened and people began to wander through, he fought the urge to retreat behind his booth or busy himself with unnecessary adjustments. Instead, he stood tall, meeting the eyes of those who approached.
The first few visitors were hesitant, clearly surprised to see him, but as they actually looked at his carvings, their expressions transformed from curiosity to genuine appreciation.
