The fiddle clattered somewhere—he'd dropped it, he realized distantly, hoping it was okay—but he couldn't bring himself to care because her mouth was warm and soft and tasting faintly of powdered sugar, and her hands were fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer?—
The crowd's cheering reached a fever pitch.
"Get a room!" someone shouted—probably Lila, it had that chaotic energy—and he broke the kiss long enough to laugh against her lips.
"Want to get out of here?" he murmured.
Her eyes, still shining, met his. "Yes."
They barely made it through the cabin door.
He kicked it shut behind them, already pulling her close again, his mouth finding hers with an urgency that bordered on desperation. The walk back from the festival had been torture—her hand in his, her shoulder brushing against his arm, the scent of her perfume mixing with night air and wood smoke until he thought he might lose his mind.
"I need—" He pressed her against the door, his breath ragged. "Gods, Marigold, I need?—"
"I know." Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, surprisingly deft. "Me too."
The cabin was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. He could see her face clearly despite the dimness—satyr night vision had its advantages—and what he saw there made his chest ache with something far too big to name.
She was looking at him like he was worth something.
"The music," she said softly, even as her hands pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "That was—I've never?—"
"I know." He dipped his head to press kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. "I've never played that for anyone before."
"Never?"
"Never." His fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress, sliding it down with aching slowness. "That song was for you. Only for you."
The burgundy fabric whispered down her body, pooling at her feet like seafoam. Underneath she wore simple cotton—white bra, white underwear, nothing elaborate—but the sight of herstole his breath anyway. She was all soft lines and gentle curves, freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations, her dark hair tumbling loose around her face.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You're so?—"
"Stop." She was blushing, he could see it even in the moonlight. "You don't have to?—"
"I know I don't have to." He lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I want to. I want you to know exactly what I see when I look at you."
"What do you see?"
Everything,he thought.Home.
But the words felt too big, too soon, so instead he showed her.
He lifted her easily and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her into the bedroom. The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight as he laid her down, taking a moment to just look. To drink in the sight of her spread out on his sheets, moonlight catching in her eyes, lips parted and breath quickening.
"Thallos…"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "Let me. Please. Just… let me."
He took his time.
The festival urgency had faded into something slower, sweeter, more deliberate. He mapped every inch of her with his hands and his mouth, cataloging the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder, her sensitive sides, and all the places that made her moan and arch into his touch.
When she reached for him, he caught her wrists and pinned them gently to the pillow.
"Not yet," he murmured against her skin. "I want to worship you first."
"That's—" Her voice was breathless, barely audible. "That's not?—"
