Osian wrapped his arms around him, the tempest gathering in his eyes.
Less than an inch from his lips, Meilyr answered, ‘I want you to kiss me.’
The seawall cracked.
Osian surged up and kissed him. It was deep and needing and urgent – stole Meilyr’s breath and filled his mouth with iron. Their hands grasped, desperate.
It was so unlike anything before. Anyone before.
Osian lifted him in his lap and turned, tossing him onto the bed. Came with him, never letting go, returning at once to the ache of the kiss.
Meilyr’s heart spluttered. That wonderful, devastating pressure of Osian’s body above him – against him – meeting him in all the right places. Even more fierce as Osian ran his hand down him and gripped his thigh, coaxing it around him, so he could settle between Meilyr’s legs.
The feeling as they both began to move tore another sound free. Osian chased it with a hungry one of his own, his grip on Meilyr’s thigh jolting, deliciously sharp.
‘I want you,’ Meilyr gasped as Osian moved his mouth to his throat. ‘I want you—’
Teeth grazed his skin, dissolving every other thought in his head.
‘Do not say that,’ the prince all but growled, so close to feral it pulsed want through Meilyr’s entire body. There was something dangerous in that voice – the flash of a wolf’s fangs beyond the ring of firelight. The edge of the cliff into the dark sea. ‘Do not say that…’
Meilyr gripped Osian’s hair and arced his body more firmly against him, hips setting a rhythm. ‘I want you,’ he told him, close to his ear. ‘I want you.’
Osian let slip another noise of torn frustration and lunged into the kiss, grinding against Meilyr so firmly there was no denying how much he wanted him as well. ‘Meilyr.’
Meilyr reached for his chest as the prince pulled back, enough to reach for his. Together they made a fumbling, impatient mess of tugging open buttons – kissing – damn, why were there so many buttons—
Meilyr was tugging free Osian’s belt when the prince stopped.
The symbol of Y Ddraig Goch lay on Meilyr’s bared chest, over his heart.
Tentatively, Osian traced it with his fingers. There was a surprising lack of panic in Meilyr’s mind as Osian trailed the pendant aside to kiss it, then his chest, brushing his lips down until the tip of his tongue caught the edge of Meilyr’s nipple, exposed by the hem of his robes.
Meilyr jolted, grasping Osian’s hair.
Osian withdrew at once. ‘Are you all right? I am sorry if—’
‘No,’ Meilyr managed. ‘It was… good. Surprisingly good.’ He laughed, breathless. The symbol of Y Ddraig Goch was still pressed between Osian’s palm and the bare skin beneath Meilyr’s collarbone. He touched the prince’s cheek. ‘I do not want you to stop. I will tell you if I do, but I do not want to, unless you do.’
Osian settled and kissed his chest again. ‘I… do not want to, either.’
Meilyr touched his braid and gently began to move. ‘Then do not stop. Please.’
Osian shook his head slightly, sounding hungry. Drunk. ‘Gods, Meilyr…’ He shifted up to kiss his mouth, and the waves of longing took them back to their buttons, to their belts. It washed them to the fever pitch of it, until Meilyr shoved the clothes from Osian’s shoulders and helped tug them free and away.
The prince spread Meilyr’s tunics open two buttons later, gripping his waist, mouth carving down his torso. Not stopping when they next met cloth.
‘Osian…’ Meilyr’s hands were in his hair, body angled towards his mouth on something more delicious than instinct.
Osian gripped the small of his back, pulling him towards him. He pressed a firm, pointed kiss to the hollow of his exposed hipbone, fluttering almost-ticklish desire everywhere. ‘I need you to tell me if you want me to stop. When you want me to stop. Whenever it is, please—’
‘Gods, Osian,’ Meilyr panted. ‘I want you – I’ve wanted you for so long. If you want me as well, do something about it. Please.’
Osian hesitated. Then he flicked his gaze to Meilyr –gods, thatlook– and tugged off his breeches.
Time dissolved into the headiness and heat of Osian’s tongue. His mouth. Into the twining of their fingers, and Meilyr’s steady guiding for Osian to use them. To use more of them. The prince did not need coaxing, only assurance that it would not hurt too much if they did it right. That Meilyr wanted it. That he wanted Osian.
Damn him, he did. He succumbed to it the first time in the feeling of Osian’s slicked fingers and his mouth, biting his own hand to cover the sound he made as Osian swallowed him hungrily.