Yarrow grins back. “For all I know, that’s true. But by your smile, I’m guessing it’s not.”
“The truth potion’s worn off,” Folly says, which he wouldn’t be able to say if it hadn’t. “Thank the gods. I don’t know how you live like that.”
Yarrow chuckles. “You would have gotten the hang of it, deceiving with the truth. You’re clever like that.”
Heat and light twist in happy tension. Folly’s sharing this comfortable bed with the most fascinating man he’s ever met. He can lie again, but he’d like to tell a few truths instead.
To himself, as well as Yarrow.
“How long were you watching me sleep?” Folly asks, looping his arms around his knees.
Yarrow tilts his head, hair sliding over his bare shoulders. “Since before dawn. I woke early,” he answers shamelessly.“Your sleeping posture is very good. You hardly move, so I had to watch carefully to catch every flicker of your eyelashes.”
His attention slips beneath Folly’s collar. Folly feels like he’s wearing nothing at all. The attention is welcome. Exhilarating. Not stifling.
Folly never expected any fae to be like Yarrow. So genuine. So caring.
“What are you thinking?” Yarrow asks, like he truly wants to know. His lips are strong. Full.
The last time Folly surrendered to impulse was the night he met Roland. The tavern was dark, the best Folly could afford after his previous job washed out. Roland bought him a drink, then offered him a job. Then bought him a few more drinks. And Folly hadn’t minded sleeping with Roland at the time. The memory only became suffocating in hindsight.
Folly wants to be reckless again. Roland can’t ruin that forever.
“I’m thinking this will never work,” Folly says slowly, pulse quickening. “I belong in the human realm. You belong here. We’d have just a few months before one of us caught realm-sickness.”
“Does it have to work to be worthwhile?” Yarrow sits up and walks his fingers across the bedding, until he brushes Folly’s ankle beneath the quilt. The faint pressure sears past Folly’s nerves. “I’m only seventy-seven. I’m not ready for a lifemark.”
Only seventy-seven. Every word and every gleaming inch of skin proves Yarrow isn’t human. His very existence is seductively dangerous.
Folly ducks his head, wishing he was brave enough to meet Yarrow’s eyes now. He’s only brave enough to admit, “I don’t even know what a lifemark is, but I’d like to kiss you.”
“That sounds like a fair trade.” The bed shifts. Yarrow’s hand slides up Folly’s shin, then pushes the quilt aside. His touch whispers against Folly’s bare knee. “I want to kiss you too.”
Folly chin tips up a moment before Yarrow touches his throat. The heat is a promise, not a threat. Yarrow leans in slowly, yet Folly’s pulse still jumps with perceived suddenness. The moment between wanting and having frays, unsteady as Folly’s nerves.
“Not so fast,” Yarrow murmurs. “I want you to remember this.”
As if Folly could forget any moment with Yarrow. This moment will stand out, though: Yarrow’s fingertips above his heart, guiding him down, until Folly lies flat on the cloudlike mattress. Sunlight gilding Yarrow’s horns and hair, neither as bright as the fire in his eyes. Yarrow’s touch feathering along Folly’s arms, until his palms meet Folly’s wrists.
Yarrow presses Folly’s wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. And as Yarrow pins him to earth, Folly soars.
Silken hair brushes Folly’s throat. Yarrow’s cheek hovers close to Folly’s. “Do you like this, little human?”
Folly likes it beyond reason. He pushes instinctively, and Yarrow’s warm grasp doesn’t budge. Instead of entrapment or control, the pressure feels like protection. Yarrow holds him down to keep him close, and closeness means safety. Desire. Admiration.
“Yeah,” Folly says, because he can’t put the rest into words.
Yarrow smiles against his cheek. “You’ll like this even more,” he says confidently, and claims Folly’s lips for his own.
The kiss crawls into Folly’s basest instincts. A slow exploration, touching more than soft lips and sharp teeth. Folly surges into it, and Yarrow’s grip tightens. All Folly can move is his head. His hips, rocking up into empty air.
He would believe Yarrow was seven hundred years old, or seven thousand, every year spent learning to kiss like this. Folly suddenly feels young. Does his lesser experience show? Does Yarrow think him clumsy, unskilled, unappealing? How will Folly be able to satisfy?—
“Stop thinking,” Yarrow murmurs between their lips. His thumbs caress the bones of Folly’s wrists. “Unless you’re thinking about me.”
Luminous kisses descend Folly’s throat, and Folly can only obey, surrendering again to quiet bliss. Soft pleasure-pain blooms beneath Yarrow’s lips, the hint of teeth marking a bruise above Folly’s collarbone. Folly’s eyelashes flutter. He would think this was magic, but there’s no telltale shimmer. Just Yarrow’s warm presence focused entirely on him.
Folly wants more. A leisurely need builds in him, and Yarrow’s kisses are the tinder to his flame. All Folly wanted was a kiss, but every rational thought has been driven from his head. He can’t remember what was holding him back.
