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."

Yarrow tries to forget his all-consuming want as he binds Folly's crossed wrists together. He wants all his concentration for the firm, comfortable cuffs. The knot that will release quickly if he tugs one end of the rope.

"Tell me if this gets uncomfortable," Yarrow says. "I can untie it instantly."

Folly tests the rope, flushing. "That's good. Um. Can you tie it a little tighter?"

Yarrow kisses him, deep and slow, and tightens the binding. Then he loops the other tail of rope around a headboard bar, and tugs.

Folly stretches into a beautiful, giving arch.

"Comfortable?" Yarrow asks.

Folly licks his lips. "Yeah."

Yarrow rubs his knuckles across Folly's chest. The soft rope wrapped around them changes the texture of the touch. Folly's eyes roll back as Yarrow brushes over a nipple.

He's a vision of debauchery, nipples peaked, stomach trembling. his trousers riding down his hips. Yarrow's already mussed those rich, dark curls, and wet bruises decorate his throat.

And his eyes, brown and gold, shine with equal lust.

Yarrow doesn't intend to take his time. His cock aches for release. and Folly looks just as desperate. But before Yarrow goes further, he has to say, "I know you'll return to your home. I know we won't be bound together. But fleeting as this is—tonight is important to me." He leans in for a kiss. "You're important to me."

Folly tests the rope, breath hitching. "Maybe I could stay. Just for a while. Until you get tired of me."

It's a terrible idea. Elladar is too dangerous, and so is the rest of Summer. Realm-sickness isn't predictable. Outside his home realm, Folly's spirit would wither and fade—unless Yarrow chose another way to bind him. That decision is far too serious. They still haven't broken their first binding yet.

But Yarrow likes pretending tonight isn't just one night. It's the beginning of a season. "We'll talk about that later." Yarrow begins unlacing Folly's boots. "Let's start with an hour."

Removing Folly's boots and trousers is a delightful challenge. The clothes are easy enough to remove, but Yarrow makes things more difficult by keeping hold of the rope. And by stopping to kiss each exposed inch. Which makes Folly squirm, which further hinders the process.

Not least because Folly squirms so enticingly. Yarrow only wants to kiss him more.

At last, Folly's completely bare. Shucking his own boots and trousers with far less ceremony, Yarrow admires his unwrapped gift.

Folly's small and human, without any gleam to his skin in the lamplight. He's tougher than Yarrow first assumed, with sleeky, wiry muscles. His gorgeous little cock leaks, ruddy with need, in a nest of dark curls.

Folly's gaze drops to Yarrow's cock. He blinks, assessing, then licks his lips. "Do you have oil?"

"Never leave home without it," Yarrow says, reaching out. The round glass bottle drops from his carryhold into his palm.

Folly flops back on the bed. "I shouldn't even be surprised anymore."

Yarrow pours oil over his fingers, heedless of spills. "The only thing you should be surprised by is how fucking incredible you're about to feel."

"Aren't you worried about setting my expectations too high?" Folly asks, tracking Yarrow's every movement.

"Not at all," Yarrow declares confidently. Then secures his grip under Folly's knee, and pushes his thigh up and aside.

Two fingers later, Folly is writhing in the ropes. Yarrow crooks his fingertips upward, entranced by each responsive moan.

He's almost angry at how easy it is to drive Folly wild. Sure, Yarrow's fucking great at this, and Folly's only twenty-four. He's barely had time to explore anything. But clearly nobody's ever fucked him as well as he deserves.

Yarrow is determined to fix that.

"Meeting the queen's changeling told me one thing," Yarrow says. Folly makes a discontented noise, but Yarrow continues. "I thought I was fascinated with you because you're a human. But that's not true. I'm fascinated because you're you. I don't care that you're human, or what your gorgeous eyes look like. You're brilliant and brave, and you admit when you're afraid. Sometimes I wish I could do that."

"What are you afraid of?" Folly whispers.

"Right now?" Yarrow hitches Folly's legs over his elbows. "Nothing." And he pushes in.

Folly's slick hole seizes around Yarrow's cock, embracing him with exquisite heat. He's so tiny and tight, but he opens so eagerly. Yarrow seats himself in a single stunning thrust. His own groan mingles in harmony with Folly's.

Yarrow waits, eyes wide and ravenous for every detail of trembling flesh, until Folly relaxes. Then Yarrow moves.

The mechanics are the same as bedding a fae. But fucking Folly feels different, because of who Folly is. There's something so foreign about fucking a man he cares about.

Tugging the rope, Yarrow murmurs, "You're ruining me, little human."

Folly stretches out like a gift. "What does that mean?"

Yarrow fucks deep into him. "It means I'm already dreaming of the next time I get to fuck you."

"Oh. That's good," Folly says, words hitching.

Already close, Yarrow chases his own orgasm. There's no reason to delay, not when Folly feels so fucking good around him. The bedding tangles, damp with sweat and spilled oil. Skin slaps together faster. More sweat gleams at Folly's temples, and Yarrow's already addicted to the rising scent.

He stops, fully sheathed in his perfect little human, and shudders into orgasm. As if each tiny thrust drives his seed further inside Folly. He feels the release from his tightening balls to his tensing shoulders, to his viselike grip on the binding rope.

"Spirits, you're perfect, all tied up for me," Yarrow rasps. Then starts moving again.

Folly blinks, muddled. "You aren't done?"

"I finished, but I'm not finished, if you know what I mean." Yarrow winks. "I usually go two or three rounds."

"Is that a fae thing?"

Yarrow ruts his still-hard cock into Folly. "I think it's a satyr thing. But I've never dared ask my mother to confirm."

"Would she be mad?" Folly asks.

Yarrow shudders. "Worse. She would answer." He leans down and kisses Folly. "Enough about my mother. Now it's your turn."

He withdraws, flips Folly over onto his knees, and drives back in. Covering him, surrounding him. Marking him inside and out, binding him closer than any curse.

"Can you come like this?" Yarrow pants. "Just from my cock, without me even touching you?"

Folly whines.

Yarrow caresses his heaving chest. Twists a nipple. "You can, I know you can, you're so perfect for me." He winds his hand in Folly's hair, holds him down, and Folly's breath rises high and thin.

Folly shakes, tightening with his release.

His choked-out moan drives Yarrow into his second orgasm. Even more exhilarating than the first.

Yarrow withdraws, and Folly's sweet little hole gapes open a moment before winking shut. Pearly cum beads against his rim. Yarrow thumbs the reddened rim, entranced, and Folly whimpers. Pushes into his touch.

Yarrow's still hard. Spirits, he wants Folly so much, he could come four times. Forty times. But right now, he has other plans.

He drops onto his side and pulls Folly close. "How was that?"

Folly's breath comes in deep gasps. His eyes are glassy with bewildered amazement. "All right, yes. Fine. You're incredible."

"No, you are," Yarrow murmurs, and kisses Folly's cheek. His brow. The top of his curly head. The little human is bonelessly relaxed against him. His bound wrists press against Yarrow's chest.

Exactly where he ought to be.

When they wake, the binding has diminished to thirteen feet.