Page 113

He uses the bar to tap his thigh, inviting me over. I shake my head but smile. I can’t help thinking about what he’s suggested, can’t help the leap in my stomach.

Me, writing a book of my own.

I bite my lower lip, to which Puck smirks persuasively. “You like my idea, don’t you?”

“Which one? Your first idea?” I rise and prance toward him. I’m feeling bold, nothing like myself and every bit myself. Settling on his lap, I speak against his mouth. “Or the second?”

He shifts me between his thighs and sets the cello in front of us. We twine ourselves around the instrument, and he arranges my left fingers on the strings, then my right digits on the bar. “Like this,” he instructs and sways our arms together, the melody rising to the trees.

His breath hits my ears, and he names each note. My eyes fall shut, and I coil into him. As he shows me the basics, his whispers shimmy down my spine, causing an outbreak across my skin.

The cello tosses music into the air, and I toss my head back to find Puck’s lips descending. He pries my mouth open, kissing me as we keep playing, keep making something of our own.

***

We explore The Swarm of Rats. In an entrancing hollow of maple trees, seeds litter the floor, perfect for rodent-hoarding.

I grin at what Puck calls “rattery antics.” The females move constantly, flitting here and there, balancing on their hind legs to sniff the air, and grooming themselves with considerable regularity. Meanwhile, half a dozen males get cozy in leaf hammocks suspended in the branches, the rodents sleeping in puddles of whiskers and whiplike tails.

Their squeaks peal through the wild, as shrill as tin whistles. In my world, humans often can’t hear the sounds rats make, barring the occasional peep. In Faerie, their vocalizations bounce off everything.

According to Puck, they rarely shift sizes. These creatures like their routine, excluding when a predator lurks nearby.

“They’re pragmatic,” I observe to Puck. “Like me.”

He snorts. “Bragger.”

I elbow him in the ribs, then get distracted by a pup with sea-glass pupils who chases its siblings up a maple tree. Wistful, I watch the trio for an hour.

***

Puck runs a thumb down my arm. “You never told me what happened to your bracelet.”

He had inquired about the winding leaf bracelet before, prior to the hunt’s commencement. I’d never answered him.

I still don’t, because I would rather pretend the nymphs never took it from me. I’d rather imagine the trinket from my sisters still clings to my arm, unbroken.

***

Puck clasps my hips under the skirt and tugs me into a languid tempo. My thighs split around him, straddling his body as I revolve back and forth. He demonstrates the rhythm, then eases his grip as I catch on.

He’s naked, his torso clenching in the drowsy starlight. My breasts tumble from the unbuttoned blouse, the only stitch of clothing I’m wearing.

That, and the spectacles.

I’d finished reading aloud a passage from the original Fables when Puck had stalked toward me. Because we’d failed to draw from the tale any passages of consequence or significance, he’d suggested we take a break.

The kiss had turned into caresses. The caresses had escalated to bared teeth and my nails raking through his hair.

Every time I tell myself it’ll be enough, it never is. Every time we think we’ve learned one another’s bodies, we discover another way to touch. Every time I extract a groan from him, he plucks a sigh from me.

As I’d scrambled on top of him, my fingers had extended to my spectacles. But Puck had rasped, “Leave them on.”

My belly had swooped. And now, here we are.

It’s barely dusk, barely time for the Faeries to skulk from their homes and make mischief. The satyr and I gyrate, the pace sinuous and patient. I brace my hands on his shoulders and buck into his lap. We bow our heads, watching our hips collide, my waist swatting his.

Tapered ears perk from the satyr’s hair. He looks wickedly rumpled, so much so that my toes curl on either side of him. I can’t stop wanting this Fae. It’s an endless craving, this thing called desire.