Meilyr wanted so much to taste more of him, to feel his breath falter again under his teeth, that he pulled back in shock and pressed his fingers over his own mouth as though that alone could dispel the hunger.
He did not meet the prince’s gaze, focused only on the mark that was appearing, small but defined. That should count for something. He wanted to touch it but did not dare.
Shame reared. He should have asked properly, probably should never have done it in the first place. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, accidentally catching the prince’s eye.
Osian swallowed, and Meilyr watched that too. He was still pressed against him, and as though the contact had heightened the bond – damn, perhaps it had – he could not miss the way the prince’s attention dropped back to his collar.
That would help the guilt. Meilyr leaned back enough to undo another button and spread his own tunics further, leaning up for the prince.
‘I cannot…’ Osian’s refusal was quiet, ground free from somewhere deep in his throat. But he leaned down as though he too was drunk, trailing Meilyr’s hair away behind his shoulder, steadying him, as his mouth hovered just above his collarbone.
Tap, tap.
Meilyr slid his hand around the prince’s shoulders and responded:tap, tap, tap.
Slowly, Osian brought his lips to Meilyr’s skin, the soft brush of his tongue leaving Meilyr no choice but to dig his fingers into him, trying to focus on somewhere very far away. On anything that was not howgoodthat felt. He had to bite down on his own lip, the hot tracing of the prince’s mouth making his body respond in ways it absolutely should not. ‘A little harder,’ he managed. ‘To leave a mark—’
He gasped as Osian’s teeth found proper purchase, digging in with a sharp suck and pull of his tongue. Meilyr’s knees almost went out from under him, the prince’s hands like vices around his back and bracing his head.
It was a blistering burst of absolute pleasure, ricocheting.
Then Osian withdrew with a hissed intake of air. He steadied Meilyr on his feet and let him go, gaze hooded and fixed on his throat.
Meilyr touched the soreness, furiously dampening desire.
‘I am sorry,’ the prince began.
‘No,’ Meilyr said at once. ‘That will help.’ He turned away to fasten just one of the buttons of his collar, damning the still-pulsing physical reaction that had not wanted that to end.
They had to convince an Ectheid, the court, everyone. That was all this was.
When he turned back, the prince had compounded himself into a mirrored sort of detached practicality, and reservedly held out his arm. Meilyr took it and let him set a leisurely pace from the folly and across the lawns to the balconies, as though it were merely a stroll in the moonlight. Those they passed nodded and bowed, showing no sign they had witnessed the prince and his consort stumble from the festivities into the dark. No doubt they would gossip about the evident fumble in the gardens, Meilyr so drunk as to have needed escorting.
Good. Let them talk.
There was no immediate sight of Lord Gelens, but they made it inside all of three paces before Aldreda descended upon them, flanked by Demelza and Faina. ‘Osian!’ She clapped him across the shoulder. ‘Could you not have waited another bell? I demand a dance with my brother-in-law.’
‘Highness Cadogan,’ Demelza said, more softly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Highness.’ He swallowed to remind his mouth how to work and laid his hand on Osian’s chest, tilting into him. ‘I fear I had a little too much wine, needed to step outside for a moment.’
He caught Faina’s eye, where she was flushed and glowing, heavily propped up by Aldreda. She smiled nervously and went to speak.
‘If you will excuse us,’ Osian said, ‘we will be retiring for the night.’
‘After one dance?’ Aldreda prodded his arm. ‘I won’t consider your union consummated if that’s it, regardless of evidence to the contrary.’
Meilyr’s throat burned.
‘Another night, Aldreda.’
‘Osian,’ she began.
Across the hall, Lord Gelens watched, in an aside with Prince Wystan. With Kenelm Radnor.
‘It is my fault, Your Majesty.’ Meilyr turned in the circle of the prince’s arms and rested his head against his shoulder. It was effortless to lean into his own weariness, into the wine and the steadiness of Osian’s body. ‘And it was my request to retire to bed.’
The hand at his waist tensed.