Page 11 of Can’t Get No Satyrfaction (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)
CHAPTER 11
T horn stalked the perimeter of the clearing, his hooves crushing twigs and leaves beneath them. The morning sun filtered through the canopy, but he barely noticed its warmth. His mind churned with conflicting thoughts, all centered on the small human female inside the shelter.
Her laughter from breakfast still echoed in his ears. The way her eyes had sparkled when she’d teased him about Bront’s affections. The soft curve of her smile. He growled and shook his head as he strayed to even more dangerous memories, of her mouth opening to his, of the feel of her body beneath him, of the softness of her skin beneath his hands.
The kisses had been a mistake, he told himself, but the words rang hollow. It wasn’t like him, to act on emotion rather than logic, but holding her in his arms had felt like breathing, like living, after a lifetime of merely existing. She’d been right when she said that satyrs had a reputation as hedonists, but he’d never indulged in the delights of wine and women, blocked first by responsibility and then by grief.
But he wanted to indulge in her, to feast on her body until they were both drunk from pleasure.
He paused, leaning against a tree, his hand splayed on its rough bark. The sap pulsed slowly beneath the surface, and the slow, steady heartbeat of the forest seeped into him. It was a comfort, that constant presence, a reminder that no matter what happened, the forest remained, enduring and eternal.
But that discordant note was still there. Time to go.
He returned to the shelter. She’d changed clothes but the oversized white t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder was just as enticing as the ripped shirt had been. He suspected he would find everything she wore equally appealing.
She was checking her camera bag, completely unconcerned about the danger lurking in his woods. Something protective and fierce rose in his chest, and he swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. His fingers brushed against his horns, a reminder of exactly what he was – and what she wasn’t.
“We should get going.”
His voice came out harsher than he’d intended but she only looked up at him and smiled, undeterred by his surliness.
“Of course. Give me two seconds to grab my stuff.”
She finished packing up her camera bag, and jumped to her feet, then shot him a guilty look.
“Your ankle seems a lot better than it did before breakfast,” he said dryly.
She grinned up at him and fluttered her eyelashes, completely unabashed. “It must be your magic touch.”
Why did she have to be so ridiculously adorable? He grunted and gestured at the clearing. She slipped past him and he was quite sure she deliberately brushed against him as she passed, leaving a trail of heat down the front of his body. His only consolation was the fact that the brief contact had also brought a flush to her cheeks—and turned her nipples to stiff little peaks beneath the thin t-shirt.
He quickly averted his gaze from the tempting sight, clenching his jaw as he followed her to the edge of the clearing. He couldn’t afford distractions, not with the poachers so close. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help noticing the way her hips swayed as she walked, the sweet little curve of her ass beneath the faded denim shorts she wore.
Bront let out a low, three-toned whine. His glare was met with three amused grins. His own dog was mocking him.
“Stay focused,” he muttered, and Bront snorted, as if to say he wasn’t the one who needed to hear the reminder. He pointedly ignored the dog, taking the lead as they left the clearing while Bront slipped back into his usual place at her side.
The forest welcomed them, the tall trunks and green canopy forming a protective cocoon around them, but he couldn’t relax. Behind him, her boots scuffed against roots and stones. His ears twitched at each tiny sound of struggle, at each time her breath caught.
A branch snapped under her feet. His hand shot out to steady her before his brain could protest the contact. Her skin burned against his palm, soft and warm, and he yanked away as if scalded.
“I can manage,” she said, but her ankles wobbled.
While they weren’t as damaged as she’d pretended earlier, they were still not completely healed. Should he carry her? The thought was entirely too tempting and he clamped his mouth shut. Instead he slowed his pace as much as possible, seeking the easiest path for her to follow.
The path steepened, winding through ancient trees whose branches wove together overhead. His home lay just beyond, protected by generations of magic and carefully cultivated secrecy. Each step felt like a surrender to something he couldn’t want. Shouldn’t want.
