BROCK DANIELS grinned at his driver, who had pulled up in front of the high-rise building with all its glass windows and snorted. “I know, right? Not my usual place.”

Hell, normally he just drove himself, but he had ten thousand things to deal with today, and this way he could at least multitask. Besides that, he hated downtown Dallas. It was so cold and clinical.

Lord knew Brock was way more… rustic. He’d made his name opening restaurants that did giant cuts of meat and side dishes swimming in bacon fat and butter. His cookbooks all had log cabin covers. This was a real aberration for him, but it was also important.

“It will cost less to run off gas than it will to park in this part of town, boss. Call me when you need me. I’ll run out and get the car washed.”

“Got it.” Brock hopped out of the car, headed into the building, and stopped at the enormous directory to look for Eggshell Studios. By all accounts, this designer could recreate the china pattern Brock needed, which had gone out of print sometime in the 1800s. He needed it for his mom and dad’s fiftieth anniversary.

He always reminded people he was the youngest kid by twenty years when they asked about his folks.

Eighteenth floor. La-di-da. Still, this dude was the best. Jean-Claude. Did people really just go by first names? Not that he had any room to talk. Texas knew him as B. Daniels, so who was he to judge, right?

Right.

Dishes. He had a picture, a drawing, and a vague memory. It would have to be enough. His mom had lost the set in a tornado, and damn it, he wanted her to have it. He was cooking her and Dad the same meal they’d had on their first anniversary, just on a much grander scale.

Brock hardly ever went home, so when he did, he made it count.

The elevator took him up so fast it was a tiny bit disconcerting, his belly dropping to the cradle of his hips. Brock swallowed hard, and his ears popped. Gracious.

The office he stepped into was all white and chrome, which perfectly framed the wildly colored samples of porcelain and the patterns on the walls. Something deep in his chest responded to the controlled chaos, and he breathed easier.

A lovely little blonde stepped up with a toothy smile and jacked-to-Jesus hair. “Good morning, sir. My name is Jackie. How may I assist you?”

“Hey. I’m B. Daniels. I have an appointment with Jean-Claude at eleven.” No piranha assistant was gonna intimidate him. His PA, Gene, could eat this girl for lunch.

“Oh, excellent. Please, have a seat. Would you like a latte?”

He was motioned to a white damask sofa that had obviously been tortured to make it curve that way. He perched on the cushion, which was hard as a rock. “Uh. Yeah, I would love one.”

“Yes, sir. One moment.”

There was doodley-doo music playing, and it set his teeth on edge. Seriously? The wandering notes of the flute made him flinch every time the trill got shrill. Hey, that rhymed.

A perfectly made latte was placed on the table, along with a tiny spoon. “Jean-Claude will be with you in moments.”

God save him from froofery.

He tasted the latte and grimaced. Soy milk. Blegh. God save him from… shit, he didn’t even know who would serve someone soy milk. Hippies? Not someone in a glass tower. They could afford real milk, right? He shifted, his left asscheek going numb.

“Sorry for the delay, sir.” The soft voice was cultured, smooth as silk. “How can I help you?”

He stood, trying not to knock the latte over. When Brock looked up, though, he dropped the stupid little cup right on the white sofa. Holy shit.

“Clay?”

It was Clay. His Clay, even if every single fucking thing was wrong, from the color of his eyes to the color of his hair, to the fact that he had to have lost forty pounds in the last fifteen years when every other male on earth had grown into their bodies. It was Clay.

“Jackie? Club soda, please. Mr. Daniels has had an accident.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Clay, what happened to you?”

“Come back to my consultation area, please. Jackie will deal with the stain.”

He followed Clay-who-was-not-Jean-Claude back to the room with a conference table, another couch, and a bunch of sample books.

“Have a seat.” Clay moved to the far side of the room.

Brock watched him, the movement of the too-skinny body unmistakable, the scent of Clay familiar, if masked with cologne. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know me?”

They’d known each other really well. Biblically.

“I was going to try.”

“Well, that’s bullshit.” He pulled a chair around and sat backward on it.

“Why are you here, Brock? You wanted a china pattern?” Clay’s heavy mane of hair was gone, except for the bleached white curls, and those eyes…. How come Clay’s eyes were dark? The most beautiful thing about Clay had always been his eyes, which were bright green with gold undertones, the slitted irises unmistakable. So perfectly catlike.

“I did. Do. You look wrong.”

“Wrong? Nonsense. I look perfectly normal.”

“You look like a Q-tip.” Brock bit back a growl. “Your eyes. What did you do to your eyes?”

“That doesn’t matter anymore.” Clay’s eyes closed for a second, then opened slowly. “You grew up.”

“Well, yeah.” He crossed his arms over the back of the chair. “Did you hope I was dead?”

“What? Why would I do that? I’m not an asshole.”

“Well, you never were, but how do I know? You didn’t leave town under the best circumstances.” He wouldn’t blame Clay a bit for hating him.

“No. No, being told you had five hours to pack and get out before they set your house on fire isn’t on my top ten of fun evenings.”

“Oh, assholes. I knew it. Somehow I fucking knew it.” Brock sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I left a week after you did, so I never heard what happened.”

“Past history. Would you like a bottle of water?”

Clay was there, but he wasn’t, somehow. It was like talking to a mannequin.

“I would. Did you know your PA is making soy lattes?” They were cats, for fuck’s sake. Milk was a good thing.

