Oberon snagged his hands and pushed him backward onto the bed; Ángel, not quite ready for full-torso contact, twisted, pulling, flipping Oberon over so that he lay on his back, Ángel on top of him. Ángel straddled his hips and, a little hesitantly, put his hands on Oberon’s abs, exploring the flat white scar of his navel, the sweet groove beneath his obliques. He was shaking constantly now with a combination of excitement and alarm; Oberon’s hands on his back were whisper-gentle, ticklish.

He stretched out full-length on Oberon’s body, running his palms up Oberon’s chest to his shoulders, shuddering as he allowed his body to lie against Oberon’s. His cock, sandwiched between them, was protected from the electric touch of Oberon’s skin only by layers of stretchy cotton.

Oberon turned his face so that Ángel’s kiss landed on his cheekbone.

Ángel went still, on top of Oberon, feeling the heat of his body rise up through him. He was quaking like a leaf, aroused and scared both, his body’s reaction to Oberon as plain as day. Oberon was unmoving beneath his hands though.

Ángel felt no swelling in the fae groin beneath him.

Controlled? Not turned on? But what were those rosettes on his skin, if not arousal?

The touch of Oberon’s hands on his back suddenly felt uncomfortable. Ángel squirmed, grabbing Oberon’s wrists, pushing his hands down onto the bed beside his head. Oberon put up a token resistance—just enough to remind Ángel that he could easily break free—and then allowed himself to be pinned. They breathed each other’s air for a moment.

“Question,” Ángel said huskily. “And I don’t mind if the answer is no. Do you have a penis?”

One good thing about Oberon: whatever he might think, he never laughed. “Yes.”

Ángel slid his body against Oberon’s, belly to belly, groin and hips and thighs, his hands still trapping Oberon’s wrists. “Where?”

“Exactly where you think it is. I’m keeping it small for now.”

Ángel nuzzled Oberon’s chest, inhaling. He smelled like browned butter, brown sugar, cloves, and underneath that, a heady musky smell that could only be sex. Ángel reminded himself that Oberon was not a bullshitter. “You what?”

“I am controlling the size.”

“You can control the size?”

“To an extent. Can’t you?”

“Uh, no,” he said, with a suggestive roll of his hips. “What you see is what you get.” That was intended to be illustrative, but it felt so good that he did it again. “Oberon?”

“Yes, Ángel?” Oberon broke the wrist-hold and wrapped his arms around him, a hand cupping Ángel’s ass—not demanding, just feeling him.

“Why are you keeping it small for now?”

“I suppose I am being careful with you.” Oberon’s eyes were closed. His only signs of excitement were the flushed rosettes on his skin, the hot animal smell, his slightly unsteady breathing.