Robin has never felt like this before. Never.
Well, all right, certainly he's felt like this before, his body thrumming with excitement and a low, steady undercurrent of just-barely-fettered pleasure, Owain's toned frame held tight in his arms, his lips warm and soft against his…
…but he's never felt quite so… this. So urgent, open, raw.
He hadn't seen Owain in a week's time, even though he'd thought of him as he climbed above the tree line, as he crossed into the mountains, as he split and hauled and moved about the army's inventory and his life's work suddenly seemed somehow less desirable than Owain's gentle smile, his bright laughter, his funny lighthearted embrace. Even as his heart warmed at the sight of him as he bounded through the castle gates to greet him, his body grew hot, needy, desperate to touch him.
Here, now, isolated in his room, unchaperoned and scandalous but oh so beautiful, Owain moans lightly beneath him as he presses her back into the chaise. Owain's hands are tangled in his hair, Robin's fisted in the fabric at the back of Owain's clothes as he slants his lips heatedly over Owain's, catching his bottom lip in his teeth and biting down, hard enough to feel, to register and shoot through Owain with a sharp spike of desire, before sliding his tongue gently over the hurt.
Owain tilts his head, leans into Robin, deepens and presses and slips his tongue against his, languid and lingering, and Robin moves his hands to Owain's lower back and pulls him more tightly against him. His legs are wrapped around Robin's hips, flush, and Robin knows it's surely indecent, the way they must look all tangled together like this, but he doesn't much care, and he's fairly certain Owain doesn't, either.
Robin pulls away from the kiss, slow and moist as their lips part, and slides one hand up between Owain's shoulderblades, dips Owain's back and dips his own head and takes Owain's pulse point between his teeth.
Owain gasps, and Robin stops, desire momentarily dampened by the fear that he's hurt him, but Owain shakes his head and tugs at Robin's hair, pleading, and Robin smiles at him, slow and easy, eyes dark as he lowers his head again, sucking hard against the soft skin of Owain's neck as he mewls and writhes against him, his length pressed tight to the space between Owain's thighs, Owain's skin against Robin's lips and everything is Owain, Owain's soft, warm skin and Owain's beautiful face and body and Owain's beautiful, keening voice, and there is nothing, nothing else in his world that matters to Robin but Owain.
No, he has never felt this way before.
But Robin is unspeakably, endlessly grateful that he does now, and only, always with him.