Page 8 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)

Gina

The basket was half-empty and I’d had more wine than was wise before noon, I was stretched across Cal’s lap like this was where I belonged, instead of hunched over my laptop translating maritime contracts for lawyers who’d never sailed the ocean.

His hand rested on my hip, thumb stroking lazy circles against the thin cotton of my shorts. Each pass lit up nerves I thought had died somewhere in the suburban wasteland of my marriage, leaving me trembling, desperate for more.

Maybe it was the wine making me bold. Maybe it was him, the way he looked at me like I was something rare, something to savor instead of endure.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, voice rumbling through the chest beneath my cheek.

“I’m trying not to embarrass myself,” I admitted. The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Definitely the wine.

He angled his head down, those impossible brown eyes searching my face. “How could you embarrass yourself, when you’re the most captivating thing in my garden?”

The heat was dizzying. I laughed, breathless. “Do you always talk like that? Like you’re reading from a romance novel?”

“Only when the truth demands it.” His hand slid higher, thumb grazing bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. Sparks shot across my nerves. “And you, Bella Mia, inspire nothing but truth.”

My breath came too loud in the hush of the garden. I should have pulled away. Instead, I melted closer, my leg draping over his thigh with shameless need.

The coarse fur of his leg brushed my calf. Softer than I expected, warm with body heat. It should have been strange, off-putting, a reminder of how different he was.

Instead, it made me want to explore every inch of him.

I looked up, ready to make a joke about his shamelessness. But his gaze stopped me, burning hotter than the sun overhead, memorizing me.

The kiss was inevitable.

It started gently, coaxing. His lips gave me every chance to retreat. But when I sighed into him, when my hand slid to the hard line of his jaw, something in him broke loose.

He kissed me deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slid against mine, tasting of wine and promises I wasn’t ready for. My fingers tangled in his curls, damp from heat, grazing his horns until a shiver ripped through me.

Everything about this was wrong. I barely knew him. He wasn’t human. I had children, responsibilities, a life with no room for mythological creatures who kissed like they wanted to steal my soul.

And I didn’t care. Not even a little.

“Gina,” he breathed against my mouth.

I gasped when his palm slid up my side, fingers spreading wide to cup my breast through thin cotton. He froze instantly, eyes searching mine, waiting for even the smallest flicker of no.

But no was the last thing in me. I arched into his hand instead, pressing myself against his palm. The sound he made unraveled me.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, thumb brushing over my nipple. My whole body shuddered, remembering how to want beyond exhaustion and grocery lists.

The world narrowed again: the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his hand, the solid weight of him under me, his breath turning rough.

Then his hips shifted beneath me, and I felt him.

Before, only fur and fabric. I’d wondered, in some distant part of my mind, if the myths were wrong, if satyrs were different.

But now, madonna mia. Now there was no mistaking it.

His hips shifted beneath me, this time guiding, deliberate. Suddenly he pressed between my thighs.

The ridge of him fit against me through the thin cotton, exactly where I was already aching. Heat and hardness surged against my center, thick and undeniable. Even through our clothes, I could feel how big he was. How much he wanted this. Wanted me.

A shocked sound escaped me, half gasp, half whimper. He stilled instantly, every muscle tense, eyes searching mine.

“Too much?” he asked, voice rough, like holding himself back cost him everything.

“No,” I whispered, too fast, too desperate, too honest.

I saw the moment it hit him. His pupils flared wide, hunger darkening his gaze.

“Then let me,” he murmured, and his big hands slid to my hips.

Before I could think, he was guiding me, rocking me down against the hard line of him. The pressure made me moan, shameless and raw, my body surging forward to meet each motion.

“Beautiful,” he groaned, holding me firm, dragging me along his length in steady, devastating strokes. “Goddess, look at you… taking what you need.”

The friction was unbearable, perfect. My body recognized it instantly, responding as if it had been waiting years for this exact touch. Heat coiled low and sharp, building fast as his hands urged me harder, faster, grinding against the bulge straining beneath his shorts.

“Cal—” I gasped, clutching his shoulders, nails biting into golden skin. My hips moved without my permission, chasing that spiraling pleasure.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice thick and reverent. “Ride me, Bella. Let go for me.”

The words urged me on. My body clenched, the wave cresting high and hot until it broke, and I cried out, shuddering against him as release burned through me.

He held me, strong arms keeping me steady as I shook, his forehead pressed to mine, his own breath ragged with restraint. His cock strained against the fabric of his shorts, trapped and aching, but he didn’t take. He gave. He let me unravel in his lap, every muscle singing with remembered want.

When the tremors finally eased, I collapsed against his chest, boneless. His hand stroked my hair, soothing, possessive, as if my shuddering body was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

“Goddess,” he whispered against my temple. “You’ll destroy me.”

I might have told him I wanted to. I might have begged him for more.

But the distant screech of brakes shattered everything.

I jerked upright. The school bus.

“Damn,” I whispered, fumbling for the basket, my shirt, anything to make me look less like a woman caught in the middle of something dangerous.

Cal didn’t move quickly. He leaned back against the tree, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

“They’re home,” I babbled, shoving bread into the basket with shaking hands.

“Then fate is cruel,” he said with a grin that made my knees weak.

“Cal—”

He caught my wrist, pressed his thumb to my pulse, steadying me. “We’ll finish this later, Bella. ”

My body ached in agreement. My mind spun excuses. My heart hammered like it wanted to leap back into his hand.

By the time I slipped through the gate into my own yard, the kids were trudging up the steps, loud and oblivious.

I pasted on my mom-smile, basket clutched to my chest, the taste of fruit and wine and Cal still hot on my tongue.

And for the rest of the afternoon, no matter how many arguments I mediated or math worksheets I checked, my body thrummed with memory.

We’d finish this later.