“Is that because we can’t hear as much as you hear?”

“Only partly.”

Oberon switched the music to something atonal and chilly. They fell into companionable silence.

Ángel was unable to focus on podcasting best practices, but it wasn’t because of the Schoenberg. It was because of Oberon, of course, sitting there all scholarly at his desk, black shirt sleeves rolled up to expose pale sinewy forearms, typing on his weird keyboard and smelling, faintly, of toast and black pepper and butterscotch.

Ángel shouldn’t have told Oberon about Conner Marr. Too many memories, memories he didn’t want to associate with Oberon. The relationship had ended in a confusing series of arguments and accusations and hurt, neither of them seeming to understand each other. But Con was great in bed. So good that Ángel had kept going back for more sex even after they broke up. Even after Con hadn’t liked him anymore. He was sort of ashamed of that, but also aware that if Con were here he’d totally have sex with him.

If Con were here, he’d pin Ángel down on this couch. Tickle him, pinch his nipples, grab his ass. Con knew Ángel liked it just a little rough, knew to pull Ángel’s hair, to use his teeth, to dig his fingers into Ángel’s flesh a little too hard. Con would perspire when he was excited, which was hot. He would talk dirty and laugh at himself doing it, would kiss him like he wanted to eat him, until Ángel was moaning and desperate to come.

Ángel wasn’t really thinking about Con.

He shifted the tablet in his lap, glad that the long tail of his shirt concealed the ridge of his cock, solid against the placket of his jeans.

What would sex with Oberon be like? How did he do it? His species reproduced itself somehow. Exchanged genetic material. But. Maybe . . . Surely they wouldn’t laugh or tease or savor. Oberon didn’t play, and his sweat was—his skin was—

Ángel shivered. He didn’t think he’d made a sound, but Oberon immediately glanced at him.

Was Oberon feeling him? Feeling what he was feeling? Did he understand?

The idea of Oberon sensing Ángel’s arousal sent a zing down his spine—not fear, but excitement. Horrified, Ángel blurted, “Sorry. I think I need to go for a walk. I’ll see you at dinner,” and escaped.

Chapter 13

“Welcome to the first episode of The Oberon Podcast,” said Ángel. “I’m Ángel, and I’m joined by the cultural envoy from the Otherworld, Oberon.”

“Hello,” said Oberon.

The okay from the DOR had come in so quickly, Ángel suspected that someone there was a podcast fan. They’d sent the equipment right away, and now, only a few days after having had the original idea, Ángel and Oberon were speaking into brand-new microphones on Oberon’s desk.