There are a few rules that govern every adult woman's life. They keep things neat and tidy, like a well organized file cabinet, or a brand new wallet. Some are work related, some are personal, and some deal strictly with one-night stands. Standard rules, like looking in the mirror before you leave for work, are the most universally recognized. Every female in your general vicinity will instantly know if one has been broken, because they've done it themselves and can empathize (right after they giggle behind their martini glasses).

The rules are not static. They evolve constantly. With each new heartache or ruined dream, a new 'yes' or 'no' is added. Sarah was no different. After enduring three bad relationships, she put rule twenty-three into effect. 'No dating scumbags.' When she quit her second job, rule twenty-four was instated. 'No working for scumbags.'

Just one day after she'd turned twenty-two, rules twenty-five and twenty-six were officially penned down. She stood in her hotel suite's small kitchen, stark raving naked, Sharpie in hand as she drunkenly scribbled them onto a Post-it.

New Rules!

DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR BOSS.

DON'T SLEEP WITH JARETH.

Unfortunately, like most rules, they were created after they'd already been broken.

And a deliciously naked Goblin King, who smelled a lot like expensive champagne and fresh strawberries, slumbering on her newly christened king-sized bed was certainly a testament to that.

It all began with one very unpleasant farmhouse.

Okay, it started much earlier with a certain trek through the Labyrinth, but that's a story for another time.

"What about the Maclean house, the one with the finished basement?"

"What on Earth would I ever do with a finished basement? Open a public house and declare myself an innkeeper?"

Sarah sighed, her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists around the steering wheel. It was hard to look huffy in a convertible, but she managed, even as her hair waved in the wind like jet-colored streamers. She could feel Jareth smirking at her from the passenger's seat, his hair probably perfect and well-coiffed. No matter how much she tapped the gas pedal, not a single wheat-blonde strand moved out of place.

"Ronan Hardiman's cottage has dropped nearly ten-thousand dollars since its last showing," she called out impatiently, trying to be heard over the air rushing in her ears. The grassy, sheep covered hills of Ireland passed so quickly all she saw were brief flashes of white on a green backdrop. And yet Jareth's voice could be heard clearly above the din, his smugness so apparent she could nearly smell it. Just like she could smell the sharpness of his cologne against his milk pale skin, against her own skin and on her clothes. Anything he touched smelled like him, like a pine forest in winter, like hot, wrinkle the sheets sex, like –

"Sarah, we're about to pass our exit. Keep your eyes on the road."

It'll all began nearly four weeks earlier. One night, as she was studying for her art history final, Jareth appeared on the doorstep of her tiny Dublin apartment, and haughtily informed her that she was to be his realtor. He was looking for a vacation home in the Aboveground, and since she had destroyed his castle, it was only fair that she be his chauffeur and personal assistant. The fact that he threatened to lock her up in an oubliette until she was nothing but dust sealed the deal.

And now, she was driving a tin can on wheels through East Bumfuck Ireland, with his majesty finding great joy in being irrational and utterly cheeky. Every house she took him to was too big or too small, in areas too isolated or too crowded. With each complaint, she felt more and more sympathetic to the bear family in the tale of Goldilocks. They were quite content until some blond twit showed up, making unreasonable demands as she intruded on their perfectly content lives. Mama Bear should've just eaten the bitch.

Casting a quick, murderous glance at her traveling companion, Sarah groused, "But you didn't want to see the Fitzgerald farmhouse. It was too out of the way or something."

To which Jareth replied, "I've changed my mind. Now turn left or we'll have to swing back around this evening, and who knows how long that'll take. We'll miss our dinner reservations."

"No, you'll miss your dinner reservation. I am going back to the hotel, where a hot bath and a 'do not disturb' sign are eagerly waiting for me," she replied as she made the appropriate left turn, the wheels of the small coupe crunching loudly on the unpaved road. Pebbles and twigs shot up into the undercarriage like miniature landmines.

