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.