“Yes. This is a vegan studio. No animal products.” Clay opened a tiny, classy fridge and pulled out a fancy-assed bottle of eight-dollar water.

Wait.

Wait, what? Vegan? Okay, did someone else own it? No way would his bacon-loving Clay go vegan.

The water was placed in front of him, and Clay perched on the other side of the table. “So, dishes?”

“I need to get as close to this as I can.” The picture was grainy, but the drawing wasn’t bad.

“Your mom’s dishes.” Clay nodded and stood, headed to a panel that opened up for a bunch of not-classy, well-worn paper books, where he started hunting.

“I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I do. I have the pattern somewhere. I can’t replicate it exactly, you understand, but I can modernize it.”

“Sure. I figured it might be illegal to remake it exactly.”

“If not illegal, the ethics are iffy. What do you like about it?” Clay pulled out a book, brought it over, and there was his pattern.

“Well, I don’t.” He chuckled. “I hate it, in fact.”

“Oh. You aren’t commissioning it for your restaurant, then. Your… wife?”

That was carefully asked. Brock tilted his head. “No. Not married. Mom lost hers in the tornado a few years back. I’m doing their big anniversary party. I think Mom asked just so I would come back.”

“Oh. Trent and Abigail must have been disappointed. They expected you to pump out enough genetically perfect litters to populate the Southwest.”

“Thanks.” His mouth twisted at the thought. “You know better. I had no intention of being a good pride breeder.”

“No. I….” Clay stopped, breathed. “So how many pieces do you want?”

“I need a set of eight. Dinner plates, dessert plates, cups, and saucers. Oh, and three serving bowls.”

“Right.” Clay made some notes. “Porcelain?”

“Yeah. This was bone china, I guess.” He watched Clay’s studiously bent head, wanting to rip it bald, maybe. This indifference made Brock crazy. God, he’d missed that lean body, too lean now, and the way Clay would smile and touch Brock’s hip or belly in passing. The way Clay would wrestle him over the last bite of bacon or suck him off in the bed of his truck.

“Do you want hand-painted? That is considerably more expensive, both in time and in cost.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, she’ll just be tickled that I did something.”

“Okay, I think this is doable. You’ll put down a deposit; then I’ll send you a proof to approve.”

“Sure.” He reached across the table and caught Clay’s wrist. “Why won’t you look at me?”

“Don’t touch me.” Clay pulled away, pale cheeks suddenly pink. “I don’t allow people to touch me.”

“Why not?” His Clay had always been tactile, sensual.

“You know full well why. I saw your website. Bacon and butter. The American Heart Association must not endorse you.”

“Nope.” He didn’t post pictures of himself on his site, preferring not to be an easy target for the pride. “They don’t. I’m sure not vegan.”

“No.” Oh, was that a smile? “No, you’re not.”

“You never used to be.” He burned to know what had happened to Clay.

“Everyone changes, Brock.” Clay still wouldn’t look at him.

“Stop it. Just stop it. I’m sorry, Clay. I’m so sorry about everything.” He grabbed that too-thin wrist again. “Look at me.”

Those so-fucking-wrong eyes went wide, and Clay arched, the scent of pure male hunger flooding the air. God. Clay was like a firecracker, ready to go off with the tiniest bit of flame. Brock groaned, nostrils flaring, scenting, looking for something familiar.

“No. Brock. Please. You know I’ll shift. I can’t do that anymore.” Clay tried to tug free, but Brock stood, pulling Clay toward him. Something was wrong. Off.

When was the last time Clay shifted? This was not his mate, not right. He eased Clay over the table, that stiff body sliding right into his lap.

“Brock….” Clay’s low, happy cry made him want to bite.

Instead, he kissed Clay’s mouth, and something right finally snapped into place. If he’d been standing, his knees would’ve buckled out of sheer relief. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his Clay and held on tight, his cock rising so fast it left him dizzy. Clay moaned, biting at his bottom lip, hands tangling in his hair. Brock growled and started rocking, driving them together, rubbing them through their clothes. Brock wanted to rip those clothes off and discover Clay’s body, but some small shred of sanity kept him from stripping Clay naked. Instead, he burrowed into Clay’s pants, hand searching.

“This is impossible….” Clay dove back into the kiss, hands framing his face, Clay’s hunger as easy to read as his own.

Not impossible. They so could do this. He got Clay’s cock out, started stroking, smelling musk and male and Clay. Finally.

He wanted to hear Clay’s pleasure, wanted to feel it on his hand. He stroked, putting all the years of missing Clay into his kisses. Was he aware that this was totally inappropriate for a man? Of course. But they weren’t men. They were far more primal than that, and he needed Clay to remember that, to strip away all the sophisticated trappings here and get down to what mattered.

Them. This. Now.

Clay’s eyes went wide, the contacts wrong, aggravating, weird. Brock wanted them out, but he wanted Clay to come more, so he kept his hand where it was.

“Brock, you have to stop or I won’t be able to control it. Have to…. I want you… so fucking bad.” Clay’s head was thrown back, throat working convulsively.

“You have me.” He bit at that pale, silky skin, knowing he would leave a mark. “If the cat comes, I have you.”

Clay yowled, hand slapping over his lips as come shot over Brock’s fist.