"Of course you will Precious. Now I think you should wear a cocktail dress, perhaps that little purple number. The color turns your eyes to emeralds. It goes well your jeweled sandals."

Precious.

Dear.

Love.

She was only Sarah when he was angry or chiding her. Otherwise, he addressed her directly, or used an affectionate pet name. Which was annoying as all hell. It was so very posh and British, and after living nearly two years in Dublin, she'd learned to hate all things English, if only to have something in common with her neighbors. But giving her little loving nicknames wasn't enough for Jareth. He had to use them in front of other people, like the time at this teeny pub, when the hostess assumed they were married because he kept calling her sweetheart. His arm slung carelessly around her waist probably didn't help.

It seemed like Jareth enjoyed it when people mistook them for a couple. He'd pull her to his side, give her his best boyfriend smile, and she'd have to play along just to keep from making a scene. She'd flirt and banter, because he was the Goblin King, an infinitely powerful and menacing entity, and making a scene would only lead to despair.

That's why she consented to sharing rooms also. Yep. Just to keep from making a scene. She didn't find him attractive, nope, no sir. Being near to him wasn't a turn on, not at all. It was a turn off. She only felt like fucking him half the time so he would shut up, not because she expected the ride of her life. Uh-uh. Jareth was bad, very bad.

Bad and decadent, like the last sliver of chocolate cake, just waiting to be gobbled up, or licked clean from head to toe…

'No!' she scolded her disobedient and very dirty thoughts. 'It's bad enough that you got shit faced and told him you'd do him in a heartbeat if he weren't the Goblin King! Don't think of Jareth naked. Don't think of Jareth naked. Don't think of – '

"If your plan to defeat me is to drive into that tree, I must tell you that the only person getting into an accident is you. Besides, you just passed the driveway."

Automatically, her foot slammed on the brake pedal, which wasn't a very good idea, considering she was in third gear. The engine stalled, turning off completely as she fought with the emergency brake.

"God damn it, I hate this fucking car!" she shouted as she yanked on the stick shift. "Why the fuck did you pick this thing?"

He laughed. The bastard laughed, patting her bare knee as he sagely said "Only the best for you, my sweet. I saw you eyeing the Porsche, so I picked it. You must admit, it's absolutely gorgeous."

Okay, so he was right about that. The beige convertible, with its butterscotch leather interior and black ragtop was speedy and very sexy. Unfortunately, it had been around since before Germany invaded Poland during World War II, and most likely drove some Nazi higher ups. And the fucking thing had the temper of a wild Mustang in heat.

"We should've gotten the Jeep," Sarah hissed as she finally jerked the lever back into neutral, foot at the ready on the clutch as she revved the engine back to life. It sputtered for a few minutes, but was otherwise silent as she shifted into reverse. With her head twisted all the way over her shoulder, she could see the Farmer Fitzgerald's mail box, and the ad swinging beneath it. Somebody had scrawled 'for sail' on a piece of cardboard with a bright blue crayon. Always a good sign.

Inch by meager inch, the Porsche moved backwards, and then she was forcing her way into first gear. The car had a tight turning radius, so getting into the driveway was a piece of cake… um, it was easy. Real easy.

"What a charming little abode," Jareth intoned airily as they parked on a patch of tall grass, since every other spot was soaked and muddy. And no, it wasn't a 'charming abode'. It was shack held together with nothing but hope and a prayer. The thatch roof was sagging, and the front door was missing. There was just an old tabletop leaning against the posts, and it missed the lintel by a good six inches.

The look on Sarah's face said it all. The house was a shit hole, or maybe a meth lab starter kit. It was all wrong for Jareth. But before she could hightail it back to the car, the Goblin King tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and marched her to the doorstep. Like a proper gentleman, he tapped three times on the door substitute, waiting with a smile as someone inside stumbled their way to the front hall.

