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A gentle wheeze fans through my lungs. I lie there, glimpsing the narrow waist and steep inclines of his hips. The trail of red leads to a firm mast at the center of his body. His length is erect and hard, the crown ruddy.

To be sure, my fantasies had been liberal. Nevertheless, it’s bigger than I had expected.

My calves quaver, the split of my legs widens, and slickness gathers in my core. “Closer,” I plead.

With a devious grin, Puck crawls my way. “Closer, like this?”

His body lands over mine, filling the valley between my limbs. I make a tremulous noise from the weight and broadness of him, anticipation shimmying through me. This is what it’s like to be enveloped, to have a male above me.

He frames my face and kisses me, parting my mouth with his tongue and coaxing a sigh from us both.

I’m nervous. Yet I’m not nervous at all.

Also, my digits can’t resist nor wait. I wiggle between us and search for that intimate part of him. His startled growl hits the back of my throat. Strapping my hand around his phallus, I marvel at its temperature, its size, its shape.

Puck’s back caves in. He tears his mouth from mine. “Like this,” he encourages.

Molding my fingers around him, he shows me how to grope and rub, how much pressure to use. Then he releases me, letting me figure out the rest on my own.

In the space between our bodies, I wring my hand around him. He’s hefty, the circumference torrid. I swirl my thumb around the head, etch the slit at its nexus, and observe the anarchy this causes. Puck’s face crimps. He likes this. So I do it more, charting that small incision at the crown, brushing the line until it liquefies, a bead forming there.

I collect the droplet, sweeping it over the crown. Tremors rack Puck’s body. Emboldened by his broken moans, I intensify my grip. My wrist glides up and down, stroking his length from the base to the tip, pumping him into madness.

As his shaft thickens in my palm, moisture drenches my undergarments. I ought to be mortified. But I’m not, because it feels right. Everything about this feels right, from the heat racing across my skin to the siphoning motions of my hand.

My sole flattens on his calf, brushing the fur. My toes outline his hoof, then skid upward again. My heel locates the iron trap scars and caresses the marred flesh.

On a suffocated groan, Puck tugs his shaft from my ministrations. “Wider,” he mutters.

My legs comply, spreading for him. The skirt rustles up to my waist, revealing the thin, skimpy drawers beneath, which he plucks and drags down my form. They, too, land on the grass.

A breeze winnows through my open limbs. I’m splayed out, bare and wanting.

Puck’s molten gaze scrolls down to the thatch of curls and the slickness accumulating there. His expression turns savage, devouring what he sees. That aperture aches, thudding hectically from his attention. Unforgivably, I need him there.

Once more, the satyr prowls forward and hovers over me. His substantial figure looms, the very picture of a chimerical being, cast from a dark and prohibited folktale. I wrap my arms around his neck and hook my legs over the width of his hips, giving permission.

He nudges his waist between my thighs, flattening his palms on the grass for leverage. His earrings swing past his hair, the bronze strands vibrating, and his breeches slump low around his pelvis. The crown poises at my entrance, setting that place aflame.

Puck’s pupils dilate into twin pools of black. He takes me in, holds me in.

Then his hips rock forward. The tip probes, slipping through the curls.

A strangled sound leaps from my tongue. “Oh.”

Puck circles his hips, prodding my walls apart with short, shallow juts. He moves at a languid pace, barely inside me. Yet already, my hands abandon his neck and surge into his breeches. I clasp his buttocks, feeling the dimples contracting.

He grunts, “Warmer.”

Flames course from the spot where he teases me apart. The satyr works gently into me, opening the soft folds. With each leisurely swat of his crown, my knees pitch higher, clamping his sides.

His lower body rocks in a spherical motion, plying at my wetness and then retreating. The effect is torturous, stunning.

Astonished moans stutter out of me. Haggard moans grind out of him.

Puck braces his arm under my right leg. “Wetter,” he rumbles.

My body reacts, flooding his mast. I sink my fingers into his gyrating backside, beseeching him to go deeper, so very deep. The friction is an agony, as if I’m chasing something that will never be caught.