Page 114

Puck licks beneath my ear. “You hear that?” he says over my cries. “That’s the sound of me fucking you. And it’s beautiful, luv. So beautiful.”

“Puck,” I keen, grinding onto him.

“Listen. Do you hear it?”

Yes, I hear it. I hear so much of it.

Encouraged, I accelerate the pace, lurching up and down on his length. Puck joins my movements, his pelvis swinging into me, spreading my thighs further.

The incense of cloves and pine curls into my nose. I chase that scent while slamming my waist with his. In response, his shaft thickens. It passes into the wet clench of my body, into a spot that has me chanting.

My head flings back. I take the brunt of his length, take it, take it. His growls collide with my moans, and the noises swirl into a frenzy.

We charge faster, louder. The friction is maddening, the exertion astounding.

Finally we convulse, my center contracting around him. It goes on, and on, and on. By the time we slump together, my spectacles have gone askew.

He chuckles with exhaustion, and I grin in spite of myself. At the same time, we straighten the lenses.

***

Puck is correct. There are more than four positions.

***

Solitaries they may be, but these woodland dwellers enjoy their share of communal escapades and chatter. As I bathe and replenish my waterskin in a babbling creek, I overhear brownies gossiping nearby. Puck has rejected one of the nymph’s offers for a tumble. Although he’d flirted to appease the male, Puck seldom says no.

Later, at a crossway leading to a secluded teashop, one of the dryads glances at me for a few seconds too long. And from another cavity, fauns and satyrs tip their heads in my direction, following my trajectory while I pretend not to notice.

***

We read the Book of Fables together. Encasing me from behind, Puck noshes on my ear.

I reach back and rap his hip with the book. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he mumbles into my skin.

“You’re up to no good. I’m well-versed in the signs.”

“I should hope so, know-it-all.”

When I laugh, he pauses. “Do that again.”

“Catch you in the act?”

Another brief pause. “Laugh.”

***

Halfway through my third day, the fear increases. Puck and I sit across from one another at midnight, the Book of Fables and my notebook resting between us. It’s a risk to be awake together at this hour, but I’m getting desperate.

I must appear miserable, because Puck stands and sets his hand against the nearest tree. Minutes later, Sylvan trots into the coppice we’d chosen for tonight. I totter to my feet, the sight of her pulverizing the weight on my shoulders to ash.

The Fae engages in silent communication with her, then knocks his head toward the deer. “Fancy an adventure?”

He settles behind me and leads us through the woods, the regal creature galloping around trunks and across hills. She moves seamlessly, as if she knows every nook and cranny of this forest.

Puck encircles my middle, securing me to him. The landscape is a montage of color, flying by on either side of us.