“Yes.” He growled so hard, his body leaping, his heart pounding. He’d almost come in his pants, hanging on by a bare thread. He wanted to strip Clay down, explore. Touch. Bite. God, he wanted all the things he’d missed out on all these fucking years. He brought his fingers to his lips, the flavor there pure Clay. Fuck. He was gonna lose it.

Clay stared at him, chest working like a bellows. “We just did that.”

“You did.” He was still rarin’ to go. “Need you, Clay. Touch me.”

“Once. Once and you have to be good.” It took about a second to get Brock’s fly open, and then Clay’s fingers dug into his jeans and wrapped around his prick, moving fast and hard, dragging on his skin. They were rougher than he’d thought they would be, Clay greedy for him. Brock panted, his hips rising and falling at every stroke.

Clay watched every second—Brock could feel Clay’s gaze, even through the contacts.

When Clay’s thumb hit the spot just under the head of his cock, Brock grunted and shot, his balls pulling up, his ass clenching hard. His spunk sprayed Clay’s wrist, his arm.

He saw Clay’s nostrils flare, the skinny body shuddering almost violently, and Brock took one more kiss, his instincts telling him he was about to be sent packing.

“Brock. You have to go. I can’t… I can’t hold it together.”

“Shh.” Brock stroked Clay’s belly, soothing. “I’ll go, but only if you promise to meet me for dinner tomorrow. I’ll make vegan.”

“Where?” Clay keened like he was in pain.

He licked at Clay’s lower lip. Someone had been too long without a touch, an orgasm. “My place. I’ll leave you my address. Promise me you’ll come.”

“I’ll come. I will. Go.”

He dropped one more kiss on Clay’s mouth before putting Clay up on the table and rising. He tucked himself away. “Seven.”

“I’ll come.”

He nodded, knowing he had to go before he bent Clay over the table and fucked him like a maniac. “Let me know how much deposit I owe you.”

“I’ll bring a contract tomorrow. I can’t think.”

“Okay. See you then.” He headed out, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He stopped with the Jackie woman, left his card for Clay, address on the back, his phone number. She stared at him, eyebrows almost rising to her hairline, but she didn’t say a word, which was good. He could rip her apart.

Something was wrong with his Clay and, goddamn it, as soon as he had the man in his house, he was going to figure it out.

 

 

CLAY TWISTED on his sheets, sweating, near delirious. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t.

This was going to make him insane.

Brock was going to make him insane.

He’d left the studio immediately after Brock had gone, spent hours in an icy cold tub, and then crawled into bed. He’d called in and cancelled the day’s appointments, and now he was supposed to go see Brock.

At Brock’s house.

For supper.

Skin too tight, he shook, clawing at his own arms. It hurt, deep in the pit of his belly, at the base of his spine. His cat had been buried for years. Years. Instincts he couldn’t face tried to drag his cat to the surface. He was defective—too feline for human company, too weird, too him.

His entire family had lost their home, their pride, because of him.

“No. No. No.” He panted, pawing his phone. He would call Brock. Say no.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though. Why couldn’t he do it? What the fuck was wrong with him?

He screamed, yowling with it, the sound releasing some of his pain. Better. Not good, but better. His hands shook, his body bowing. Clay clawed his way to the shower, turned the cold water on, letting it bite down on his aching body. The shock of it sent him into a fit of shivering. How could his well-ordered life shatter so easily? What were the fucking chances of him ending up in the same fucking city as Brock? That Brock would ever come to his design studio? His sister Cassandra would say it was fate or karma or something.

Cassandra was a little bit of a psycho, really. He adored her.

Maybe he should go to New Orleans, see her, have hummus at that little restaurant on Decatur Street. She would have time to sit with him and eat her garlic flatbread pizza. Cass always had the right combination of silly words and gentle teasing to set his world right again.

Anything but dealing with Brock and his clever hands and heavy cock.

Anything.

He’d promised. Clay groaned. He’d never made Brock a promise he hadn’t kept. Not once. He was a freak, a genetic disaster. An abomination, a useless fuck, and an embarrassment, but he wasn’t a liar.

Come on.

Come on. Up. Put on your armor.

He walked to the bathroom, then washed up, cleaning his face and brushing his teeth. Clay put his contacts in, still feeling so strange in his eyes. Brock had to hate them. Still, they hid his defects. They worked.

He put on a pair of skinny jeans, a button-up with a sports coat. He needed something that offered him distance. Something to keep Brock’s touch off his skin. Dark brown boots, engineer style, vegan leather, completed the look.

Okay. Okay. Car. GPS. Go. Go, go, go.

Oh God. He might throw up. He left his loft, the parking garage attendant waving at him.

He headed to the toll road, rolling his eyes at the address. Oh, Janmar. Figured. Seven hundred and fifty thousand. Midcenturies with charm and Beaver Cleaver looks. That part of town suited. Brock was such a traditionalist. He’d read all about Brock’s restaurant, not skimming like he had before their meeting, but finding every review, every mention. Meatloaf specials. Chicken-fried steak. Elevated comfort food.

Meat and butter.

Bacon.

Jackass.

Clay couldn’t indulge, not if he intended to blend in the human world. He had to stay away from the things that made his whiskers twitch, his tail lash. No sex. No meat. No cream. No scary movies or fast driving or excitement. Nice and easy, that was the secret. If he looked in the mirror and saw a weird-looking human and not him, it helped too.

