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The beam of his lantern revealed her pale face, peering out at him over a fork in the trunk.
He stepped closer, and realized she was not standing behind the tree, looking over it. She was standing inside the tree.
Now that he knew what to look for, he saw that the forked limbs of the tree looked remarkably like uplifted arms, and the smooth gray bark of the trunk resembled the curves of a woman’s body, concealed by a flowing garment of bark.
“A dryad,” he whispered.
His heart hammering in his chest, Dermot slowly set the lantern on the ground, his gaze never leaving the dryad’s. Moving as if he was forcing his way through liquid resin, he took one step closer, then two. Then he was standing in front of the dryad’s tree, near enough to touch her if he dared.
Dermot had been accused of plenty of personality faults by his competitors or the press, but no one had ever called him timid. He lifted a hand and touched the dryad’s cheek.
Her silvery laugh cascaded over him, along with a confetti of leaves and seed pods that fell from the branches above. She stepped forward, passing from tree to human form so smoothly that she seemed to simply appear before him.
Her white skin gleamed in the reflected lantern light, like a moving, living statue. A naked statue.
She had a slim, slight build, what he’d previously called “willowy.” Inanely, he wondered if “elmy” was a word, since she obviously lived in a wych elm, not a willow.
The dryad had wild brown hair, reminding him of an out of control chia pet, framing a face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. In a less jaded age, men might have been reduced to tears by the sight of such beauty. Even Dermot, who had known his share of beautiful woman and recipients of the plastic surgeon’s art, felt an urge to fall to his knees before her and beg to be allowed to worship her.
His gaze traveled from the dangerous perfection of her face, to the safety of her delicate breasts. They swept up in graceful symmetry to her pointed nipples, already tight and hard with arousal.
He swallowed, flexing his fingers as he imagined playing with those nipples. His cock surged with anticipation as he pictured his mouth closing over one of the dryad’s breasts, while he tugged and fondled the other.
He wanted to go to her now, to begin loving her immediately, but knew that a creature of such perfection would never allow the coarse touch of a human lover. It was enough to admire her, and imagine himself loving her.
He let his gaze drift lower, admiring her trim, flat abdomen, then lower still.
Dermot blinked. Her body was completely hairless. Her legs joined smoothly, like two branches meeting at a fork. A pang of frustrated desire shot from the back of his throat to his groin, as he realized she might not even be capable of making love in the human way.
As if she knew what he was thinking, the dryad swept one hand across her smooth abdomen, then beckoned him forward.
Dermot swallowed. His cock, already primed by his memories of Tamara and his admiration of the dryad’s body, surged to full readiness, jutting forward like a mighty oak. Throwing his jacket aside into the wall of trees surrounding them, he revealed the bulging eagerness of his cock. He pointed to his tented slacks, then to her, and raised one eyebrow. The dryad nodded.
Hardly daring to believe his luck, Dermot undid his belt and dropped his pants and drawers, ruthlessly kicking the fine Armani into the fallen leaves and other debris ringing the dryad’s tree. Lifting her arms above her head, she wordlessly offered him her body.
He stepped forward, the tip of his cock just touching the flat plane of her stomach, and skimmed his hands over her hips. His eyes told him he caressed a woman’s body, but his fingers said they glided over the smooth contours of polished wood.
The dryad stepped closer, trapping his cock between their bodies. Dermot drew in a shaky breath, as his hard cock pulsed against her equally hard flesh. She wound her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his. Warm, living lips, as hard and demanding as he might dream.
He slid his hands higher, over her smoothly polished skin, and cupped her breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands, the hard, tight nipples nestling in the center of his palms.
Her head tilted back as she sighed like leaves in the wind, urging him to further exploration. He rotated his palms over her nipples, wringing a low, rustling moan from her.
Dermot was momentarily thrown by the way her breasts remained stationary, with no bounce or jiggle to them. But the dryad seemed to like having him play with them, just like a human woman would, so he continued.
Lowering his head, he replaced one hand with his mouth. Her breast was smooth and solid beneath his lips and tongue, more like a carved statue than a living woman. But her shuddering sighs were growing in volume and intensity, now sounding like storm-tossed branches, so he ignored the strange sensation. He circled the hard peak of her nipple twice with his tongue, then started to suck on her brea
st. His other hand tugged her opposite nipple in time with his mouth.
She swayed backward, drawing Dermot after her, until she bumped into the solid trunk of her tree. Pressing his head against her breast with one hand, she arched toward him, urging him to draw her breast deeper into his mouth.
He tried to suck harder, but his lips slid off her rigid breast. So instead, he bit down on her nipple, using that as an anchor.
She whispered something in Gaelic, and sweetness filled his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, then realized he was drinking the legendary ambrosia of the gods. The fluid, thin and sweet like watered down maple syrup, poured from her breast. He bit down harder on her nipple, sucking her sweetness, eager to swallow every last drop. He could feel the ambrosia coursing through him, heating him and hardening him, making him the proper mate for an immortal faerie.
He pumped his hips, stroking the oaken length of his cock along her stomach. She lifted one leg over his hip, urging him to plant his cock in her fertile valley.
Dermot slid his free hand down, between her legs, and felt for her opening. It was there, right where it should be, as rigid and unmoving as her breasts.
