Page 9 of How To Please A Princely Fae (Wild Oak Woods #3)

WILLOW

I fear my heart, beating louder than any drum I've ever heard, may simply take flight like a bird and burst through the cage of my body.

Of all the things I expected Kieran might say, telling me he could smell me and my arousal was not one of them.

What's worse is that I can't call him a liar because from the moment his skin touched mine, wanting more was about the only thing I could think of. Wanting to feel the electric caress of his fingers against more than my neck, and more interesting and varied places than my cheeks, was about all I could focus on.

Lucky for me, I have morals. Morals which tell me that taking him up on his very enticing offer would be very wrong.

“The caudron smoke must be addling your head," I tell him politely.

He huffs a laugh and tightens his grip on my hair.

"I see you insist on continuing this game of ours," he says smoothly. His grip loosens, but only infinitesimally.

The only reason I'm aware of it at all is because my body's never been so aware of everything all at once.

I try to pull away, but his hand wraps around the nape of my neck. I’m pulled me back to him before I make any progress with that particular goal. Wetness seeps between my legs and I make an embarrassingly soft mewling noise.

"The thing is, my Willow witch…" His lips brush against my neck and I arch into him, the soft curve of my ass pressed against the hardness in his pants. Hardness that I'm suddenly even more interested in.

I very much like everything that he is doing at this very moment.

He knows it, too. I’m not sure I like that, at least.

"The thing is, you overestimate my patience, and you underestimate how much I enjoy playing a game when the prize is already right in front of me."

His fangs scrape against the place where my neck meets my shoulder, and there's no denying the need in the desperate moan that escapes me now. His breath tickles my skin when he laughs, his teeth pressing harder into me, the length of him somehow growing harder and larger than even before.

Goddess.

He must be massive. I whimper as his arm circles my waist, strong hand finding my breast.

"Will you lie to me, my Willow?” he asks, his voice all but a growl against my skin. The pressure of his teeth, of his body, increasing the longer he holds me like this.

I don't want him to let me go.

"Will you tell me that you are thinking of someone else? That it's not me that you're responding to so perfectly in my arms, at this very moment?"

There's an unhinged ferocity in the questions that I've never heard from him before. Every inch of me heats in response to the possessive edge around it.

Who would have thought I wanted to be man-handled?

Or would it be fae-handled?

"Are you trying to think of the words that will best deceive me, Willow?”

“I’m trying to think of the ones that will best deceive myself,” I mutter, then wriggle away from him.

Or, at least, I try to, but only succeed in making us both groan as I unwittingly rub against the huge, hard press of his cock.

“Why deceive either one of us?” he asks, and I shudder as his tongue flicks out, tasting the slight shimmer of sweat on my neck.

“Because I have work to do,” I force out, finally extricating myself from his grip.

Which basically leaves me bereft and panting with need.

How wonderful.

It’s not a lie though. I have a ton to do.

“What work is more important than feeling good?” he asks, and there’s no censure in the question, or angry aggression, which I might have guessed at based on my little experience with other men—instead, he sounds amused.

Amused !

I glance over my shoulder at him, straighten the bodice of my overdress, and clear my throat in a way that means I’m very serious.

I frown for extra serious impact as I inspect his expression for proof of my suspicions.

Sure enough, there’s a slight smile quirking up the corners of his mouth.

“Work that makes sure my clients keep feeling well. It’s not all hair potions.” Now truly irritated, I push myself away from his wandering hands tempting me to all sorts of trouble and jerk my chin towards the lye solution I have setting up in a huge glass mixing bowl. “See that? I have to make soap, too. That lye won’t keep forever.”

It’s not quite true, but he doesn’t need to know that.

When I chance another furtive glance at him, he’s frowning now, too.

Good.

“Soap?” He raises both eyebrows, his beetle wings rattling slightly behind him in what I can only suppose is complete bemusement.

“Soap,” I agree, nodding sagely, hoping the scents of the lye solution and the cauldron bubbling are overriding what he can surely smell from my skin.

He’s made it all too clear that it’s harder to lie to someone with an excellent sense of smell than I’d like it to be.

“I don’t know anything about soap,” he says, and the carnal, heavy look in his gaze turns lighter, curiosity sparking in his expression.

A smile of my own kicks my lips up because, frankly, it’s darling to see him light up like a bright star at the idea of learning something new.

