Oberon began to pull his hand out of Ángel’s pants, but Ángel grabbed his wrist. He pressed Oberon’s palm hard against his erection. Oberon wrapped his fingers around him tightly again, stroking. Need overwhelmed fear, and Ángel avidly fucked his hand, unable to help himself. The motion dragged his underwear down. Oberon’s bare palm found the corona of his cock, and that was all it took: Ángel’s body arched like a bow, taut with ecstasy, his head back on Oberon’s shoulder. He made no sound as delight smashed through him, but Oberon grunted, hand continuing to work the head of Ángel’s cock as come shot from it in thick spurts. Then Oberon’s mouth and tongue were on his neck, as if he were tasting Ángel’s orgasm on his skin, and Ángel shuddered, bringing his hands to his face.

A few minutes passed. Oberon held him while his breathing and heartbeat gradually returned to something resembling normal.

As the white-hot haze of sex slowly cleared from Ángel’s mind, the intimacy of what had just happened hit him. Oh shit.

“That was so beautiful,” murmured Oberon. “Oh, I definitely did not expect this, beloved.”

Aaand, that meant it was Oberon’s turn now, right? The thought was unbearable. Suddenly Ángel needed to get away. Leaving a man unsatisfied was pure selfishness. He was inconsiderate, terrible in bed—it didn’t matter. Gotta go. He tried to sit, and when Oberon’s arms tightened on him he said, a little sharply, “Let me up.”

Oberon’s embrace fell away, and Ángel scrambled over him off the couch and staggered. Weak-legged with shock, he found his shirt on the floor and pulled it on, mopping the spunk off his abdomen as he did so. Most of it had gone onto the couch and Oberon’s hand.

“You require privacy now?” asked Oberon politely.

He was reclining on the couch, propped up on his elbows. His face was as remote as ever, like the surface of the moon, but his skin was practically glowing. His shirt was open to expose his lovely white chest, now strongly marked with rosettes the deep red-brown of balsamic vinegar. Ángel expected to see an erection tenting the front of his black pants, but there was none.

Was Oberon not excited? Had what happened been totally one-sided? Or maybe he didn’t have a penis at all?

And what could Ángel say now? Thanks? Thanks for the really effective handjob—thanks for calling me beautiful? Thanks, sorry, but please don’t ever touch me again?

They were all the wrong thing to say, flippant or hurtful or true. “Yes,” he managed. “Privacy.”

Oberon gazed at him silently for a moment. “Then I will see you later.”

Chapter 15