Page 32 of How To Please A Princely Fae

I pause before the door, not wishing to alarm her, knowing exactly how volatile this sort of spell work can be.

I frown, unsure how I can be so sure of it, but the truth of the thought rings out in my head like a bell.

So it is with great caution and quiet that I finally tug the door to Willow's laboratory open.

My breath catches, and I look my fill.

Her hair spirals in angelic curls around her fair face. The light from the fire under the cauldron illuminates her like some storybook creature, a goddess the likes of which mere fae or mortals could not capture in ink no matter their skill.

The heat of the room washes over me just as I notice the sheen of glistening sweat along the generous curves of her breasts, as if beckoning me for a taste.

I couldn't look away if I tried. I wouldn't want to.

Willow pays no notice me, too involved in murmuring the incantations and adding handfuls of fresh herbs and plant material to the steaming cauldron in front of her. She's reflectedinfinitely in the bottles and glazed vases lining the shelves of the arched windows behind her.

The view frames her deliciously ample bottom. All of her, in fact. Every perfect curve, every breath captured and refracted back on itself hundreds and hundreds of times. It's nearly overwhelming and my breath catches as fresh desire unspools through me.

I can't imagine a more beautiful sight than this little female hard at work, the fruits of her labor filling the air with the tang of magic and her perfection bathed in light from the fire of the cauldron.

Her brow furrows in concentration, the lush pink of her lips a thin line. It irks me to see that she is displeased with her efforts. I don't remember much, but I think I'd remember if I'd met someone with such a bent towards perfection as my Willow.

My mouth is moving before I have fully thought the words that they form: "Tell me how to help and I will," I say, my voice tinged with a desperation that doesn't quite surprise me.

Her hands tremble and she lets out a startled gasp. I berate myself for a moment.

I forgot Willow doesn't have the same preternatural hearing as I do.

Charmingly, she doesn't answer right away, but goes back to decanting whatever substance trickles into the cauldron from the crystal flagon in her hand.

It hisses faintly as it reaches its destination.

"Oh, you don't have to. I know you’re tired after today, you’ve done so much already.”

"It would be my pleasure," I tell her. "Just tell me what it is you require.”

She fidgets, her nose twitching, and from the way she shifts her weight, I can tell that she's incredibly uncomfortable. Onelook at the red curl tickling her nose tells me exactly what she needs without her having to say word.

"I'm going to sneeze,” she pronounces quietly, determination etched in the lines of her face. "If I disrupt the flow of this rosemary tincture, the whole batch might be ruined." Her voice trembles, her nostrils twitching.

"I have you," I tell her, supremely confident in my ability to at least help with this task. I'm behind her in a flash. Despite the acrid smell of the brew she's working on, I can still scent the incredible perfume of her body on the air, and it takes all of my self-control not to lose sight of what she needs.

I don't want to startle her and cause her to ruin her work; I don't want to be so rough with her, but she pours from the flagon too quickly.

With as much tender care as I can muster, I gently comb my fingers around the skin of her neck, the pads stroking against her cheeks as I carefully pull the glory of her fiery hair out of her face.

She doesn't say a word, though her breath seems to fall and rise more rapidly even as she steadily pours the tincture into the hissing cauldron.

From this place behind her, my hands tangled in the unruly mess of her red hair, I have the most perfect view of her cleavage, which wobbles enticingly with every shaky breath. It's easy to imagine the shape of her breasts under the tight lines of her dress. It's easy to imagine what she would feel like beneath me were we in a different position, would I be so lucky to be afforded such a miracle. I can't help myself, I lean down, closing my eyes and breathing her in.

Perfection.

When I open my eyes, goosebumps have pebbled across the nape of her neck and her shoulders and satisfaction closes around me, much like the steam from the cauldron. It is not thescent of fear, or the potion merrily bubbling under her skillful watch… but the smell of a woman with one thing on her mind.

Lucky for me, it's the exact thing that's on my mind too.

Lust.

Desire.

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