“Why can’t they make their own soap? What’s special about this one?”

Carefully, I tug on the dragon skin gloves I reserve for handing volatile materials and begin ladling the hair tonic into the waiting jars.

“This soap is one of my best sellers, and I’m nearly out. The reason they can’t make their own is because, for one, it’s a secret recipe that uses a special blend of oils especially formulated for dry, sensitive skin,” I state, narrowing my eyes and daring the potion to go anywhere but where I want it.

“And secondly?” Kieran asks, taking the freshly decanted potion and handing me an empty bottle.

“Secondly, the only place the ingredients are grown for it in a three-hundred-mile radius is in my greenhouse.” The potion is already beginning to congeal, and while it won’t ever solidify fully, the less liquid it becomes, the harder it is to pour into the little glass bottles. I frown, biting my lower lip, and Kieran wordlessly assists, anticipating the moment I’ll need a fresh bottle until I’m scraping the last of the potion out of the cauldron.

“Phew.” I tug the dragon gloves off, wiping the sweat beading at my brow. “Thank you,” I tell him simply, replacing the gloves on their hook at the side of the table. “That was much easier with your help.”

“There are so many things I could make easier for you, would you let me,” he murmurs, that heavy-lidded look in his eyes again, the one that promises a night of no sleep.

“Right,” I say brightly. “Lye will burn your skin right off, so you’ll want to handle it with gloves of your own, glasses for safety, and a thick apron.”

“Burn my skin off?” he repeats, blinking slowly.

“To the bone, if you let it.” I grin manically at him, pleased at my violent segue.

“Vile,” he says agreeably, then takes the dragon skin gloves from their hook and holds them out to me. “You’ll want these again. I assume you took them off because you simply can’t live without touching me.”

My mouth drops open, and he tips his head back and lets out a laugh, his wings stretching out full behind him for a brief, glorious second.

It takes me too long to get a grip on myself, during which time he’s grinning at me like a cat with a canary.

Chirp hoots softly from his perch on the door, and it feels like they’re in cahoots, laughing at me.

“Thank you,” I tell him primly, snatching the gloves out of his hands.

Or, at least, I attempt to, but he tsks at me, not letting go of them.

My brow furrows.

“You can at least let me help you put them back on,” he says silkily. He slowly pulls open the glove, and when I look up at him, all I see on his face is unfettered desire.

I swallow, knowing all too well my damnably pale skin is giving away just how flushed and hot I feel, and knowing he knows.

Which I also know is a problem.

Really, it’s a lot of knowing.

I would rather just turn off my brain and not know, but here I am, knowing too much and knowing this won’t end well.

So I thrust my hand inside the glove as fast as possible, then snatch its mate away from him and tug it on myself.

He sniffs, sounding put out, but when I dare to glance at him again, his shoulders are shaking from suppressing a laugh.

“You really are the most stubborn witch, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “Now let’s make some soap.”

“Why?” The syllable is a purr, velvet-smooth against my senses.

Sadly for both of us, I’m stubborn and I’m very good at ignoring my senses.

“Are you thinking dirty thoughts? Is that why you’re so fixated on soap?”

“I’m fixated on soap because it’s my job, which provides the roof over my head, and yours, actually,” I tell him, lust turning into annoyance so fast I suspect I may have whiplash later. And not just in my neck.

Can you get whiplash in your babymaker?

I might sell potions for all sorts of ailments, but I can’t say I have one for that.

Huffing, I continue. “Not all of us were born princes with a silver spoon in our mouths.”

Instead of looking annoyed, as I intended, Kieran has the audacity to simply look more amused. “I should hope not. That would make for an incredibly boring world, and quite too many silver spoons. I have to say, I much prefer the idea of you being a princess to being another prince. Nothing wrong with the other, I simply adore the idea of sinking to the hilt into your slick heat.”

I goggle at him, lye solution near forgotten on the counter behind me as I process his words, but he’s not done.

“Also, how is one born with a spoon in their mouth? Is this some witchy ritual I know nothing of?”

“Ugh, of course it’s not, it’s just an expression?—”

He’s laughing at me again, that musical, dark melody erupting from his lips and sending fresh goosebumps down my spine. It’s such an infectious sound that I find myself grinning back up at him, a laugh threatening to come out of my own mouth like laughing with him is the most natural thing in the world.

What if it is?