What had to be old Farmer Fitzgerald dragged the wooden slab into the house, muttering all sorts of colorful works under his breath. He was older than water, one of his milky green eyes covered with a leather eye patch, while a cane kept him from blowing away in a strong wind; and, good Lord, boy did he look pissed to see them. His thin, gnarled mouth nearly disappeared as he frowned at them. Not that she blamed him. She'd frown at the pair she and Jareth made.

At the last place they visited, a passing biddy shook her head disapprovingly, loudly telling her husband that lay-about Londoners were taking over their charming village, and that soon, every Catholic in Ireland would be forced into concentration camps. Sarah winced, while Jareth beamed, his hand finding hers as they walked down the promenade. She had to admit, they looked like quintessential yuppies. Jareth insisted on wearing custom Italian creations, and to keep from looking like a bum, she wore dainty sundresses or ballerina skirts. Today was no different. Jareth chose charcoal woolen slacks and a blue cardigan that enhanced the sharpness of his features, while she barely kept up in a black pencil skirt and ivory blouse.

"Whatcha want?" Farmer Fitzgerald mumbled, his nose raised in a sneer. If looks could kill, they'd be buried by now. But Sarah only smiled, informing him that they were house hunting, and had seen his ad on a corkboard in their hotel's lobby. He grunted and motioned for them to come in, saying "Poke around all ye like, but don't take nothin'. I'll be tending me flock now. Won't be back 'til evening comes. Ye better be scattered by then."

Oh, they'd be scattered all right. They'd be scattered all the way back to Blackburn Inn, and eventually back to Dublin, if the gods could stop laughing at her for just one blasted second. Seriously, weren't there other runners to entertain Jareth? Managing an entire kingdom required a king, didn't it?

"Come darling," Jareth said as he guided her into the house. "Let's see if the master bedroom is big enough for our mattress."

"Really, Jareth?" she muttered under her breath even as she offered Farmer Fitzgerald a megawatt, Ms. America smile. "This place is a dump. Let's cut our losses and go to lunch or something. We both know you aren't going to pick this place."

Jareth clucked disapprovingly, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he condescendingly shook his head. "Now now, darling, we've only seen the foyer. Never judge a book by its cover."

"How about judging a book by its odor? It smells like the Bog of Eternal Stench," she whispered, keeping her grin in place as Farmer Fitzgerald stumbled by them, mumbling about townie bastards and their slag American girlfriends. Sarah waited until he'd circled out of view, before giving Jareth a piece of her mind. Quite a few pieces actually.

"I know three things about this house, Jareth, and I don't even have to look for some goddamn master bedroom. It stinks of horses and goats, the roof is moldy, and there's no front door. Can we just go already?" When Jareth tightened his hold on her waist, his hand caressing her hip, she nearly lost it. Yet she didn't try to move away, not even an inch. Stupid hormones. As soon as they got back to Dublin… no, as soon as she saw a handsome, unattached man, she was going to jump his bones and ride him like a show pony. Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. A great idea.

Jareth was handsome and unattached…

'No! Bad Sarah! Don't start that again!'

Ooh, his little kitten was absolutely furious! Anger darkened her eyes until they were nearly black. Arousal could do the same thing, and if he moved his hand just a few inches, he'd be cupping her derriere, which was molded quite alluringly in that tight skirt. Beneath it, she was probably wearing something lacy and barely there, something he could easily nudge aside in search of hotter pleasures.

It was the only reason Jareth forewent gloves in this iron saturated hell. The chance at an impromptu seduction was one he hardly wanted to miss, even if Sarah rebuffed his advances time and time again. That was alright though. She nearly quivered with trepidation whenever he was near, only to turn still as stone whenever he touched her. Never did she try to worm out of his arms, though she did protest to his little love names for her. She thought he was teasing her whenever he used some endearment, and in a way he was. Seeing her get all hot and bothered proved that she was affected by him. Whether positively and negatively was yet to be seen (although she wasn't an idle participant in their idle flirtation).

"Even still, let's take a stroll before we scratch it off our list," he quipped impudently as he pulled her along. She followed mutely, tethered to some invisible leash she gave him the moment he roped her into this ridiculous endeavor.