She stumbled again, and his body tensed, fighting the urge to help. To touch. To protect. Her quiet determination needled at him. No complaints, just steady persistence despite her injuries. It would be easier if she whined or demanded help. Instead, she pressed on, making him feel like the coward for maintaining his distance.
“Almost there,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “You’ll be safe there,” he added, refusing to meet her eyes. He didn’t want to see the curiosity he knew would be sparking in them. Didn’t want to acknowledge how much he’d started to enjoy that spark.
He was so focused on their destination that he almost missed the distant murmur of voices. His muscles tensed as he caught the scent of gun oil and tobacco—poachers moving along the ridge above them. Every instinct screamed at him to confront them, to drive them from his forest, but her presence changed everything.
Before she could take another step, he caught her arm and yanked her back against a massive oak. His palm covered her mouth, cutting off her startled gasp. Her eyes widened but she didn’t fight him, confidence gleaming in those wide blue eyes.
“Quiet,” he breathed against her ear, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear. She shivered, but he didn’t think it was from fear.
The pulse jumped in her neck, quick as a frightened bird’s. She was so small, but her curves molded perfectly to his body as he pressed her against the tree. His palm burned where it rested against her lips, soft and yielding beneath his touch, and her sweet, intoxicating scent surrounded him. He fought back a groan, trying to remember that he was protecting her, not seducing her. This was no time to relish the feel of her body nestled against his already-hardening cock.
The voices drew nearer, accompanied by the crunch of footsteps. He couldn’t understand their words, but their tone carried their meaning clearly enough. Bragging, taunting. Humans on a thrill-seeking expedition, looking for sport. The same careless bastards who had taken everything from him.
Anger simmered in his veins, but he pushed it down. It would do no good now, not while Sylvie was here. She remained silent, her breath warm and rapid against his palm. Her eyes flickered up to him and he couldn’t look away.
Those eyes. That damn smile.
Instead of fear, he saw questions in her eyes—and trust. Complete, unquestioning trust. His chest tightened. She had no reason to trust him. Didn’t know what he was capable of. Yet here she was, letting him shield her, looking at him like he was her protector.
It meant nothing, he told himself firmly. She was just another human who’d wandered into his forest. The fact that his thumb unconsciously stroked her cheek, soothing her, was irrelevant. The way her body melted against his meant nothing at all.
His chest ached. He wanted to run. To carry her away. To stay right here and never move again. The urge to bury himself in her, to lose himself in her softness, was overwhelming.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the curve of her neck, her pulse fluttering just beneath the skin. The urge to lean down and bite it made him tremble. To press his mouth against the warmth of her throat, to taste the salt on her skin. He wanted to bury himself in her, to claim her, to make her his. He wanted to leave his mark on her, to brand her with his teeth, to make her scream his name until it was etched into her soul.
He forced himself to focus, to listen to the sounds of the forest, to search for the threat. He tracked the poacher’s movements through the whispers of the trees. His heightened senses caught their receding footsteps, the careless way they crashed through the underbrush. The voices faded into the distance and his shoulders sagged with relief. They were safe.
But his blood still pounded in his veins. She was too close. Too tempting.
Her tongue darted out to touch his palm, a shock of heat that sizzled through him, and it was all he could do not to groan aloud, not to grind his hips against hers. His breath came fast and shallow, the scent of her filling his nostrils.
“Are they gone?” she whispered against his palm. When he forced himself to nod, she smiled up at him. “Then I think you can let me go.”
He should step back. Should put distance between them. But his body refused to move.
She arched an eyebrow, a challenge sparking in her eyes. Her lips brushed deliberately across his palm again. “What if I scream?”
His fingers tightened reflexively, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. Damn female. Even with danger lurking nearby, she dared to tease him. To test his control.
“Don’t,” he warned, voice rough.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lingering there. The air between them grew thick, charged with something dangerous. When she looked up again, those blue eyes were dark with intent.
“Make me.”