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Puck is the adventurous one. I’m the cautious one. Yet this infectious creature finds ways to turn me inside-out, inspiring me to spontaneity.

And while he’s shrewder than he lets on—vigilant of his kin and expertly flippant when we’re in the company of watchful Faeries—there are times when he pushes the boundaries.

He’s there to disarm me. I’m there to steady him.

***

Puck hefts me off the ground, dumps me on a low-hanging branch, and yanks up my skirt. Astride him and clad only in my blouse, I tear into his breeches so violently the closures rip. As they flap open, he stands within the split of my body and lunges into me.

I yelp with pleasure, eternally stunned by this. I’d never known what my body could accomplish, what response I could elicit in a male.

Puck’s shaft pitches to the hilt, pivoting in and out of my wetness at a frantic pace. I spur him on, gripping his buttocks and thumping my groin with his. The rhythm is swift, hectic, and glorious.

“Don’t tell me to stop,” he pants.

I shake my head. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

A passionate chuckle rumbles from his mouth, which collapses into another groan. All the while, we watch each other.

After crescendoing, Puck carries me to the nest of furs he’d prepared. I fall asleep in his arms and awaken later to the rich thrum of music. The notes wind through the area, rousing me from dreams.

Daybreak filters through, illuminating his bare-chested frame perched on a tree stump and straddling his cello. He glimpses me while sliding that wand-like bar across the instrument.

I want to ask him what the various parts are called, such as the knobs at the top. Except all I can do is watch him, watching me.

His fingers vibrate atop the uppermost strings, causing the melody to shiver. Around him, the trees glint as though soothed by the notes. Several blooms flounce their petals toward the sound.

“Afternoon, luv,” he says. “Fancy your wake-up call?”

I curl into the furs and use my hands as a pillow. “Did you compose that?”

The bar glides over the strings. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever written. All the rest are folkish ditties of old.”

“Does it have a title?”

“I was thinkingSexy MasterpieceorThe Hottest Solo Ever Composed. Or maybeSylvan.”

To the last option, I give him a brisk nod. “Approved.”

“Then it’s settled.” He jerks his chin toward the pack containing my notebook, both of which I’d dropped when Puck had grabbed me earlier. “Why haven’t you thought about writing your own book?”

The question is so random and unprecedented, I scoff. “Very comical.”

“What now? What’s that face?”

“I’m not a writer,” I insist. “I’m a reader.”

“In my world, that’s the first step to becoming a writer.” He plucks at the strings, changing the tune. The composition sharpens, quickens. “You’ve researched the Fables, their theorists, and their emulators. Why not write something of your own? Try it. Give it a merry whirl. See what happens when you put pencil to parchment.”

I sit up, fish the notebook from my pack, and exhibit the tablet. “I already do that.”

I’d scripted my latest set of notes and had planned to share them, but our bodies had gotten distracted.

Puck drags the bar across the cello. “Yes, but I’m talking about a text that’s completely yours. Create something from your mind. Explore, ponder, and scribble whatever comes out. That’s all storytelling is, isn’t it? It’s just making something of your own. Write for yourself.”

“Compose more music,” I volley.

Puck stops playing and grins like a devil. “Wanna help me?”