His plan was one rooted in revenge, boredom, and complete adoration. He wanted her to fear him, love him, do as he said, so that he could be her slave. So far, he had fear and obedience down, not that he expected it to last. Not that he wanted it to. The only thing that mattered was garnering her affection, and eventually her love.

House hunting was simply a rouse to spend time with her, time that would reveal his positive aspects, like his desire to listen to her opinion and seek her counsel. There were several homes he had considered buying, but while she agreed they were lovely, she would also say they weren't her taste. 'That's just my opinion. If you like the house, buy it.' He would only buy a house she loved, a house where they could relax, far from the Goblin kingdom.

But first… it was time to yank her chain a little bit.

"I have more than enough magic to make this house smell like a field of wildflowers, if that is what you wish. Or perhaps those apple cinnamon muffins you gobble down whenever you come across them." Muffins that he made appear (by magic) whenever she looked famished.

Sarah scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward, but went along with him nonetheless, examining the house room by room. Considering there was just a kitchenette, dining room, and what may have been a bedroom (there was a bed, but chickens were roosting on it), their search didn't take long. He allowed Sarah to drag him back to the door, but he wasn't quite done.

"It's a fixer-upper," he pondered aloud as he rubbed his chin, looking so very thoughtful. "But it's nothing my goblins can't make better."

"Fuck your goblins and buy a better house." Sarah wrenched herself from his grasp, stomping back to the car with her elegant hands fisted at her sides. She wore ornery very well, but her real coat was made of kindness, empathy, and gumption.

The sway of her hips was as welcoming as home-cooked comfort food, only he felt that welcome a few degrees south of his belly. He hoped that she was just as willful and defiant in bed as she was in real life. Lying with a cold fish would be most disappointing. If her passion and anger were anything to go by, however, he knew she would be more than a handful. She would most likely be the dominant party. But that was just fine. He did want to be her slave.

"I suppose your right," he replied as he sauntered back to the Porsche, taking his seat with catlike grace. 'But I can think of something else I'd like to fuck.' He could only grin as Sarah struggled with the complicated manual transmission. She either fought with the clutch or couldn't figure out how to get into neutral. It was another ten minutes before they were left, and Sarah was swearing up a storm until they were back on the main road.

Then she was silent, all fiery determination and frazzled nerves as she haphazardly navigated their way back to Blackburn Inn. She swerved, drifted, and routinely exceeded the speeding limit. As terrifying as driving with Sarah was, it gave Jareth the perfect opportunity to study his downfall. She had lost and gained weight in all the appropriate places, sporting curves that would turn even the most celebrated courtesan green with envy. Most of her lustrous black locks had been cut until the ends barely reached chin, but there was nothing wrong with that. It added to her wildness, her savage sharpness he found so alluring. There was a certain masculine flair about her, an edge that said 'I won't wait around for someone to save me'.

"What time do you want to leave tomorrow?" she said unexpectedly as she pulled into the cobblestoned parking lot of their accommodations. He hadn't realized they'd arrived, but he recovered quickly.

"Whenever you are awake and refreshed. I can only assume you'll need rest if we want to celebrate your birthday." The look she shot him was venomous and red hot.

Oh yes, her birthday. Now there was a sore spot. The first time he brought it up, she just brushed it off. There were just as many Thanksgivings as there were birthdays, and she celebrated neither. Then he mentioned it again and again over the three weeks they'd spent together. He was just waiting for her to blow up. When she did, he'd soothe her back to sanity with sapphires and cashmere, two things she adored but didn't have the budget for. Then he'd coax her into his bed, softly declare his intentions, and life would be infinitely better for him.

Humans were lucky. For them, love came once in a while. For the Fae, it came once in a lifetime. For Jareth, it came in the form of the stubborn, green-eyed girl he gave up once, but never would again.

"For the millionth time, Jareth," she hissed as she wobbled her way to the front door. "We aren't doing anything. We are looking for a house together, and that's it." She sucked in a breath and turned startled eyes on him. "I mean, you're looking for a house for us. No, I'm helping you find our house. I mean…!"

