His lover didn’t keep him waiting for long. Ten minutes later Oberon came in without knocking, fully dressed but barefoot. Even his feet were beautiful, slender and white. He stood beside the bed, leaning on one of the spiral wooden bedposts, graceful as a wisteria vine, eyes like sun-struck water. Ángel, sitting on the bed, stared back at him, half-erection shamelessly filling the front of his sweats. When Oberon didn’t move, he raised his eyebrows at him.

“I’m trying not to act like a pride of lions,” Oberon explained.

“So don’t kill and eat me,” suggested Ángel.

“Or stalk you, encircle you, or pounce on you.”

Ángel smiled involuntarily—being stalked, encircled, and pounced upon by him sounded pretty good—and rose up on his knees on the edge of the mattress, opening his arms. Oberon stepped into them.

He smelled like happiness and sex, combined with a sharper rainforest scent that might be nervousness. He pressed Ángel to his body, cheek to his hair, and purred. Ángel closed his eyes and forced himself to relax against Oberon’s chest, shuddering, inhaling his scent. Though his skin was protected from Oberon’s by a shirt, it was still like being embraced by something electric and strange—a rush of magic that shorted out his defenses, overpowered his senses.

Just what he wanted.

Ángel gave in to the temptation to bury his fingers in Oberon’s thick green-streaked wheaten hair. Oberon slowly ran his hands over Ángel’s bare back, a sure and confident exploration of the planes and angles, making Ángel writhe with discomfort and pleasure. Ángel breathed against his throat and hesitantly put his own hand under Oberon’s shirt collar, touching the warm, dense skin at the nape of Oberon’s neck with his fingertips. His nerves quivered.

One of Oberon’s hands was on his collarbone and throat, cupping his jaw. As natural as breathing, Ángel closed his eyes and lifted his mouth for Oberon’s kiss. Instead, Oberon nuzzled the crook of Ángel’s neck and shoulder. He brushed his cheek against Ángel’s, rubbed their faces and throats together like a big cat, vibrating softly. Disappointed, Ángel tugged his hair.

Oberon pulled back and, crossing his arms, pulled his black shirt off over his head. The distraction worked: Ángel caught his shoulders in his hands and held him at arm’s length so he could stare at him.

“God, you are pretty.” He tried to keep his tone light, but Oberon's beauty almost daunted him. He hesitantly ran his hands over Oberon's winglike collarbone down to his biceps, his palms tingling. His fingers were irresistibly drawn down to the strong cords of Oberon’s forearms, which were sheathed in buttery skin. The rosettes began to appear on Oberon’s chest and belly, flushing up pink from under his skin. Ángel traced one on Oberon’s pec with his fingertips, and his hand thrilled and burned.