Brock looked the same, except…. More. Grown-up. Wide shoulders, dark brown hair too long over his brow, eyes like Russian amber. Clay could lick the beautiful son of a bitch all over.

No.

No licking thoughts.

Dinner. A polite refusal of more sex. Get the deposit and leave. Two hours, tops.

He pulled into Brock’s drive, a big, shiny red pickup by the garage.

A pickup. Of course. Brock probably had giant rough-hewn leather everything. A meat freezer. Hot and cold running cream in the taps.

The idea made him smile, and he rolled his shoulders up and back, relaxing them. Business. This was an old friend with whom he now did business. Nothing more.

Liar.

Shut up.

He rang the bell.

Brock answered, barefoot and wearing just ancient jeans and a soft, thin T-shirt. “Hey. Come on in.”

“Hey. I brought all the paperwork and some samples.” Work. Work, work, work.

“Good deal. I’m making spinach and mushroom enchiladas. Vegan cheese.” Brock didn’t try to touch, for which Clay was incredibly grateful.

“Sounds delicious.” He loved Mexican food.

“I thought you’d like it.” Brock took him through the house to the kitchen in the back. The house held an endearing mix of Danish modern and kooky, but he expected the kitchen to be all granite and stainless. He was wrong. A bright yellow stove from the early 1900s took pride of place. Red barnwood cabinets and crazy fifties Formica mixed with jadeite dishes and Sputnik light fixtures. It was like the Jetsons and the Beverly Hillbillies had a baby.

All he could do was laugh, tickled down to his bones.

“You like it?” Brock grinned, pushing him a plate of homemade tortilla chips and salsa.

“I love it.” He could afford to be honest about that. “It’s totally you.”

“Thanks.” Brock looked utterly at home there, and the backyard Clay saw through the windows had everything a kitty could want. Hammock. Trees. A deck to sun on.

Eight-foot privacy fences.

He took a chip, broke it in half, and then in half again.

Brock raised a brow. “You do still eat, right?”

“I do. Yeah. Of course.”

“You’re so skinny.” Now Brock did touch, a light stroke of fingers on his nape when Brock passed behind him.

“No touching.” He shuddered.

“Why not? What’s wrong with touching?” Brock came around on the other side of the bar, pulled out a knife and board, and chopped mushrooms.

“It’s not you; it’s me.” He couldn’t cope.

“What is?” Those hands moved so fast, the knife thunking with an amazing rhythm.

“The touching thing.” That was fascinating, watching the light reflecting on the knife blade.

“No, I mean why is it you? What’s wrong with it, the touching thing, I mean?”

“I can’t deal with it and stay human.” Because he was a freak.

Brock didn’t say anything for long moments, the knife going through onions and spinach, as well as cashews. “You’re too human now.”

He shrugged, but the words stung. He wasn’t ever right. Ever.

“Are you mad at me for saying it, baby? I always thought you were perfect. Amazing. You know that.” Brock mixed the veg together and salted it.

“And you know that I’m a genetic anomaly.”

“I do.” The knife stilled so Brock could stare into his eyes. “I never cared about that, Clay. You know that.”

It was getting ridiculous.

“I know, but it doesn’t matter now. It didn’t really matter then.” He’d destroyed his family’s life. He couldn’t outlive those facts.

Nodding, Brock went back to work, his mouth a tight line. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He’d crushed the tortilla chip into dust, which he swept up into his hand.

“How are your folks?” After setting aside the veg, Brock started browning tortillas on a comal.

“They settled in Mexico. They live in an RV on the beach and pick shrimp shells out of their teeth.”

“I bet they have sponge cake.” Brock’s lips relaxed in a grin. “Why didn’t you go to Mexico?”

“I did. I went to Mexico City, Atlanta, Rome, Tokyo. I trained a lot, worked a lot.”

“No shit? Then why Texas?” Brock didn’t seem to be judging. Just curious. The food began to smell amazing, making him pant.

“Cost of living. I wanted to start my own place, and Cassie is close.”

“Where is she?” The enchiladas went together fast—tortilla, filling, sauce, cheese. Bam.

“New Orleans.” That was so fucking cool, the way Brock moved, every motion following the other, like choreography in dance.

“Oh, now, that’s a fun place. I worked under a chef there for two years.”

“I can see that. You have a very specific culinary point of view.” He worked with a ton of chefs. He knew the lingo.

“I guess I do.” Brock winked. “Good thing for you one of my roomies in culinary school was vegan.” The smile went a little sideways. “Why vegan?”

“No meat. No cream. No sex. No booze. I live clean.” That was the only thing that kept the kitty quiet.

Brock stopped everything and stared. “I would explode.”

He smiled, even though his cheeks were burning. “You totally would.”

“I mean, I’m not out there humping everything that moves, but I have cream in my coffee every day.”

“Butter, bacon, and beef, huh?” He remembered cream, fondly.

“And then some.” Brock chuckled. “I work out a lot too.”

All he could think to do was nod again. Brock had a life like it should be, except there weren’t ten thousand kittens and he wasn’t leading a pride. Surprising, but not, he guessed.

The enchiladas went into the oven, and Brock chopped tomatoes and lettuce for garnish. “I made pintos and rice too. No lard, no salt pork, I promise.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. It smells good.”

“Thanks.” So impersonal. Thank God. Brock getting personal could kill him.

“Would you like to see the samples?” he asked.

