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I scream, wild, hysterical. Puck roars, feral, passionate.

My inner walls convulse around his shaft. Warmth pulsates into my womb as Puck shudders. Like this, we root ourselves and ignite together.

Puck sags atop me, and I crumple to the grassy bed. Around us, the trees gleam, dripping with gilded orbs. The scents of fruit and basil envelope us.

We struggle for breath. The satyr lies between my legs, his length filling the cleft of my body. His face presses into my cheek, but he angles himself carefully, lest his antlers jab my skin. I drag my foot over his furred calf and comb my fingers through his red layers, speechless, astonished.

Well. Speechless for all of a minute.

Perhaps this is glamour. Perhaps this is what happens when a mortal spends too long in Faerie, too long in the company of a satyr. Or perhaps this is something else, something more.

So when Puck raises his head and shows off that glorious Fae smirk, I realize I do have something to say. I knot my legs around him and whisper, “Again.”

26

My wish is his command. Thus,againhappens.

This time, we face each other while stretched out on our sides. Puck fastens on to my knee, hitching my right thigh over his waist as he plies me with temperate thrusts. Our pelvises rock together, gyrating in a leisurely manner.

Though, I’m feeling anything but lethargic. My whimpers coalesce with his groans, the sounds punctuating every soft beat of his waist. He strokes into me fluidly, my wetness coating his length, my walls gripping around him.

I keen into the night and cling to his nape, letting myself be ridden.

Puck watches me through slitted eyes. His mouth hangs open, heavy breaths rolling off his tongue. The muscles of his abdomen clench, bunching as he angles himself into my body, his hips slinging gently between my thighs.

The climax builds just out of reach. It coils into that narrow place where his shaft glides within my core, the cadence so euphoric, so good that I’m trembling.

“I’m going to…,” I pant, “I’m going to…”

To which, Puck shakes his head. “No, luv,” he husks. “No, you’re not.”

Not yet. Not if this satyr can help it.

With that, his hand drops to my backside, his palm fixing me in place. And then he slows the tempo even more, the sluggish grind of his length heightening my moans, coaxing them out until I’m pleading for it to end, until I’m hoping it will never end.

An eternity later, I shatter on a long-suffering cry. I arch into him, engulfed by a vehement profusion of bliss. Puck tenses, then joins me as we climax in one collective holler.

And on it goes…

By the time Puck’s done with me, and by the time I’m done with him, neither of us can move. We deflate into the grass, languishing like a pile of exhausted, sweaty fools. During our final tumble, he’d drawn out my orgasm yet again, persevering for so long I’d nearly passed out.

Now he rolls over, cradling me to his side. The muskiness of sex coils with the essence of fruit, herbs, and leather. Rumpled together, we suck in air.

The satyr and I rest in a slash of moonlight, sprawled atop slender blades of glass spritzed in gold from the trees. As we stare at the sky, Puck’s index finger skims the margin of my neck, and my arm drapes across his stomach.

Tingling warmth flows beneath my skin, as if someone has injected a mixture of tea and wine into my bloodstream. A drowsy sensation takes over. I wonder if being drunk feels remotely similar.

This moment seems as intimate as when he’d been inside me. My arms and limbs, sticky with perspiration under the garments. My breasts, swollen from the pressure of his mouth. My core, damp from his thrusts. His arms, hot and bare. His limbs, tangled with mine. His calf scars, pulped and covered by my toes. This is us in the aftermath, raw and ravaged.

“My, my, my,” Puck says, his voice thin from all the noise we’d made. “Youarea fast learner.” He swings his head down and taps his freckled nose against mine. “That explains the rather confident grip you had on my ass.”

Smug bastard. Then again, I frown at him. “Past tense? Does that mean we’re done for tonight?”

“Fables have mercy!” He throws back his head and bellows with laughter. “Woman, I’ve made you come three times in the last hour.”

“You’re a satyr,” I point out.

“Bloody true, last time I checked, but even we have our limits of stamina. Faeries can go on for a very long time, but after that many victory laps, certain appendages need a break.” For emphasis, his eyes tick down to the unbuckled vent in his breeches. “Just ask it. I’m sure it will agree.”