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And Puck snaps. On a hiss, he hoists me against him.

And the kiss erupts.

His mouth clings, riding my lips into a frenzy. My mouth rolls with his, the sensations coursing through my veins.

I also hadn’t expected a kiss to feel alive—so very alive. I hadn’t expected it to feel this right, this true. I hadn’t expected it to be effortless and endless. I never thought it could be this way.

Instead of being satiated, my yearning expands. I want his mouth elsewhere, everywhere. I want it beneath my clothes. I want it in the passage between my legs, in the basin between my breasts, and beneath the ledge of my jaw.

I want my mouth to do the same. I want to provoke him, to see what it takes for this Fae to come undone, to see how far he’ll unravel. I want to hunt for his vulnerable spots, his hidden spots, and his loud spots.

Puck peels his mouth away. Our foreheads press, our eyes locking. I move first, framing his hips and walking backward across the grass. He follows, letting me guide us to the nearest tree. Too impatient to wait, our mouths meet again. My back hits the trunk. The tenacious satyr takes over, pressing me into the bark, the plains of his bare chest flexing against me. I hitch a breath, welcoming those vicious lips, that fiendish half-grin.

We kiss deeper, harsher. His tongue strikes into my mouth, the strong movements of his jaw wringing sighs from me.

I’m kissing a satyr. I’m kissing the ruler of the woodland. I’m kissing the Fae from my past. I’m kissing Puck.

Experimentally, I wrap my lips around that infuriating, sarcastic tongue and suck. Puck shivers, gooseflesh popping across his arms. So I do it more, more, more.

The satyr mutters something in Faeish and palms my backside. I moan, his touch steaming through my leggings, his hands spanning my rear.

The woodland jolts as he hauls me off the ground. On reflex, my legs strap around his waist. That’s when I feel something new, something long and firm rising in the gap of my thighs. Puck’s stiff length wedges between us, rubbing against my center. Blood rushes to that private place, the intimate flesh throbbing, pounding, demanding.

I keen into his mouth, and the satyr devours the sound. My limbs splay around him, my knees steeple over his ribs, and my feet flatten on the trunk. He’s taller, broader, able to bolster my weight.

We pant, softness molding with hardness. So much hardness.

If I’d had any chance before, it’s over when Puck peels his mouth from mine and tucks his lips under my chin. He plies the tissuey skin under my mandible with open-mouthed kisses.

Another moan skitters from my mouth. The forest eats up the sound.

My head drops against the trunk, my fingers wrenching through his hair again. With an erotic chuckle, he laps at me, his tongue swabbing my collarbones.

My teeth find his tapered ears and give a small nip. Unlike me, Puck barely handles it. He seethes and raises his drunken gaze to mine before catching my mouth once more.

Our lips tug, surging forward and retreating. Our arms hold tight, my thighs clutching his waist.

I also hadn’t expected a kiss to feel joyous, riotous. If we don’t stop, I’ll run out of breath, out of heartbeats, out of my mind.

But I won’t stop, because I don’t want to stop. Please, don’t stop.

I dip my head, my hair threading with his. I snatch his face, bite his bottom lip, and savor his sensuous growl. I kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him back.

Our mouths fuse. Our tongues ply at one another, licking, sucking.

Yes, this is wrong. It will still be wrong when it’s over. But the slam of Puck’s heart against mine makes a counterargument: It’s been wrong for a long time, so let it be wrong.

Let it be so very wrong.

22

We break away from the kiss at the same time. My lips wrench from Puck’s, and his pry from mine on a gruff exhale. Our foreheads land together. Nails dig into rustled hair and mouths hang open, shocked and swollen.

For a split second, he and I remain bolted like that, pressing hard and scrambling for breath. For a split second, we’re intoxicated. And for a split second, I don’t mind.

Then we come to our senses and jolt apart, as though singed from the contact. I thrash from his arms, and he lets me go. Together, we yank ourselves out of the moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stalking several paces from me.