“Sure.” Brock pursed his lips. “I’m actually thinking of commissioning you to do plates for the restaurant.”

“Really? I’d love to.”

“Yeah?” That hard-angled face brightened, and Brock bounced. “Cool. I thought you’d say no.”

“I like designing. It’s what I do.” And he still was stupid over Brock. A conversation every now and again couldn’t be bad.

No touching. Just talking.

“You’re good at it too.”

“I am.” It was the only thing he’d known for sure in years.

“Then we’ll work it up.” Brock finally set the knife aside and opened the fridge. “Beer? Tea? Water? Almond milk?”

“Water is fine, thank you.”

“Okay.” Brock handed him a bottle of water, a brand he would bet Brock had brought in just for him, since it matched the bottles in his office. Man, almond milk, fancy water, cashew cheese—Brock was pulling out all the stops.

He rolled the bottle in his hands, cooling the fire inside him.

“So.” Brock came around to sit next to him, letting him feel the heat from that big body.

“B… buttons.” No scenting. No leaning. None. Zero.

Brock chuckled. “Your mom used to say that every time. And I would patiently explain I didn’t say sew.”

“And she would grin and pat your head and tell you to grow a sense of sarcasm.”

“Yes.” Brock got a faraway look for a moment. “I wish I got along half as well with my mom.”

“I’m sorry.” That was a good part his fault too.

“Why? Did you tell her to be a bigot?”

The words surprised him enough that he jumped. “No. No, of course not.”

“Then you don’t need to apologize.” Brock sighed, touching his arm.

Electricity jolted through him and he stood. “Bathroom?”

His cock was hard, aching, all of a sudden, fast enough that he was dizzy.

“Just back across the dining room.”

“Thank you.” He headed into the bathroom and turned the cold water on. Focus. Focus. Focus.

He had to stop letting this make him crazy. It wasn’t Brock’s fault that he was a psychopath. He needed to be a fucking professional. His fingers itched to dig into Brock’s dark brown hair, to trace the well-shaped lips, the little scar on Brock’s chin.

He stared at himself in the mirror, at the fake, near-black eyes. You’re not like him. You’re not.

“Clay? Supper in two.”

“Be right out.” All he had to do was stop being an idiot long enough to snarf up a plate of enchiladas. That was it.

He took two more deep breaths and made himself stop hiding. He pasted on a fake smile and headed out. “Smells good.”

“What’s wrong, Clay? You look so stressed.” Brock was close, too close, touching him, pulling him into an embrace, right there on the barstool.

“Brock….” His body stiffened. “Be good. Oh, please.”

He wanted to spin, twitch his tail.

“Can’t what? You’re in agony, baby. I can feel how much it hurts. Let me hold on.”

“I can’t. I’ll change.”

“How long has it been, baby?”

“Fifteen years.”

He felt Brock’s shock like he’d physically hit the man. “Why? Clay, that can’t be good.”

“I’m defective, you know that.”

“No, I don’t. You say that because that’s what all those assholes always said.” Brock held on, mouth on Clay’s throat.

“Don’t….” Oh, sweet fuck yes. Please.

“Shh. Just hush now. You’ve been alone too long.”

He groaned, eyes rolling back in his head. Brock felt like home, like all the things he’d given up to fit into the human world. Really good sex. Teeth scraped against his skin, and he lifted his chin to offer more, the action pure instinct, pure male need. He had to yowl, an insane sound escaping him.

“Yes.” Brock tugged at his shirt, getting it untucked, yanked up his chest.

“I can’t handle this….” His nipples were hard as rocks, his cock twice as firm.

“You can, baby. You’re not broken. You’re perfect like you are.” Brock reached down and palmed his cock through his pants.

His hips rolled, his body betraying him. His head fell forward against Brock’s upper arm, his teeth clenching tight. Odd, crazy sounds escaped him, bubbling from his chest. He panted, his body rocking, his skin tingling.

“That’s it, baby. Just let go. You’re so tight.”

“No. Please. It’s dangerous.” It didn’t matter, because Brock lifted him a little, hand shoving his jeans down his hips, the fabric tugging at his skin, before Brock managed to wrap around his cock and jack him. His toes curled up in his boots, his cock pushing right into Brock’s palm. This was fucking insane. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t. But he did. He threw his head back even farther, his legs dangling off the bar stool. Fuck, Brock felt good, strong, perfect, and Clay was losing it, losing control.

Need surged up inside him, raw and desperate. His balls drew up, and his cock leaked between Brock’s fingers.

“Come on. Come on, give it up.” Brock’s voice held a note he’d never heard before—all grown male.

“Oh fuck.” He came, jerking back and forth in a crazy dance, his come spurting into Brock’s hand.

“There. There, better.” Brock was purring, stroking him, praising him like he’d done something miraculous. Maybe he had. Come-On-Demand Boy, that was him. He barked out a laugh, hysteria bubbling right under his skin.

“Shh.” Brock carried him to the more casual family room behind the dining room, sitting with him on a long, low sofa. “That’s okay, then.”

“Brock. I….” His head shook, over and over, near dizzy.

“You’re fine, baby. So fine. I want you naked.”

“I’ll never survive that.”

Brock didn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, the man started working on Clay’s clothes. The jacket, shirt, nothing seemed to stop those hands. He’d thought he was wearing armor. What he needed was a chastity belt. With electricity. And a barking mastiff that bit whenever it was touched.

