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With a sigh, I claim that mouth. My tongue skates across the ledge, then lunges inside. He makes a gravely sound while parting his lips, yielding them above my own, our tongues sweeping against one another.

Though I haven’t wheeled around, I reach behind to assist him. We fumble with his pants, shoving them down. Briefly, I glimpse his length, thick and high, the head flushed. But then Puck deepens the kiss, the force of which causes my head to fog.

He walks us forward. At the mantle, he grabs my wrists and pins my hands to the shelf. The sweltering flames throw heat at my breasts and core.

He breaks the kiss, seething against my lips, “Don’t move.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I vow.

While nuzzling the opposite side of my neck, his palms cup my breasts and circle the nipples with his thumbs. More noises skitter from me. I’m kindling, sparking to life. The crests tighten, perking under the ministrations of his fingers. The hands of a cellist, an archer, a hunter.

He pinches and teases my nipples, the buds darkening. From behind, he torments each swell and recess of my body. It’s an erotic test of my restraint. He samples the backs of my knees, the insides of my elbows, the cleft beneath my earlobe, and the canal of my ear. His tongue travels, scorching me from head to heel.

Wetness seeps from my center, aching for friction. The tiny bud of sensation pounds like a drum.

At last, Puck’s whole body aligns with mine. “Spread yourself wider,” he instructs. “I’m going to need lots of room to fuck you.”

I broaden my position, parting my limbs further. “Hurry.”

His sultry chuckle ripples up my scalp. “That’s one promise I can’t keep.”

Fables curse this imp. By now, I’m moaning nonstop, damning him for pushing me this far to the edge. Puck secures one arm around my midriff and my right hip with the other, angling them just so.

The tip of his shaft probes, expanding my walls. Languidly, he teases me to the brink with gentle, shallow juts. I whimper in cadence with his movements, my head falling once more atop his shoulder. Experimentally, I roll my hips with his. Puck buckles, his grunts hoarse and deep.

Little by little, his crown slides in and retreats. Again and again. Inarticulate phrases tangle on my tongue, unable to get out, and he doesn’t sound much more coherent. It’s so unbearable that I whine, and he pushes out a strained breath.

We shift into place, mindless, desperate. And then he launches into me, his entire length pitching high and hard. I cry out. Puck bites my shoulder, a guttural noise breaking from him as he buries himself into the narrow clench of my body.

I’m soaked around him, clamping around him. I feel every inch, long and firm. I feel the temperature of his shaft. And then I feel more as he begins thrusting, the lazy cadence of his hips pushing moans from my open mouth.

Puck laps slowly into me, circling his pelvis. He withdraws to the crest and plunges in, in, in. I tilt my bottom for more, taking each flick of his waist. He puffs with exertion, drawing it out, prolonging the anguish.

But it’s not enough. I’m greedy, and he’s just too good at this.

Either he registers my need or hits his breaking point. Whatever it is, Puck releases my hip and grabs the mantle beside my own hand, using the shelf for leverage. Then he charges forth. With his other arm fixed around my middle, he holds me in place and whips into my core.

Puck flings himself against me, putting his whole frame into it. I keen at the snapping of his waist.

I manage to swerve and gasp, “How are you? Happy?”

The satyr gives me a salacious grin. “Ecstatic,” he grunts. “Agonized. Fucking besotted.” He pecks my lips. “And in love.” Then he whispers, “With you, I feel love.”

The last word punctures my heart. “I want to see you.”

He knows what I mean. Nodding, he withdraws. I spin and press on his shoulders, urging him to the ground. It’s my turn.

We hunker to the rug. My palms shove him back, reclining the satyr across the floor. Stretched out, his torso gleams with sweat, his length smooth and wet from me.

I waste no time climbing onto Puck, my thighs splitting around his pelvis. He helps me, grabbing himself and pointing it to my entrance. Then I take over, sinking onto him with an elongated sigh.

Flattening my hands on his pectorals, I swirl my hips. Puck hisses, his head flinging back, his fingers gripping my backside. His bronze earrings flash in the muted room and emit a short, tinkling tease of noise. A needy, ravenous expression cleaves his face.

Seeing him like this fuels me to action. I hunch over and gyrate my body, stroking his length with sharp jerks. The satyr disintegrates beneath me, his moans frayed and so very primal. My confidence grows, expands. This is new for me, but I find my rhythm, stalking after his pleasure, hunting it down. And in this way, I seek my own rapture.

He’s mine. His ragged groans are mine.

I undulate my hips, burrowing him deeper, so deep. My head flings back, my hair brushes his thighs, and my breasts bounce. The fire licks my skin as everything inside me coils, tightens.