The loss of Yarrow’s hand doesn’t break Folly’s immersion. He obeys, still floating inside himself, guided by Yarrow’s words, anchored by the rope around his wrists.
Yarrow speaks above wet, quickening sounds. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I can’t say that enough. I’ve never wanted someone more than you, Folly. I need to paint your pretty face with my come, so you know who you belong to. I need—fuck, Folly.”
He breaks off in a groan, and the first pulse lands on Folly’s left cheek. It drips as the second falls half on his lower lip, half in his mouth. The strong taste startles Folly, in a pleasant, distant way. Holding still is easy, even as the third shot glazes his tongue.
Yarrow’s ragged breath fills the clearing. Folly keeps his eyes closed as blunt fingertips whisper against his cheekbone. Then Yarrow pushes his thumb into Folly’s open mouth. Swipes the come from Folly’s tongue and smears it across his lower lip. Up onto his cheek.
“That may have been too good an idea,” Yarrow says, breathless. “I’m going to be thinking about you like this every day. Are you hard, sweetheart? Do you want to come?”
The question yanks Folly back into his body. His eyes fly open, as his own desire screams for attention.
Yarrow’s stare is ravenous, his cock still hard. He nudges Folly aside just enough to sit at the base of the tree. Folly scrambles clumsily into Yarrow’s lap, nearly falling without the use of his arms. But Yarrow holds him steady, tugging until Folly straddles Yarrow’s broad thighs.
Each movement is delicious torture until Yarrow unlaces Folly’s trousers. Yarrow’s hand on his cock is pure, thoughtless pleasure. Whimpering, Folly collapses forward. His come-smeared face presses against Yarrow’s chest. All he can do is shudder and rock as Yarrow strokes their cocks together.
He comes almost instantly, orgasm barely discernible from his previous bliss. Yarrow strokes Folly through it, right to the edge of overstimulation, until Yarrow comes again too.
They collapse together, and Folly melts into wordless contentment. Yarrow simply holds him, heedless of the mess. Folly’s never felt so treasured. So beloved.
Asking for a lifemark would be insane.
So would giving this up.
Chapter 24
Yarrow
After the thirteenth hour, the doorway appears between two arching trees. The price of passage is paid, but Yarrow hesitates. Perhaps he should have offered a day, or two, or three, to keep his human in this world built only for them.
Except the curse has shrunk again. Twelve feet, two inches. “Are you ready?”
Folly’s hand tightens in his. “Will all this just vanish when we’re gone?”
The trees and their cloudlike boughs. The silken grasses. The wildflowers. The places they stood and sat and lay together.
“When we visit again, it will build anew.” Yarrow squeezes his hand. “Let’s go.”
Sharing a deep breath, they step into Summer.
Everything is warm and bright. Birds chorus in greeting, hidden among dense leaves. Early morning light slants past sparse clouds. Cerulean Glade stretches lazily before them, a small sea of long grasses. Brambles and trees crowd around its edges. A brook chatters across the southern end.
Folly huddles close, but peers out curiously. “I expected it to be blue.”
“Deceptive, I know.” Uneasiness prickles the back of Yarrow’s neck. He should have expected the glade to be blue too, but the expanse of green hadn’t surprised him. There’s something familiar about this place, though Yarrow’s never been here before. “Now, we’re looking for the biggest, oldest tree in sight…”
Releasing Folly’s hand is a dreadful necessity. Yarrow needs his hands free to react to anything unexpected. He’s distracted enough. Folly’s presence has torn Yarrow’s mind in two.
He doesn’t want Folly out of his sight. But he also wants Folly anywhere but here.
Yarrow still hates this plan.
The largest tree sits along the northern perimeter. An ancient, gnarled chestnut, its branches beckon like clawed fingers. Its leaves are vibrant but thin. Yarrow has to step over the hulking roots to approach the trunk.
“Greetings, Lord Chestnut,” Yarrow says. “I’ve been looking for a handsome tree like you.”
Leaves rustle overhead. An answer creaks into Yarrow’s mind:That’s nice, but you’re not my type.
Yarrow chokes on his next breath.