“You’re thinking too much.”

“I am. I’m fucked-up. I can’t control myself.”

“This isn’t about control. It’s about feeling.”

He grabbed Brock’s hands. “I can’t. I’ll shift. I can’t feel things.”

“You’re not making sense.” Brock kissed him. Hard. Tongue and all.

He arched, his bare belly rubbing against Brock’s T-shirt. His thighs pushed against Brock’s jeans and his body burned, aching for more. He grunted, his feet drumming against the couch. He couldn’t do this. God, he couldn’t bare being a freak again, being driven away. He spun, trying to get away from himself, and that just offered Brock his back, his ass, the nape of his neck.

Brock took advantage too, stroking him in one long line, the other hand on his belly. “So pretty. Need to feed you, though, so you aren’t so scatbacked.”

He growled. He was lean, that was all. Lean.

“Vegan isn’t healthy for us, babe. Fish. Meat. I can totally understand wanting to eat clean, but damn.” Brock’s cock settled against his crease, those hot lips on his neck. When had Brock opened his own jeans? Brock smiled at him, toothy. “I could pour cream on your fine fucking body, spend hours licking it off. Hours.”

His entire body responded to the thought, ass rocking back in a clear offer.

“Mmm. You like that, huh? Me too.” Brock’s fingers tapped against his hole, teasing the rim.

“Going to make me crazy, love. Brock.” Not love. No. Stop.

“I am, baby. Gonna make you come over and over.” One finger slid inside him, testing his resistance.

Resistance? What resistance? He was a giant slut for this man, always had been. That was the problem. All his vaunted control only worked all these years because there was no Brock. When Brock pushed two fingers into him, he thought he might die happy.

One time.

One more time to hold him.

Right? Right.

Then he could go, run and hide.

First, though, he wanted this. “More.”

“Yes. More. All night, if you let me.” Brock bit him, right where his shoulder met his neck, teeth worrying the skin.

His entire body shuddered, head falling forward. His ass worked Brock’s fingers, his muscles moving on pure instinct.

“How could you have not let anyone in, baby? You’re made for fucking.” Brock sounded happy, not upset, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he didn’t go crazy all the time.

“Liar.” He’d been made for Brock.

“I could fuck you forever.” He felt Brock slide a third finger inside him, stretching him almost past pleasure, but not quite.

Wicked promises. He moaned, tried to get up on his hands and knees.

“Stop that.” Brock smacked his ass. “You stay here, baby. Take it like you know you want to.”

The little slap made him rumble, bare his teeth, and that earned him another. “Stop it!”

“No. No, I think you need it. You’re starving for touch, for sensation.”

“I have to! I’ll shift!” Brock had to understand.

“You can do that after you come, baby.” The fingers in his ass moved.

He shook his head, rocking back, finding Brock’s rhythm. His cock knocked against his belly with every movement, his breath coming fast and hard. Wild.

The leather of the sofa dragged on his body, the scent of skin heady and everywhere.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby. You want to get my dick wet?”

Oh fuck. Yes. Yes, he wanted to taste. Lick. Suck. He turned, losing the stretching sensation of Brock’s hand but finding that amazing cock right in front of his face.

Yum.

His eyes crossed and he grabbed, tongue dragging up over the shaft. Brock stroked his hair, murmuring praise. The sounds poured over him, sweet and rich, familiar as breathing. Brock still tasted like salt and spice, like heat and male. He pushed up, sucking at the tip before sliding down and lapping at the shaft.

He could do this forever. No thinking, no worrying. Brock filled every sense. It was the easiest thing ever, to give in, open up, and be. Brock fucked his mouth with even strokes, nothing urgent in his movements, sure and steady. His hips moved in time, his noises caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, letting Brock pet him, take him, his lips and tongue working. He actually cried out a negative when Brock pulled away.

“Oh, baby boy….” Brock tugged him up, kissed him hard, tongue fucking his lips and stealing his breath.

He clung to those wide shoulders, crawling up Brock’s body. Time to ride.

Brock gave him no quarter, dragging him down onto the fat, heavy prick, burying deep. The burn was perfect, the slick from his spit giving him the right amount of friction. It made him want to yowl. Their skin slapped together, then rubbed, giving him heat and need. He let his head fall back, let himself fly as his ass landed on Brock again and again.

“Love how tight you are, baby. Meant for me.” Brock knew it as well as he did.

He nodded. They had been made for each other, which was not fucking fair. Not when no one wanted him and Brock to be together, and not when Brock could pass as human.

Just one more time.

He deserved this. He’d been so good so long. He grunted, bearing down, squeezing Brock hard. That yowl was the best reward he could have, the sound that meant Brock loved what he did. Teeth bared, he let out a roar, a near-shriek.

“Mine. Oh fuck, Clay. Mine.” Brock stroked Clay’s cock.

He bucked, drove into the touch, near desperate for it. All he could do was to saw back and forth, his chest working like a bellows. His world tightened to his cock, to the pressure inside him.

“Come on, baby. This is what happens when you deny yourself. All this need.” Brock bit him. Hard.

He bucked, spunk pouring from him, His teeth chattered, bones rattling with the waves of pleasure.

“My Clay.” Brock shot deep inside him, hot as fire, wet and perfect, marking him to the bone.

It was impossible not to be shaken, not to moan.

