Page 12 of Blossoms and Bloodlines
Sweaty.
Messy.
Sun-kissed and barefoot, pressed into the warm soil, tangled in roots and sex. He wanted to roll her beneath him, her moans in his mouth, her legs locked around his hips while the earth swallowed every sound they made.
Filthy. Feral. Unthinkable. It owned him.
He clenched his fists in his pockets so tightly the fabric strained, trying to wrestle the heat back under control.Shield up. Shield up now.
A long breath. Then another.
Gael forced his magic inward, cool and grounding, a rush of stillness borrowed from stones and deep roots. He shoved the hunger down, folded it into layers of calm like packing fire in snow. Control. Discipline.Dignity, for stars’ sake.
By the time he leaned on the fence, he had composed himself.
And then the wood creaked.
Beth’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with surprise. They narrowed almost instantly when she saw who it was. “It’s a way from the Festival,” she said with a frown. “How did you get here?”
“I got lost,” he said, voice as neutral as his face.
She arched a brow. “Your kind doesn’t get lost.”
The reference didn’t sting. It wasn’t a swipe at elves in general, it was all for him. Which, frankly, was fair. “Mykinddoestake long walks,” he offered, managing a faint smile. “Sometimes we end up in interesting places.”
She crossed her arms. “My backyard?”
“I wouldn’t call this a backyard,” he murmured, sweeping his eyes across the chaos of blooms and bounty. “More like a cultivated riot.”
She snorted. “That better not be an insult.”
“It’s not,” he said quietly, looking at her. “It’s beautiful.” And this time, he meant it with zero subtext. Okay, maybea little subtext.
“I like growing stuff.”
“I can tell,” he said, nodding toward the table. “And you’re also very good at it. You’ve got an impressive harvest there.”
The compliment mollified her—barely. Her gaze dropped from disdainful and hateful to merely annoyed, which, for Beth, equaled to a standing ovation. It wasn’t enough to earn an invite in, though, which only made him want to get in more. He nodded to the mess of produce spread across the battered table. “What are you doing with all that?”
Beth narrowed her eyes. “Why are we having this conversation?”
“Because,” he said smoothly, “I happen to like your garden and what you’re doing in it. And so, it’s only reasonable that we converse about it.”
Her arms crossed again, her stance defensive but not completely closed. “What if I don’t like you?”
“Please,” he scoffed, amused. “You don’t know me. You think you do, of course. And being a very, very stubborn woman, you won’t even consider that your knowledge might be flawed at best.”
“I’m not stubborn.”
“Yes. Yes, you are.”
“I am certainly not, and—” She stopped herself, lips twitching as she realized how perfectly she’d just walked into his point. “It was supposed to be canning day.”
“Makes sense,” he said. He stepped closer to the fence and leaned in a little, resting his elbows on the top rail. “So why is everything still out here?”
Frustration pinched her brows as she glanced at the table. “Because I got so caught up in theideaof doing everything that I forgot to factor in how long it takes to peel and prep everything. Now...” She gestured helplessly to the chaos of fruit and vegetables. “Now I have to pick one thing and just try to finish it because there’s no way I can do it all.”
“What a conundrum.”
