“Am I going to run away screaming?” asked Ángel. “Or, wait, does it have prongs? I read that cat penises have prongs.” He ducked his head and touched the tip of his tongue to one of the purplish mottles that marked Oberon’s shoulder, tasting him for the first time. They both shivered. “You like that?”

“No.”

Ángel hesitated.

Oberon’s hand tightened on Ángel’s butt. “Yes, I like that. No, no prongs.”

Ángel laughed. “Oh. Good.”

He kissed the center of Oberon’s chest, rubbing his tingling lips against the suede-like skin, letting the taste fill his mouth. Oberon’s heart was throbbing steadily beneath his lips. Oberon’s hand was still on his ass, warm and possessive, holding Ángel snugly against him. Apparently Oberon had eased up on whatever he was doing to control the size of his cock, because Ángel felt it now, hard and slender, a warm inflexible stalk against his thigh. Not very big, but that was okay. Ángel wasn’t judgy.

He could kiss down or up.

He went up, kissing Oberon’s collarbones, sucking on his throat, and Oberon arched his neck, purring. So beautiful, the way he moved, powerful and liquid. Ángel’s lips followed the strong tendons of his throat up to his jaw. He shifted his hips and their cocks aligned, bumped. Ángel, on top, ground against Oberon through their clothes, squeezing Oberon’s hips with his thighs. He caught Oberon’s jaw in one hand, tilted his face for a kiss. Oberon turned his head.

Ángel breathed unsteadily for a moment into Oberon’s spearmint hair.

“You’re definitely avoiding kissing me, right?” he whispered. “It’s not just my imagination?”

Big hands clasped his head. Oberon turned to look straight up into Ángel’s eyes, his nose brushing Ángel’s, lips an inch away. Ángel stared down at him.

Oberon gently massaged the back of Ángel’s head with his fingers. “My people don’t kiss.”

“You kissed my neck before,” he objected.

“Yes. I did.” Oberon’s thumb traced over the freshly shaven, slightly raw skin under Ángel’s throat. “I mean, we don’t kiss mouth to mouth, the way you do.”

“No?”

Ángel’s imagination went, grimly, to his dentist. Bacterial growth, plaque. Gingivitis. Oberon was more sensitive than a man. Could he taste . . . that? “Is it, um, is it gross? My mouth?”

“No,” said Oberon immediately. His gaze dropped from Ángel’s eyes to his lips, a gesture that looked so much like a prelude to a kiss that Ángel’s heart kicked. But Oberon held him still, just examining him, still stroking his jaw.