Edwin knelt between Robin’s legs, coated his hands with the oil, and began, with care, to build the spell without string. It took him a few tries, and when he succeeded the blue light was fainter than it had been before. It looked on the verge of blowing itself out.
In the moment before it did, Edwin pressed his middle finger deep into Robin in one quick slide.
Robin actually shouted, hands slamming down against the bed. His hips bucked up as he came in hot spurts all over himself.
Edwin held him through it with his other hand on Robin’s mess of a stomach. His finger was still spreading oil, gently stretching Robin open, as he pulled it out. He looked somewhere between startled and gratified.
“You have—the best ideas,” said Robin.
“Well, that’s it,” Edwin said, and sounded rueful about it. He was wiping both hands on another fold of sheet. “That’s my magic done. I won’t be able to manage any more tonight.”
Robin flapped a forgiving hand and lay there, trembling. His nerves had caught the trick of it and kept sending faint echoes of the sensation through him, chasing from skin to spine and sometimes back again. His cock didn’t seem to have realised that the show was over; it was at half-mast and throbbing needily.
“Robin. If you had any idea how you look,” Edwin said, low.
“Like a railway accident?” Robin said. “That’s how I feel. But good. A good railway accident.”
Edwin laughed. He was lying on his side next to Robin; his own cock was hard between his legs, but he seemed content to ignore it. Robin felt gloriously selfish, impossibly lazy. It was long past Edwin’s turn. That was only fair.
“Give me half a minute,” Robin said. “I could—or,” struck by inspiration, “you could.” He rolled onto his stomach to make his meaning clear.
Edwin looked surprised. Robin remembered Edwin declining to be sucked, but no refusal was forthcoming here; Edwin’s lips parted and his cock jerked. Robin eyed the length of it in new assessment. Yes. Yes, Edwin could.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve done it before,” Robin assured him. “I enjoy it.” Not every man did, Robin knew. But Robin hadn’t encountered many things he didn’t like. He gathered enough strength to push himself into a better position, elbows and knees, in invitation. His cock was definitely stiffening again, heavy between his legs. If this was an aftereffect of the spell, Edwin didn’t need to invent library catalogues or discover how to make snowflakes, or inherit a grand estate. He could make a fortune off this alone.
Robin tried to arrange all of that into helpful words, but it came out as a caught-back whimper when Edwin moved to kneel behind him, Edwin’s hands clutching at his hips.
Edwin paused. And kept on pausing.
“What are you waiting for?”
When it came, Edwin’s voice was a rasping whisper, prompting. “I, Robert Harold Blyth . . .”
“Oh, you utter bastard. Yes. I, Robert Harold Blyth, fourth baronet of Thornley Hill, if that helps, consent to . . . ah.” Another small jolt of leftover pleasure shook him. Edwin’s fingers were digging in hard.
“Yes?”
“Anything,” Robin gasped, “fuck, anything, Edwin, please.”
“You shouldn’t.” Edwin sounded wrecked. “I could take so many things from you, with a contract like that.”
“I really fucking wish you would,” said Robin. He could feel the prickle of sweat at the back of his neck, and Edwin’s cock nudging up against him. He was going to go mad with wanting.
His breath left him in a groan as Edwin pushed into him, the stretch barely painful at all. The long rub of Edwin’s cock was like the satisfaction of scratching an itch that had been plaguing one for hours. The heels of Edwin’s hands felt nearly as good, in their firm, clumsy slide up either side of Robin’s spine so that he could clutch at the muscles of Robin’s shoulders.
“Oh,” Edwin breathed, a broken sound. His breath was hot at the side of Robin’s neck, the weight of his body resting on Robin’s. He straightened, but the grip of his hands tightened. The change of angle made Robin’s elbows shake as Edwin’s cock pressed against something inside him. Edwin made another noise; Robin stared blankly at his own splayed hands and tried not to die.
Edwin went on, “You feel—I have to—” And then he did, fucking into Robin in long erratic strokes, pulling Robin back to meet him, burying himself fully each time. It was less than half a minute before he froze, gave one more urgent shove, then held himself still as he gasped out his release. The sounds were almost as good as the spell, burrowing straight to Robin’s blood from his ears, until Robin felt he would explode.