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Juniper’sprofile ducks toward an open notebook propped on her upturned thighs. Her pencil flies across the page as if it’s got wings. Only she possesses the type of steadfast grip that makes a writing tool look like a weapon. She bites her tongue in concentration, her brows crinkling with the productive prowess of an ancient wordsmith.

She’s writing. Did I mention she’s also naked?

Probably not, since my thoughts have melted into sap. And that’s only half of my body’s evident response. My shaft twitches, thickening in my breeches.

Flames douse her calves in hot shades of orange and red, while her green hair hangs gloriously unkempt around her cheeks. She’s a candlelit tree, resistant to fire. The half-moon curve of her hip nestles into the cushions. Her oh-so-pretty tits inflate with each breath, capped in rosy little nipples.

She’s writing naked. She’s writing naked, with a pair of spectacles on her nose.

Fuck. Me.

My prick loves what it sees and wants what it sees. If she weren’t already stripped, I’d do the honors with, well, honor.

Here I’d been attempting to impress her with my bare torso and low-slung pants. Here she is, stealing my thunder, outdoing me as she often does.

Fables almighty. How she owns me.

I whistle, the noise swooping from my end of the cabin to hers. But the huntress already knows I’m here, because she’d heard me coming, and she knows my pace. Yet she doesn’t turn my way, a fact I’ll need to rectify.

Her perceptive lips tilt. “Kott jföld, satyr.”

“And a good evening to you, too,” I intone, savoring her mortal accent.

She’s been soaking up Faeish like a sponge. I’ve taught her a few basics of the practical and filthy variety. When this woman puts her mind to something, she devotes herself to it, devouring it whole. I like to think we have this in common.

Although I’m fond of my antlers, I don’t mind pretending to be a panther now and then. I step into the firelight, prowling slowly, my gaze fixed on its quarry. That aside, one of the bountiful traits Juniper appreciates about me is my directness, which matches her own. We don’t mince words with each other, a fact that gets me into trouble with this huntress as much as it causes her breath to quicken.

I murmur, “Look at me, luv.”

Her pencil ceases its voyage across the parchment. She removes her spectacles and swings her head my way, those evergreen eyes warming on my face. How I adore being one of the chosen few who elicits this sort of gentle response from her. Pride oozes through me. The achievement is as rewarding as getting her to chuckle or moan with pleasure. I’ve decided to add it to my nonexistent list of top three life accomplishments.

A thorough inspection of my pecs, arms, and navel causes a ravenous shift in her features. She’s caught sight of the waistband and everything straining beneath it. I haven’t fooled her.

Desire leaps to the forefront of her face, a firestorm suffusing her throat and lips in swaths of pink. That, right there. That’s the Passionate Look. That’s why I came down here half dressed, indulging in my addiction to that expression. I have an eternal thing for her stare, her eyes holding me in a way no other being ever has.

Is this feeling ever going to end? I hope to fuck not.

In my present erectile condition, it’s a wonder I can walk without hobbling. I take a step toward her—and the fucking teakettle shrieks, blaring like a scandalized matron. We jolt toward the shrill noise, then twist back to each other and break into contrite laughter.

I wrestle to control the goofy, pubescent smile on my face while the kettle continues to squeal and throw a tantrum. I stride into the kitchen and shut the damn thing up, pouring a mug for Juniper and adding a dollop of the berry syrup she likes.

Returning to the living room, I set the cup on the coffee table, then make my useless self actually useful and stoke the fire. Behind me, Juniper clears her throat. Based on the sound, it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s indulging in a sneak peek at my ass.

“I suggest we start over before this gets out of hand,” she proposes.

“I like when things get out of hand,” I remark.

But I know what she means, and she’s right. If we don’t learn to keep our hands off each other for more than three minutes, we’ll never make it out of this cabin again.

I straighten and lean against the mantle. “Hey there, huntress.”

“Hello, satyr. Did you sleep well?”

“I do it better with you. How about yourself?”

“Ten hours.”

I must have worn her out. “Hmm. I hate to bring this up, luv.” I flick my finger toward her figure. “Seems you’ve misplaced your robe. What was the point in commissioning Moth to tailor you a wardrobe if you’re not going to embellish all those delectable curves?”