Jareth played the innocent card, arching a brow as he brushed his way past her. "We'll make time for your birthday still. You only turn twenty-two once." He felt her glare burning his ears as he walked away, but it only widened the smug, self-satisfied smile on his face. Sarah could be flippant all she wanted, but he knew that she'd begun thinking of them as 'us' as opposed to 'you and I.'

At six-thirty, they were quietly eating dinner in the inn's very small pub. It was respectable at best, with fishing gear on the walls and pictures of old seadogs in pageboy hats and knit sweaters. The food was adequate, by Irish standards, but both Sarah and Jareth were only comfortable with shepherd's pie and tall glasses of Guinness. Sarah was completely quiet, calm and sedate as she browsed through several local newspapers, looking for houses in the classified sections. Her silence was companionable, and Jareth found pleasure in knowing that she wasn't ignoring him. She just wasn't talking. However, that was the only thing that gave him pleasure.

Sarah was a lovely young woman, and every man around her knew it. They eyed her bare legs and pawed her chest with their hungry eyes, leering and licking their lips as if he weren't there. They were a ghastly lot, a group of drunken, mottled prunes, so he paid them no heed; but the bartender was anything but homely. The man was young and healthy, his shoulders broad and chest wide. Thick biceps muscles bulged and rippled under his blue t-shirt, and his eyes, his plain brown eyes, were fixed on the curve of Sarah's jaw.

Night after night, he fed Sarah drinks, which she resolutely ignored, usually because they were brightly colored, needlessly garnished with fruit, and sickly sweet like antifreeze. Sarah liked one drink, Guinness, and Jareth was always the first to offer her one.

"There are a few places west of here that look promising, and two of them are even on the coast… but one of them is on a bluff." Her jade eyes were bright and hopeful as she looked up at him, and he found himself aroused by the slight smudging of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes. She was tired and tousled, like a woman going out for breakfast after a thorough tryst.

"Tell me about the one on the bluff." Before she could even blink, he pulled her reading glasses out his pant pocket (by magic), handing them to her, just to see her smile. She did, and it was both grateful and baffled. After slipping on her oval, wire framed spectacles, Sarah picked up the paper, flicked it open officially, and began reciting facts with the efficiency of a switchboard operator.

"It's fifteen-hundred square feet," she began, completely involved in working out the best descriptions. As she listed detail after detail, she became more and more engrossed in doing her job, which was catering to his needs. Seeing that she was distracted, his slid his right foot out of its very expensive Italian loafer, and put it right where it belonged.

On her ankle.

His toes caressed her bare skin, and she choked halfway through her sentence, staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. He just smiled back, sliding his foot over a line of muscle running along her calf to her knee. Even through his Egyptian cotton sock, he could feel goose bumps rising.

The gods were clearly on his side, because just as she opened her mouth to reprimand him, they were interrupted by the thick-necked bartender. His good looks mattered not, as, above all else, Sarah was afraid of making a scene.

Jareth was playing footsies.

Playing. Footsies.

With her.

His toes, surprisingly hot despite his trouser sock, curved over the instep of her foot, drifting here and there with no particular destination. They massaged her calves, her shins, anywhere they could reach. And, goddamn it, it felt really good. Lust began to pool hot and heavy between her legs, until she was shifting just to keep her skirt dry. More embarrassingly, a hearty blush made its way up her throat, burning red hot when his foot slithered up and past her knee, gently tickling her inner thigh. The hem of her skirt got caught on his ankle, and when it moved up, so did the skirt, until it was bunched around her hips. The table wasn't even two feet wide! How the fuck could his torso be so still when his legs were now interlocked with hers? It had to have been magic.

"Good evenin' miss," a deep Irish brogue called from her, as warm and sweet as hot chocolate. "I brought you a nice screw between the sheets. All premium liquor, of course." His tone turned cold as ice. "And here's your beer."

