My Sweet Folly (64 page)

He turned on his back, still asleep, as she lay down with him again. She rested her forehead against his shoulder and put the paper on his chest, where each breath lifted it lightly. She began to place whispery kisses along the line of his jaw.

His eyes opened. He did not look at her, but stayed still, gazing upward at the canopy as she touched her mouth lightly to his skin, her lips soft as Toot’s tickling nuzzles. After a moment, he made a faint dubious sound, his mouth curving up like a man who wanted to laugh but could not quite.

Folie guided his hand to the note she had written. He looked down, lifting his head slightly to read it. “Well?” Folie said archly.

He gave a bark of laughter and dropped his head back on the pillow. “Kiss your what?”

“You
know,” she said, pushing out her lower lip.

He rolled over suddenly, on top of her, resting his elbows on either side of her shoulders, trapping her against the bed with a growl. “Say it.”

Folie parted her lips, gazing up into his gray eyes, feeling the heat of his skin on hers. “I will say my line if you will say yours.”

He buried his face in her throat and mumbled an unintelligible phrase.

“What
a coward!” she said, pressing her cheek to his hair. “I love you, sweet Robert.”

He mumbled the phrase again, impossible to decipher. Folie smoothed her hand down his bare shoulder and his back. He arched his body against her, groaning with pleasure. A tautness grew in his embrace, a purpose; he held her face between his palms and kissed her deeply. Folie kissed him back, more lightly. She did not move, she did not press up in answer, though her body was warm and urgent. She felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting.

“My Folly,” he whispered. “My Folly.”

“Robert,” she said helplessly. “Please.”

He closed his eyes with a low sound, a moan of surrender and desire. He pushed between her legs, spreading them apart. The hard shaft pressed and opened her; impatient thrusts, as if he could not wait to be gentle. Folie did not even move—every time he came to her, stretching her, invading deeper and deeper into her, it sent a wave of delight upward, closing her throat. She began to make small whimpers, the pleasure caught there, pulsing, spreading through her trembling limbs. The whimpers became sharp gasps, his hard breathing mingled with hers. He slid his arms under her waist, drawing her upward. Folie felt as if she could not command her own body; her head fell back and her breasts arched upward to him, a happy, shameless offering.

He sucked air between his teeth, gripping her against him. She felt his muscles contract, pumping into the depth of her, holding on a long, hard shudder. His eyes squeezed shut. Folie’s own ecstasy burst as she watched him. She lay back with his arms under her, his thick pressure inside her, the hot joyous waves coursing through and consuming her.

They lay panting and relaxed, soft against one another, afterward. After a few moments, Robert turned his face into her shoulder and chuckled. “Kiss your what?” he mumbled against her skin.

She scrambled away as he began to tickle her. “I’ll never say it again! Robert Cambourne!” She squealed as he tackled her and pressed her down into the pillows. “I won’t! See if you can make me!”

“All right.” He sat up suddenly, scowling, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Folie’s heart fell as he stood up and left her so abruptly.

But he only went as far as the desk, leaning over to scratch a short note with the pen and half-dried ink. He came back to the bed, collected the other sheets of paper, and stacked them together in a businesslike manner. Then he slid in beside her and laid the whole sheaf over her nose, the words becoming great black blurs so close to her eyes. He wrapped his arms about her, drew in a long breath, and sighed deeply, settling in.

“Made it, sweet Folly,” he murmured into her ear. “Made it home.”

EPILOGUE

Dear Folly,

Of course I could never fall in love by letter. I had to know you to even learn what love could be. It is hard for me to say these things aloud, Folly. I love you. I love you. I love you. Is that unequivocal enough? My foolish, smiling, cherished princess, don’t leave me, don’t ever let me go. You can even keep the ferret if you must.

Your Knight,
 

Robert

P.S. Lander is the youngest son of the Marquess of Hursley.

Dear Knight,

Well, all right. I suppose Melinda may marry him, then. Of course I will never leave you, sweet Robert. I am your homing princess. Who else will show you the way back when you’re lost?

Love,

Your Folly

P.S. Besides, who else would I ask to kiss my kitten?
 

Ah, my dear sweet Folly,

Who else could make me want so badly to kiss her? Next time. You won’t even have to beg.