Page 6 of The Satyr Next Door
Madonna mia.Could he smell me from down there?
The thought should’ve horrified me. Instead, I pressed my thighs together.
I wanted him. Not in the safe way I admired actors. Not in the distant way I noticed men in grocery lines. This was immediate. Reckless. A thrum under my skin that whispered: climb over the railing, find out what he feels like.
“The figs are perfect,” I said quickly. Safer than blurting my real thoughts. “How did you get them up here?”
“I have excellent taste,” he said smoothly, mischief in his eyes. “And a male needs some secrets.”
Amale.As if there were any question.
I should’ve gone inside. Answered emails. Reminded myself I was a responsible adult with kids and a mortgage.
Instead, I stayed. Mug warm in my hands. Eyes shamelessly tracking the play of his shoulders, the alien grace of those powerful haunches. He moved like a dancer. Like a predator. Like someone who’d never doubted his place in the world.
Of course he caught me staring. Of course, he winked.
“Enjoying the view?” he asked, amused.
“The garden’s coming along nicely,” I said primly, like I wasn’t imagining those hands on my skin.
He laughed, head thrown back, full of joy. The sound did something to my chest I hadn’t expected. Lust was there, yes, butthere was also an ache. I hadn’t heard laughter like that in too long.
“Indeed it is, Bella. Indeed it is.”
A car door slammed down the street. Reality crashed back.
What was I doing? What would people think? My kids? Flirting with a satyr like some desperate housewife cliché?
But when I looked back, his eyes were softer. Understanding. Like he could read the conflict on my face.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked gently. No pressure. Just invitation.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve retreated.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Maybe.”
His smile lit up the whole yard. “I’ll take maybe for now.”
I lingered too long. Until the figs were gone. Until my coffee went cold. Until my face ached from hiding a smile. Until I realized I was memorizing the golden hair on his chest, the curve of his horns.
When I finally dragged myself inside, the mirror startled me.
Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. A mouth curved in a way I hadn’t seen in years. Lips stained from fig juice.
Not tired. Not invisible. Not forgotten.
Alive. Awake. Wanted.
Like someone who might actually deserve a sonnet.
My phone buzzed, a work email, Italian maritime contracts. Normal. Safe.
But all I could think about was the way he’d called meBella.
And instead of scaring me, that thought made me smile wider.
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’d ask his name.