She knew who he was talking to. But Jareth was a little bit busy, and so was she, because all of a sudden those very talented toes were brushing the scalloped edges of her lacy underwear, alternately pressing and gliding over the crease where hip met thigh. In a few inches he'd be…

Oh God.

Oh wow, that felt really nice.

Hmm…

Why was she afraid of him again?

Her eyelashes lowered, and something sharp but sweet pulsed through her veins, leaving her sluggish and sagging in her seat.

When she lost her virginity to her first boyfriend, Jimmy Phillips (star quarterback and scumbag number one), she thought of Jareth singing to her, holding her, because it sucked that hard. It was over in three minutes, and those three minutes weren't even in the same weight class as the reality of Jareth's touch. And that was only his foot! She could only imagine what the rest of him would feel like.

'No! No! Snap out of it! This is one foot away from rape! I'm pretty sure there's a rule about this!' some traitorous part of her mind protested, jumping up and down on a soap box. It was almost certainly something silly like logic or self-preservation. But it was loud enough to break Jareth's web, and then she was pissed (as well as in need of some new undies).

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she hissed at the bartender, misdirecting all her rage at the poor man. "All I want it a glass of Guinness in a proper fucking stein!"

Jareth's foot retreated, and boy did she feel unfulfilled, like she was in proper need of… filling. Certain parts more than others. One hand shot down to her skirt, pulling it back to her knees. Conjuring up the scariest glare she could, Sarah snatched up her purse, slammed a few dollars on the table, and stomped off to her room with a surprising level of dignity.

At least, with all the dignity of a woman whose thighs were glued together.

Where was that hot bath and 'do not enter' sign?

The moment his toes encountered the slickness just beneath the center of her lacy and barely-there underwear (god, he was good), he felt his body rise to attention, his ego rising when Sarah ignored the younger, and somewhat handsome bartender. Then her pupils dilated with lust, her legs parting in invitation. Oh yes, he had her, even as she marched away in a huff.

He loved that spell, the one that gave him the room to stretch out under the table. It was nicknamed 'The Iceberg'. It played on the old saying 'the tip of the iceberg,' which, literally, was just the small, visible part. What lied below the water was massive by comparison. The spell turned the tabletop into the tip of the iceberg, and beneath it was an area much bigger than it should've been.

"You do realize that my wife hasn't so much as sipped anything you've brought her, don't you?" He wielded the word wife as a weapon, fending off the advances of the Irishman with total success. The bartender blushed, hung his head and shuffled back to the counter, and that was only the half of it. Every man in the restaurant was now very interested in their meals, eyes pinned to their plates as Jareth strutted after Sarah, chin up and shoulders thrown back.

As expected, she was in their room, already in a bulky set of flannel pajamas. She scrubbed at her teeth so vigorously he feared for her enamel.

"Is something wrong, Sarah?" he asked innocuously while he perched on the edge of their bed, stripping off his sweater slower than necessary. He wasn't wearing anything beneath it.

Sarah snarled at him, bearing her teeth as she spat out, "What part of no don't you understand?"

"The same part that you don't. Every time I touch you, it takes you quite a while to recoil," he said as he lay back onto the mattress, his long, sinewy arms crossed beneath his head. He fingered the short strands of his hair, missing the longer panels only slightly. "We should just sleep together and get it over with. You know you want to. You know I want to."

"You are my boss, and, unless my memory needs a tune-up, you threatened to lock me up if I didn't go along with your ridiculous plan." She started to scrub off her makeup with a rough sponge soaked in hot, soapy water.

He had the grace to wince at his less than charming request. The night he finally approached her, she had just exited the car of a young man who'd obviously just received a goodnight kiss. Jealousy prompted him to demand her obedience, and surprisingly, he received it.

"I've already asked you to forgive me. I will not do it again. I will, however, make it up to you whenever you're ready." He heard a splash as she dropped the sponge.

"In your dreams, buddy."

Jareth grinned.