“I have you, baby.” Brock stroked his belly, easing him out of the clouds. “You needed that so bad. So beautiful when you let go. Promise me you’ll stay the night.”

“You promise you’ll let me have enchiladas?”

“As soon as we get cleaned up, we will have them. I’m starving. Stay the night?”

“Okay. The night.” One night. He could do that.

“Good deal.” Brock eased out of his ass and rose, picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom, where they cleaned up.

Brock kept one hand on him, solid, firm. The touch made him shiver, but his body knew what it wanted, knew Brock was supposed to be right there.

“I can smell you, you know. You’re like home.”

“Good.” Brock kissed his ear. “Take out your contacts?”

“Feed me.” He couldn’t. They hid his shame.

“Okay, but we’re not done with this conversation.” Brock got him a soft pair of sweats to wear instead of all of his clothes. So much for armor.

“Uh-huh.” There were better things to do with this night than talk. Like eat and touch and nap and fuck. If he only got one night, Clay meant to make the best of it.

He wanted nothing but pleasure to fill his memories. The new ones could replace being run out of town, losing Brock in a terrible way. He’d missed his mate like a man missed a lost tooth. Your tongue never stopped worrying the hole.

“Stop worrying. Come eat.”

“It smells amazing.” Now that he could scent something besides Brock, the food was making his mouth water.

Brock beamed at him, face wreathed in a wild, happy grin. “I hope you like it.”

“I will.” He loved spinach and mushroom enchiladas. Hell, he would eat anything Brock made for him.

He just wanted tonight.

 

 

CLAY HIT New Orleans at noon and pulled into the public parking near the river. It was deadly humid and the smell of the water made his upper lip curl. Still, this was where his Cassie was and this was where he needed to be.

Coffee. Hummus. A nap. A long talk.

He grabbed his phone and texted his sister. I made it. Cafe du Monde.

He’d called her from the road at dawn, knowing she would still be getting ready for bed, and told her he was coming.

Get me something not vegan, she sent back. There in ten.

She was like Brock, only worse. She indulged herself, lived a hedonistic, artistic life. Everyone thought she was the one who wore contacts.

He ordered a cafe au lait and a black coffee, sitting at one of the tables in the sunshine. Clay tapped his fingers, then stared at them. God, even his fingers were rebelling.

Still. Quiet. Peaceful. Gentle. Those were his prized qualities.

God, he wanted to bite something.

“You look stressed, bro.” Cassie swung into a little chair across from him.

“You have no idea.” He grinned over, loving the familiar smile even though the pink and green dreadlocks were weird.

“So, what’s the what?” She smiled back, and her nose wrinkled in that way he loved.

“Brock. He’s the what.”

She stopped, stared. “You mean like Brock-Brock? Brock Daniels?”

He nodded. “He came to my studio. For a real order. Took me by surprise because the appointment was just under an initial.”

“Oh, wow. Wow.” Her eyes were huge. “What happened?”

“Well, we had sex on my conference table.”

He was going for gross-out, but Cassie hooted and clapped, cheering for him. “Good man! How long’s it been?”

“Since I got laid over the conference table?”

“Since you got fucked at all?”

He stared at her. “Last night.”

“Rock on! It’s good for you, taking it hard. Loosens that stick up your….”

“Cassandra!”

“What?” Her bright green eyes widened dramatically. “It’s true.”

“Are you going to feed me? I’m hungry for something not coffee.” Rude girl.

“Is it late enough in the day for Angeli?” She glanced at his watch upside down. “Come on.”

She headed out, everyone in the entire place watching her go. Why wouldn’t they? Candy-colored hair, camo pants, a bright blue tank top—she was a walking circus performance. He adored her.

She was the bravest person he’d ever met.

Ever.

He tossed a couple of bucks on the table for the tired-looking girls who cleaned up powdered sugar all day and followed his sister, his jaw cracking over a yawn. He hadn’t slept. He’d stayed until the promise of first light, then slipped out while Brock slept the sleep of recent orgasm. It had been the best night of his life. His ass was still tender. He could never do it again, but he had… closure, he supposed.

Something.

Cassie was heading down Decatur Street like her life depended on it, and he just ate her dust, following behind. He didn’t have any hurry left in him. He knew where the restaurant was, knew she would order him the sampler and eat the feta for him. She would get the chicken diavolo pizza and make his mouth water smelling it.

The buskers were just starting to ramp up for the day, painted gold or dressed as Transformers or playing a mad trumpet, and the sun was bright, burning off the haze in the air.

Maybe he should move down here….

He’d be less weird here, right? Less of a freak, which he still was, even in full disguise. He walked into the little restaurant, the dark wood and spicy smells soothing his soul.

He settled down next to Cassie, who almost looked embarrassed. “Sorry, bro.”

“I can tell. Did you order?”

“I did. Sampler, right?”

“Yep.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “So delicate and caring, my sister.”

“That’s me, paragon of womanly virtue. So, you got laid. Are you hooking up with him again?”

“No.” He traced a wet-ring stain on the table. “I can’t. Cassie.”

“Wasn’t it fun?”

“God, yes.” Fun didn’t begin to describe it. “He’s a chef now. He made me vegan enchiladas, even though he’s famous for butter and bacon.”

“And he’s obviously not married or popping out kittens at an alarming rate.” Cassie winked over the table at him. “Did he jack off in like a zillion plastic cups to get out of it?”

