Currently Ángel was, more or less, willing. Though Oberon’s powerful body pinned him fast to the couch, it was an embrace, not a wrestling hold. He could get free, if he truly wanted to. But the horrible truth was that he had never been so turned on in his life, so he continued to lie still, feeling Oberon purring against his back.

Oberon’s hand caressed his chest and throat, making Ángel shiver. “You called me baby,” he said, his voice a velvety whisper. “Like a lover.”

Ángel drew a breath to deny it but Oberon said, “Don’t lie. Ángel. I’ve learned so much about you this night.” His hand stroked Ángel, throat down to navel and then back up, sending jolts of terrified desire through Ángel’s body. Ángel shifted anxiously, fingers seeking purchase on the shiny leather of the couch. His butt was pressed tight into Oberon’s groin, but he felt no hard bulge there. Once again, he wondered if Oberon was actually not male, or if male fae were different from male humans.

But then Oberon blew all rational thought out of Ángel’s mind.

“You’re very sensual,” said Oberon. “Very sensitive. I think you are easily aroused. Quick to climax and quick to revive for more. You are made for pleasure.” His purring voice and stroking hands were creating electric shocks in Ángel’s skin. Ángel was breathing hard; he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his body approach the verge of orgasm just from Oberon’s words, his voice.

“How you fight it, though, beloved. How you’ve transformed delight into shame. Your love of sex makes you feel out of control and demeaned, but it’s a joyous thing.” His lips against Ángel’s ear, his fingers playing with Ángel’s nipples, Oberon breathed, “I can feel it in your skin.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” protested Ángel, shuddering.

“Ángel.” Oberon’s hand slid straight down into the front of Ángel’s jeans and firmly grasped Ángel’s cock through the cotton of his underwear.

“Oh God,” gasped Ángel.

He knew he should say Don’t, but couldn’t. He should stop this, but he didn’t want it to stop. The cotton protected his most sensitive skin from the shock of direct contact, but not from the controlled and commanding friction of Oberon’s palm as it stroked up and down in the tightly confined space of Ángel’s jeans. So hot, and so slow, giving intense pleasure while denying him the rhythm he needed to get off. Ángel whimpered, writhed, wanting both to escape and to thrust wildly into that burning hand, able somehow to do neither.

“It’s all right to love it,” whispered Oberon.

“I—”

“I am only a man.”

“You aren’t!”