"And in your dreams too, precious. In your dreams too."

Damn it! She forgot he could read her mind and see her dreams, which usually starred an undressed Goblin King.

"Listen," she snapped as she flopped down on her side of the bed, sliding under the covers until only her head was visible. "You're sexy. You know that. But you don't have to throw it in my face all the time."

In the blink of an eye, he was dressed for bed in a pair of silk pajamas. The shirt was completely unbuttoned, and while she should've complained, she just couldn't. The view was simply too nice. He was a bit lean for her tastes, but his chest was smooth and hairless, with a perfect layer of muscle beneath his marble skin. Mmm…

"I will stop 'throwing it in your face' when you stop throwing your good looks in my face," he countered as he pulled the covers down, stretching out beside her. Instantly, the temperature shot down more than ten degrees, because in a flash her face was freezing, protective tears prickling her eyes.

"Oh you bastard," she seethed as she pressed her face into her pillow. "Not this again." Her voice was muffled, but still terse enough to get the point across. "I do NOT want to snuggle, so would you please make it warm again?"

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah," he chided (see?), rolling over until he was facing her. She cocked her head just enough to peer at him through one eye, though she probably shouldn't have. He looked too good, too sex tousled with his shortened hair falling over his forehead. If she had to choose, she preferred his usual long, chopped-into hairstyle, but this was nice. It made him softer, more approachable.

And he was speaking to her.

Shit. What was he saying?

"I missed that," she murmured softly, still looking at him through one eye.

His Majesty laughed, relaxing into his down pillow as he gazed at her with what she would've called warmth, had it been anyone but Jareth.

"My castle is a drafty place, love, but I've grown used to it. I find it hard to sleep without the cold."

"And I prefer keeping my temperature at a non-hypothermic level. Can we have some sort of compromise?"

His response was to lift the blankets between them and stretch his silk covered arm out, a clear invitation to curl up against his chest. She already knew his skin was warm, but nice girls with experience under their belt knew better than to trust gorgeous men. So she turned over, presenting her back as she settled in for a miserably cold night.

The day's driving, walking, and emotional struggles caught up with her despite the temperature. She was so tired, and sleep was a blessed respite that found her quickly; but as her lashes lowered to her cheeks, she felt the body next to her inch closer, until warm air ruffled the shorn locks over the base of her skull. He made no move to touch her, which was somewhat disappointing.

Prickly as she acted, his coy teasing and affectionate lies were starting to get to her, so much that she didn't mind his foot between her thighs, or the fact that he slept too close to her.

Truth be told, if he wrapped his arms around her, she'd let him.

She'd let him do anything.

As all of the tension knotting Sarah's muscles slackened away, Jareth dropped his overt flirtatiousness, allowing himself to just enjoy her closeness. She was so near to giving in. It had been like this for three weeks. He'd pull her in until she was just out of reach, only to lose her inches away from the finish line. Three days into their adventure, she admitted that she was sexually attracted to him. Her candor surprised and delighted him. That was his Sarah, always saying too much, too soon. But then she backpedaled and warned him to stay away. There were rules that couldn't be broken, she said.

Her hair though, it smelled vanilla, and pooled like rare ink despite its lacking length. He knew it was slick raw silk, cool and slippery in his hands.

One kiss, just one kiss didn't hurt, so he pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear, lingering for a long moment. Reluctantly, he drew back, calling to mind the little fairy that started his quest for Sarah's affections.

At any rate, he thought she was a fairy.

Although the rock faces lining the chasm hadn't seen any runner besides Sarah in hundreds of years, they were a fairly routine occurrence. There were a grand total of eleven books still in existence. Four were circulating through Eurasia, with one rarely leaving Russia. Three could always be found in the Orient, with the text always changing to suit the different countries it entered. A society of witches in Salem kept two under lock and key at all times, never to be seen by the general public. Father McNally, a fae Halfling, had one hidden away with the other gifts his fairy mother left the night she abandoned him at an Irish orphanage. And one, one would always belong to Sarah Williams. It was handwritten, bound and pressed by Jareth, a wondrous gift for her and her alone.