What if this little glimpse into who he is under the hard shell of his constructed identity, free of the pressure of past and present expectations, is the real Kieran?

What if laughing with him is what I am supposed to be doing?

My heart skips a beat, and it must show on my face because the sound of his laugh softens into something else, something caught between a groan and a sigh.

I want to kiss him.

I want to feel his mouth against mine, to taste that noise and all the other ones he’ll make as I wrap myself around him.

My feet take a step back. And another, until I’m pressed up against the wall of shelving, chock full of ingredients.

Ingredients I haven’t put away or organized or labeled yet, because all my plans went ass over tea kettle what with ye olde Elder Gods and an amnesiac fae prince.

Suddenly, I’m not interested in kissing Kieran.

Or in making the soap.

I’m bone tired, and it’s hit me like a fifty-pound sack of manure swung off the back of the delivery cart.

The potion for my customer has been made and decanted, and I sag against the shelves, my eyes fluttering closed.

“You need sleep,” Kieran says, the words laced with commanding imperiousness.

“I need to use the lye mixture,” I tell him, opening my eyes and narrowing them at His Majesty of the Underhill.

Or whatever the honorific would be for an exiled Unseelie.

How should I know? I’m a lowly human witch, one he never deigned to worry about when he had his memories.

“I will do it for you.”

It’s a sign of how completely done with this day I am that I even consider it.

“It would be my honor to do it for you,” he adds sincerely, and I pinch the bridge of my nose in annoyance.

“Have you a lot of soap-making experience?” I ask him, incredulous and prickly all at once. “Have you been holding out on me?”

“I was known as the royal soap maker in Unseelie court.” He sweeps into a low bow, the muscles under his tight-stretched shirt rippling.

I blink at him. “What? Really?”

He unfolds from the waist, leaning against the scarred wooden worktable and bestowing me with a grin only capable of being described as feral. “No.”

I scoff and roll my eyes, but he slaps a palm against the table, startling me back to attention.

“I am willing to learn, Willow, and I am sure you can point me to a recipe. If I know anything about you, it’s that you are hard-pressed to let a good recipe or note or thought go unwritten.”

I tilt my head because, while he’s not wrong, he shouldn’t know that. “Did you remember that? Is it coming back?”

He tips his face back and laughs, then raises a hand to gesture at the overflowing leather-bound grimoire I’ve stuffed full of all the things he just accused me of loving to write.

My cheeks pink. “If you mess up the recipe, I’ll have to buy new supplies,” I manage.

“I fully expect you to dock the supplies from my pay.”

“Of course I wouldn’t!” I gasp, scandalized. “Losing supplies is part of training an apprentice.”

His gaze sears through me and I swallow, fully aware I have my back against the wall.

Literally.

My half-empty shelves are keeping me from putting any more room between us.

“Now I’m your apprentice, am I?” He all but purrs the question.

“Of course you are,” I say, drawing myself up to my full height.

Which is not very impressive. At all.

Especially compared to a prince of the Unseelie, who looms larger than life even next to the tallest of mortals.

How would sex even work between us? There’s no way he would fit.

Dear goddess.

I blanch and decide I’m totally and irrevocably done with this day, because that’s an errant thought that should never have been shaken loose.

“The recipe is in the grimoire. You may need ingredients that haven’t been labeled and restocked yet. It’s on my?—”

“To-do list,” he finishes for me.

I try to scowl, but end up smiling anyway. “Yes. On my to-do list. Please be careful. The gloves and?—”

“Safety glasses are hanging on the table.” He raises an amused eyebrow. “I had no idea you cared so much for my physical safety.”

I bite back a sour reply about his physical safety and instead paste a weary smile on my face. “Be careful,” I tell him. “Read the directions twice before beginning. The lye solution will burn.”

“Does this need any magical charms or incantations?” he asks, and there is a slight pinch of worry between his brows that melts my heart. Just a little.

“No,” I tell him. “This is just soap. If it needs charming, I do it during the four- to six-week curing period.”

Relief washes the wrinkle in his forehead away, and it’s so charming that I melt a little bit more.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I finally manage, extricating myself from the shelves and doing my best to slither past his tall, lean frame and through the door.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I will, however, say that I hope you dream of me.” He utters it in a low, delicious rumble that makes my entire body tighten with desire.

And for the first time in my life, I can’t get out of my apothecary laboratory fast enough.