Edwin kissed him, once and hard, trying to think. He knew how to think. He did. There had to be some blood spare in his body to power the cells of his brain, even if most of it was thickening his own cock and dancing in his limbs.
“Here,” he said. “I’ve an idea. Come and sit on the edge of the bed.”
Walking with an unsteadiness that widened Edwin’s smile, Robin did so. He wriggled out of the drawers entirely and hesitated over the robe before keeping it on. There was an almost luxurious indecency to the sight of him as he sat down, the front of him bare and exposed but framed by the green fabric. His legs were strong, a shade paler than his arms. There was a raised scar on one knee.
Edwin climbed onto the bed and knelt behind Robin. A schoolboy memory took brief hold of him as he settled, his bent knees snug against Robin’s hips, his chin on Robin’s shoulder. The first time he’d ever taken someone else in hand had ended like this, and begun the way he supposed these things always began. You leaned over and replaced another boy’s hand with your own, and no words were uttered about any of it. Probably Robin—furtive and athletic—had never known anything except this sort of exchange.
That thought was enough for Edwin to let himself linger, to get comfortable. Enough for him to rest his hand on Robin’s bare knee, ignoring the breath of complaint as Robin let his thighs splay wider, and to brush his nose back and forth beneath Robin’s ear. He felt calmer now. More in control. He trailed his fingers up Robin’s thigh to where the skin was sensitive, close to the groin; a muscle jumped beneath his touch, and Robin’s next exhale was shaky.
“Please,” Robin said when Edwin paused again. He was staring down at Edwin’s hand.
Edwin hid a smile in the crook of Robin’s neck, and settled properly into the business of giving Robin pleasure.
It . . . didn’t look bad, Edwin had to admit. There was absolutely nothing special about his hands, but he could happily watch this—the slide of skin beneath his fingers as they moved on the flushed length, spreading the wetness that now leaked steadily from the tip—for hours. He tightened his grip, increased his pace. Robin rumbled encouragingly, his shoulders settling more heavily back against Edwin’s front. Robin’s own hands gripped his legs hard enough to dent the skin.
The sight of that, of Robin’s tense restraint because he wanted Edwin to do this, was letting Edwin do this, was somehow even more arousing. Edwin bit his lip. He felt hot all over, immersed in the tingling satisfaction of being the one to set the pace, allowing himself free rein to drink in the angles of Robin he could see. Edwin’s own cock was straining against his own drawers now, his hips trembling with the desire to push forward and rub against Robin’s arse.
He felt Robin’s body stiffen, and tightened his grip even more; he was rewarded with the soft choking sound that Robin made, and then the pulse of Robin’s cock, messy white fluid spilling between his fingers and onto the gown, the sheets, Robin’s body.
Robin turned his head; it took Edwin a moment to realise that he was being kissed, and to tilt his own head to allow it. Robin’s hand came up and buried in Edwin’s hair and the kiss was looser, deeper, than the previous one had been. Robin shrugged off his gown and let it fall to the floor, then turned bodily on the bed, a little awkward, never surrendering Edwin’s mouth for very long. He knelt up and pulled Edwin in against him and Edwin shuddered and bit down on Robin’s lip when his cock made contact with Robin’s flat stomach. He took handfuls of Robin’s shoulder blades. He wanted to burrow beneath Robin’s skin and never come out.
Edwin knew his weaknesses as old friends, and here was the bare bones of them: he’d never been any good at keeping himself contained, in bed. He’d years of practice holding himself back behind shields raised against insult or injury, but desire was another matter. His body betrayed him when it wanted something, and now it wanted everything. It wanted Robin Blyth’s hands—not to look at, no, but to respond to.
He leaned back, using his body weight to drag them both down until his head hit the lower edge of the pillow. It was just enough impact to remind him that someone had struck that head, earlier today, and the throb of renewed pain made him wince.
“Are you—”
“Yes, fine,” Edwin said, impatient, and wrapped himself around Robin like ropes.
Robin’s mouth descended to his again, one of Robin’s hands sliding beneath Edwin’s neck. Robin’s body was weighing him down, pressing him into the bed. The thick silk of the gown felt like water on Edwin’s skin. Something in the room was making a sound almost too high to hear, a singing vibration, and if it was Edwin himself then he was going to expire of embarrassment, but he had a terrible feeling it was—strings, silver, mirrors, something both tangible and external. Something in Edwin’s new house, baffled by the soar of Edwin’s blood and trying to find a way to match it.
“You’re far too dressed for this,” Robin said after a particularly savage stint of kissing.
“You cannot imagine how little I care.”
Laughter, and Robin rolled off him and leaned his head against Edwin’s shoulder. But he was also at work opening Edwin’s gown, clumsy in a way that had to be deliberate, so many sparks and shivers did it call up when Robin’s knuckles rubbed against his hardening length. Edwin sat up enough to wriggle free of the gown and kick it to the floor, then lay back again.
“How—how do you like it?” Robin asked. It was nearly a rasp. He was intent and shadowed with a smile still tugging at his mouth, almost unbearably handsome. He shoved the last fold of Edwin’s drawers out of the way, skin met skin, and they both inhaled as though in a race for the oxygen between them.
Edwin froze, his instinctual wariness momentarily winning the struggle it had been waging against the tidal force of his need. He could feel it, that dangerous temptation to open himself fully to sensation. He could barely think. He forced himself to think.
He’d let Robin come waltzing effortlessly across his boundaries, just as Sutton had. And like Sutton, Edwin could muster secondary wardings. He could fall back to other defences. If they both wanted this then surely, surely Edwin could have it without giving away too much of himself—but only if he was careful. If he kept himself in control, he could still scrape together a few ways to keep himself safe.
“Edwin?” Robin said, faltering.
“Fast,” Edwin said, breathless. He pushed up into Robin’s hand, making it a demand. “Fast and hard.”
“Oh, hell,” Robin whispered.
Robin took direction like the athlete that he was. Fast and hard was how he gave it, the small calluses of his fingers almost unbearably good against Edwin’s cock, his thumb circling the head and his pace ruthless. Edwin could do nothing but clutch at him, his nails dragging up Robin’s spine, and let the sensation thicken and simmer up through his body in waves until he was panting, gasping, frantic for it to be over and wanting it to stretch out forever.
Edwin opened his mouth against Robin’s bare shoulder as he came, turning a cry into a bite. He squeezed his eyes shut and even then felt something like the flash of a camera, white light painting itself onto the inner surface of his eyelids, before everything went dark.
When he surfaced from the trembling decrescendo of his pleasure, the room seemed smaller. Cosier. The flicker of the guidelight created shadows in every corner and, incidentally, allowed Edwin to see the red, saliva-wet mark left by his teeth on Robin’s shoulder. As though what Robin was in desperate need of was more wounds.
Edwin realised he was touching the mark, and snatched his finger back. “I’m—so sorry. Ah. Heat of the moment.”
Robin tried to curl his own shoulder forward to look at it. “That’s a first,” he said, buoyantly cheerful. “I’ve not had anyone do that to me since Maud was going through her savage phase, age approximately five.”