At any given time, someone was taking the book literally, usually someone gullible or naïve. This time, a young French girl had wished away her newborn sister. As she passed by one of the fountains in the hedge mage, she threw the entire contents of her wallet in, thinking purchased wishes would help her. They wouldn't, but in addition to several paper bills, she threw in an old musket ball. Where she found it was a mystery, but even that small bit of iron had the power to poison his entire water system; and cruel as Jareth was, he would never do anything to jeopardize the lives of the Labyrinth's inhabitants, save for the occasional goblin.

As King of the Labyrinth, removing hazardous materials was his job, so after the runner went on her not so merry way, he appeared at the edge of the artificial spring, dragon hide gloves covering him from fingertip to elbow.

"I hate the French," he groaned as he tentatively reached down into the murky water. This particular fountain hadn't work in years; hence the water was stagnant with rotting vegetation and mud. But several lily pads sported healthy pink blooms, where several jewel toned dragonflies were roosting, so there was no fear of a mosquito infestation. Of all the horrible creatures in the world, mosquitoes were one of the few completely banned in the Goblin Kingdom.

"I think that girl needs a minotaur or two sent after her." Anything monstrous, he thought as he groped around through the layers of mulch and dirt, eyes closed in concentration. Iron was as dangerous to him as arsenic and molten steel. Picking it up with his bare hands would both poison and burn him. "The Bog of Stench could use some new denizens."

"You're in love."

Yes he was, but that was beside the point.

"No, it's the point entirely."

Ah, so the voice wasn't in his head. In that case, he was being rude by not addressing it directly. It only took a moment to find the voice's owner. A very small something was sitting on a lotus blossom. She had the torso, head and arms of a beautiful woman, but the legs of a striped frog. She was even crouched like a frog, her hands propped on her muscular, slimy thighs.

"Why are you here? You're in love. Shouldn't you be wooing your intended?" she questioned as she wove her brown curls into a plaited crown. Jareth peered at her for a minute, trying to conjure a name, but there wasn't one to be found in his memory.

"Shouldn't you be wearing a shirt?" he retorted, still groping for the bullet. "It can't be comfortable, baring your breasts to the world."

She shrugged, gesturing to a sleeping bullfrog at her left as she said, "My husband is more than capable of protecting me. Besides, I'm in no discomfort now. The weather is splendid. Is it your doing?"

"It is," he told her, his fingers finding the iron piece after a few more blind swipes. "So the frog is your husband?"

She laughed lightly. "I do not lie with frogs. By night, he's a riverweed pixie. Now, who is this woman you think of with both anger and adoration?"

"Have you a name, frog maiden?" Speaking of Sarah only opened freshly healed wounds, so distracting the diminutive sprite was the only way to escape unharmed.

"Orla," she said promptly. "And my husband is Ivar." But she was not to be dissuaded. "Is it the raven-haired bird, Sarah? You did seem awfully jealous of her easy relationship with the dwarf. Why else would something as silly as a kiss between friends bother you?"

Jareth rolled the small iron ball in his hands, brushing away the muck. He pretended to be studying the offensive, deadly item, but he was really considering the little frog sprite's words. He did love Sarah. Everyone saw. Several times, he'd gone wondering through the Labyrinth, looking for traces of his lady love. To date, he'd only collected a small ring, some cheap metal creation with an imitation ruby. Hoggy's plastic thing 'round his wrist was next.

"There isn't going to be another," she continued on, her surprisingly deep voice disapproving. "I was lucky to find my Ivar. Fae have soul mates, but we rarely find them."She bowed as best she could in her crouched position, bunching the muscles in her amphibian legs in preparation to jump.

Right before she leapt away, she left this word of warning.

"Humans have expiration dates. Snatch Sarah up before hers looms closer."

Okay, so this is going to be a short story in three parts, not a long one-shot.

I'm a liar.