Whatever response Ángel might have made to this dried up in his throat when Oberon stepped up to him and lowered his face, as if to kiss him. “I wish you were not so sad, Ángel,” he said gently, his lips a breath away from Ángel’s.

Ángel’s entire body went rigid.

Oberon did not move, just stood close to Ángel. His breath was cool on Ángel’s hot face. It might have been nonsexual and unthreatening from anyone else, but from Oberon it was awfully, shockingly erotic. Ángel was hard, motionless, paralyzed on the knife-edge between Please touch me and Please don’t.

“I’m not helping, am I?” Oberon backed away.

“’S’okay,” Ángel said, his voice a little rough. Heart hammering, he walked around him, out of the gym, toward the stairs. “Night.”

Not running away, not fleeing, he climbed the stairs and went to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, but didn’t turn on the light. In the darkness his shaking hands pulled down his pants.

Couldn’t even wait to get to the bed.

He hissed with relief as his palm found his rigid cock, let his head fall back against the door. He pumped himself hard. Harder. He needed to come so desperately. His mind was full of the memory of Oberon’s scent, his body, his skin, his hands.

There was no sound in the room except Ángel’s breathing and the slap of his hand, fast and urgent. He was deliberately ungentle, his left hand chafing the weeping slit in the end of his cock as his right hand yanked. Almost painfully. If these were Oberon’s hands on him—if Oberon were here—

He came so hard he stopped breathing, saw sparks of light behind his closed eyelids.

Cupping himself now protectively, Ángel slid down the door and sat on the floor. He rested his forehead against his knees, his body quivering with ecstasy and satisfaction and shame.

I’m okay. He talked himself through his tangled emotions. His life was fine. It was not so bad. He was safe, he had enough to eat, he had music to listen to, music to play. A friend in Lily. Oberon, who would not touch him unless he requested it.

But he had to stop wanting Oberon. He had to find a way to stop.

Chapter 17

He got up late, and when he went down close to lunchtime Chandler was there. She and Oberon were in the dining room under the gigantic chandelier, discussing some matter of security. Ángel quietly prepared a pot of coffee in the kitchen.

His mind was a little clearer this morning, and he was trying to think rationally about last night. He obviously could not go on like this for four years—wanting Oberon and hating himself for wanting him. It was cruelly unfair to Oberon, for one thing.