There was no way the prince could miss it. Meilyr watched recognition light in the depths of his eyes as he saw just how much – disarmed and raw – Meilyr wanted him.
Gods damn him, he did. He wanted him so much he forgot how to breathe.
Osian stared, breath and muscles stalled. Seeing it, knowing it.
Heart hammering, Meilyr pressed three times with his finger, near the prince’s shoulder blade.
Slowly, slow enough Meilyr could still have stopped him, Osian leaned in and kissed his throat where his heart-blood flowed strongest. The barest, utterly maddening press of his mouth. ‘This is enough,’ Osian said against his pulse, chasing want through every part of him. ‘This is enough.’
It did not feel enough. Not at all.
Meilyr’s hands were vices at Osian’s shoulders, his entire body tethered at the precipice.
And he wanted to fall. He really, truly did.
Osian rolled onto his side, pulling Meilyr with him, not quite entangled but facing each other. His hands were in Meilyr’s hair as he breathed him in before placing his lips to his forehead. ‘Forgive me, this is more than enough.’
Meilyr clung to him. This had to be enough – beyond it, there was only… He had to steady his breathing. His needing flesh already tried to betray him, Osian’s scent a profusion, his heat thawing the frost Meilyr had been made of.
Enough.This had to be enough.
He forced his eyes closed and bit his damaged lip. He had to talk to Osian. He wanted to talk to him.
‘Are you all right?’ The close, quiet depth of Osian’s voice. ‘Do you need me to stop?’
Meilyr opened his eyes.
Osian meant it. He would have withdrawn and given Meilyr the bed, the room, any space he needed, even as desire broke him apart from the inside.
But Meilyr did not want space. He brushed his fingers close to Osian’s lips, devouring the way desire limned the prince’s eyes, his breath tingling already-healing skin.
It was seamless to shift his knee, to slide and hook his leg around Osian’s and draw him closer, shift their bodies so they fitted together. Osian’s thigh settled between his own, and his lungs hitched.
Tentatively, Osian traced his shoulders, the curve of his spine. Their breathing was shallow, hot against Meilyr’s fingers.
Everything in him wanted to move his hand and kiss Osian, move his knee higher around his hip and tip him on top of him. It was hardernotto, the feeble, final barrier of his fingertips beginning to shake.
Osian trailed his hand around Meilyr’s waist, down his arm, and lightly touched the back of his hand, just enough to kiss each finger under the cuts, with care and intimate devotion.
Gods, damn it.
Meilyr took hold of his wrist and pulled – rolled, so Osian came with him, having nowhere to go but on top of him.
Their fingers laced, foreheads touching as they settled into the weight. The gravity. Meilyr’s hips moved, chasing it, craving the pressure of Osian’s thigh – the feel of his want. Osian met the rhythm, and a sound of need built in Meilyr’s mouth.
It slipped into the fraction of air between them as Osian’s free hand cupped his face.
It was only the final, desperate shred of restraint that kept him from Osian’s lips. Even as their bodies moved, they both knew; if they kissed, that would be it.
Osian pressed their temples together, knuckles white. ‘Meilyr, I thought…’
‘I know,’ Meilyr murmured into his jaw, close to his ear. ‘I know…’
A pained catch in Osian’s lungs. He kissed Meilyr’s forehead, his cheekbone, his jaw. Hovered above the sensitive skin of his neck, where his fingers had trailed. Again, he must have been able to feel Meilyr’s pulse, fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
‘Osian…’
The prince tensed. Like by the lake, something in him staggered.