The palace hallways blur with Folly’s urgency. Music rings in his ears, and desire leaves him more drunk than the fae mead. After far too long—five minutes, five excruciating minutes—Yarrow halts, so quickly his boots squeak against the marble. A familiar green door waits in welcome.
“This is our room,” Yarrow says, then hedges, “Hopefully it’s our room.”
It’s their room. The door unlocks with a touch and a glitter of magic, and Folly yanks Yarrow inside. The door’s still swinging closed when Folly’s back hits the wall, and Yarrow fills his space with miles of bare skin and a ravenous grin.
Folly’s wrists meet the stone beneath Yarrow’s heated palms.
“Fucking spirits,” Yarrow breathes, staring down at him with something dangerously close to adoration. “I want to…”
Folly lifts his chin, baring his throat in surrender. “What do you want to do?”
Yarrow leans down. His hair spills over Folly’s shoulder, and his words hook into Folly’s soul. “I want to tie you up and fuck you for hours.”
Folly’s heart wavers on a precipice. Like he’s agreeing to more than just one night. Sex has always been so casual for him. Failed attempts to forget how alone he is. Forget about playing bondage games—that’s a quick way to get robbed or murdered with the wrong stranger from the tavern.
But Yarrow would never hurt him, and each vulgar word sounds far too much like a promise. Agreeing would be reckless.
Folly wants to be reckless.
“Let’s start withonehour,” Folly says, because he’s reckless. Not stupid.
“Clever little human,” Yarrow purrs. “I can work with that.”
Chapter 18
Yarrow
Yarrow traces shapes through the sheer red silk. Each touch over rib and sternum quickens the pace of Folly’s breath. Yarrow could play like this for hours, but instead he slides the tunic away.
Folly’s only worn the tunic once. Hummingbird will be furious if Yarrow ruins it so soon.
Her priorities are skewed, of course. The scarlet silk is worthless compared to the treasure beneath. Folly’s wiry muscles, the sparse hair on his chest, the freckles. When did Folly get sun on his belly? Why wasn’t Yarrow there to see it?
Yarrow wants a history of every mark on Folly’s body. That can come later, though. Tonight, Yarrow intends to make his own.
Hoisting Folly up by the ass, Yarrow misjudges slightly. Folly is so much lighter than him. But the overenthusiastic lift works out great, because Folly yelps in delight and clings to Yarrow’s shoulders. His bare chest is blazing hot against Yarrow. Skin contact has never felt so good.
Yarrow shifts Folly’s weight to one arm, and maps the sleek lines of Folly’s thigh with his free hand.
“You can grab my horns for balance,” Yarrow says helpfully.
“Is that all right?” Folly asks. “Sorry, I should have asked first when I grabbed them at?—”
“Grab my horns, little human.”
Folly grabs both his horns and kisses him.
Yarrow groans, deep in his throat. He doesn’t have much sensation around his horns. But nobody else ever touches them. They’re different. Frightening. Now, with Folly clinging to him, the scent of human sweat, thin arms cradling his head—Yarrow devours Folly’s mouth, swallowing every moan.
He bends over the bed to set Folly down, reluctant to let go even in anticipation of greater pleasure. Folly’s gorgeous against the dark green bedding, from his sun-warmed cheeks to the paler skin of his belly. Thin, callused fingers trace Yarrow’s jaw. His shoulders. Then Yarrow straightens up and summons their measuring rope from the carryhold.
Folly inhales, focused on Yarrow’s hands.
The rope is plain, undyed silk. Far longer than necessary, but it’ll work just fine for Yarrow’s purposes. He’ll have to be careful that the measuring knots don’t press directly into Folly’s skin. He doubles it over and says, “Lie back and stretch your arms towards the headboard.”
“Have you done this before?” Folly asks as he complies. His posture knocks the breath from Yarrow’s lungs.
“I’ve tied people up before,” Yarrow says, kneeling beside Folly. “Never anyone I liked this much.”
