Ángel’s nipples stood up against Oberon’s fingertips. His dick was valiantly trying to get hard again, which was ridiculous. It never knew when it was down for the count. “More,” he whispered, seeking Oberon’s mouth. Oberon pulled out and rolled on top of Ángel, drawing him into a voluptuous kiss that made Ángel’s senses swim. Ángel moaned softly in acquiescence. Without breaking the kiss, Oberon caught Ángel’s knees and pressed them up toward his chest, curling Ángel’s pelvis off the mattress, and pushed back inside him. Ángel gasped and cried out against his lips.

“Mnh,” said Oberon. “So good. So perfect. Ángel.”

Oberon settled into a lazy, comfortable fuck, his weight on his arms, Ángel's legs draped over his shoulders.

“I can feel you getting aroused again,” whispered Oberon, grinding into him, breath ghosting across Ángel’s neck. “I can feel it. It feels so good.”

Ángel moaned as Oberon changed the angle of his thrusts, making his dick stroke Ángel’s prostate. “I cannot believe,” panted Ángel, “what you are doing to me.”

Oberon possessed him. Held him tight and helpless, fucked him slick and steady. His relentless touch lit Ángel on fire. His bulging shaft dragged slowly in and out of Ángel’s tenderest flesh. Ángel stopped thinking and just drowned in sensation, in Oberon’s scent, in the pleasure that went on and on.

Gradually Oberon’s pace changed. He began giving it to Ángel in short, driving strokes that made him gasp and cry, and murmured, “Perfect,” as he drove Ángel to climax again. Then Oberon went rigid and came and came and came into Ángel’s ass, his seed overflowing and dripping onto the sheets.

After, Oberon slept as if stunned, his head heavy on Ángel’s chest, big body relaxed. Ángel rested his cheek on Oberon’s shoulder, his body warm and sore and stretched in all the best ways, satisfied in a way he hadn’t even known he needed to be satisfied. You are ruining me for humans. Ángel didn’t say it out loud, but was sure it was in his skin and sweat, in his mouth, everywhere that Oberon touched him.

He couldn’t sleep. Drowsily he stroked Oberon’s hair, wondering why he was so restless. Unable to just be still, like a hummingbird—the memory of Oberon calling him that made him smile.

Then he remembered Oberon calling him perfect, and sweet, and discomfort intruded upon his contentment.

“You are so very sweet.”

But Ángel was far from sweet, and he knew it. He was antsy and demanding. His moods could turn on a dime. “You fuck like an alley cat,” Con had said. “But you’re such a prick when you’re not playing or fucking.”