Clay caught himself laughing. “No. He left like a week after we did, I guess.”

“Oh man. At least we had each other, huh? How scary.”

Clay sat back like he’d been shot. Sure, he’d been on his own, but his folks had been there via phone when they couldn’t be there in person. Brock had left everything behind, hadn’t he? Family, pride, and his best friend had been run out of town because he was gay.

Wow.

Damn it, now was not the time for paradigm shifts.

The food came, the sun-dried tomato dip making his mouth water. “I never thought of that. I mean, I didn’t know until the other day, right?”

“Right. Guilt is stupid. I’ve been telling you that for years.” She grabbed a bite of feta. “Anyway, you’re into each other, right?”

God, that was the understatement of the century. Brock was still a force of nature, still so strong and fucking irresistible. “You make it sound so easy. What if I let myself go and did what I wanted, Cass, and got everyone fucked-up again? I almost got us all killed.”

“No. No, those assholes that pretended to be family, to be pride, they did that to us. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.” She had all the righteousness of youth, the surety that came with being so much smaller than him when they left their hometown that she had an idealized version of what “pride” ought to be.

“I don’t know, Cassie. What if—” He tapped his fingers on the table again. What if Brock broke his heart? He didn’t think he could bear to lose the man again.

“What if what? If he’s mean, bite him. Hard. Four or five times.”

“Dork.”

“I am.” She raised her arms and shimmied. “It’s freeing.”

“Oh, shut up and eat.” He reached out and snagged a bite, moaned as he chewed. Yummy.

She blinked at him. “Clay, you just ate a bite of my chicken.”

“I did not. I’m vegan.”

“You did.” She pointed to the hole in her pizza toppings.

“I…. Oh God. Cassie.”

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. Breathe. Have a bite of feta.”

“No.” He scooped up a huge bite of hummus, the garlic making his eyes water.

She snorted a bit, quiet chuckles that became full-blown laughter when he glared at her. “Oh, Clay. I told you Jean-Claude was a sucky disguise. I miss you so much, and I can actually feel you trying to bust free. Let Clay out, please?”

“Stop it.” He took another bite, hunger flooding him.

Cassie waved down the waitress. “Can we get another chicken pizza?”

“Sure, honey.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.” She arched a brow at him. “You need food. Your soul is starving as bad as your body.” Her eyes flashed gold, and he blinked. Such a kitty. Like Brock.

She handed him a piece of pizza, and he took it, fingers shaking, a deep sound trying to get out. When he took a bite, he closed his eyes, the bright flavor and earthy meat smell making his breath catch. So long. It had been so long.

“That’s it. That’s it. Good.” She was making the most amazing sounds, crooning to him, and he looked down, realizing he’d eaten two-thirds of the pizza.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s healthy. What do you want next?”

Brock.

Brock and a steak. His mouth watered at the idea. He wanted to touch and suck and let Brock have his ass….

“Where’s your phone?” Cassie asked him.

“What?”

“Where is your phone?”

“Here.” He pulled out his phone and handed it over, and Cassie tapped and clicked, then handed it back. It was ringing, Brock’s name showing on the front.

Oh fuck.

“Why did you—”

“Hello? Clay, is that you?” He could hear Brock loud and clear.

“Brock.” He moaned. “I ate a piece of chicken with my sister.”

“Hey, baby. You did, huh? Did you know you left before I woke up?” Brock didn’t sound mad, really, which was good, right?

“I stayed ’til dawn. I want a steak.” What the hell was wrong with him?

“I can do that. I can. Do I need to come get you?”

“I drove to New Orleans. I’ll come to you. I’m… I don’t fit in my skin.”

Cassie was staring at him, a fond look on her face. She nibbled the remains of the pizza, but there was another one coming.

“I’ll go shopping. I want you to be careful, please.”

“Of course.” He was the king of careful. Surely he could handle one more day of it.

“I’m waiting.”

The words sounded so sure. Brock had always been so certain. Hell, everyone in his life was sure of everything but him.

“Okay. Yeah. The other pizza is coming.”

“Save the steak for when you get home. You haven’t lived until I’ve cooked one for you. You know where I live, baby.” The way Brock said baby went right to his dick.

“I do.” He hung up, stared at his sister. “What did I just do?”

“What you’re meant to do. Eat up, though, or the drive home will be tough. Tell Brock I expect an amazing meal when I come to visit.”

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m….”

“Healing? It took forever.”

No. No, it just took Brock.

She reached across the table and took his hand. “You had everything taken away from you. Maybe you needed to get that one thing back. It’s going to be okay, bro.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Faced with her certainty and Brock’s, it was hard not to believe.

“I love you, Cassie. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

“Shut up and eat a piece of pizza.” She shoved the tray toward him, her laughter like wind chimes. He loved her so.

“Remember, brother. Amazing meals for me when I come. All meat.”

“Okay.” He stood before tossing some bills on the table. He took one more slice of pizza for the road. “I love you.”

“I love you. Call me when the bites heal!”

He waved and trotted down the street toward the riverwalk and his car. He had to get back to Brock. Now.

All he had to do was hold it together until he got there.

It was hard to drive with claws.

 

 

BROCK SHOPPED. He bought meat. All sorts. The best was a filet of beef that made even his mouth water. Pork belly. Regular bacon. Alka-Seltzer, just in case.

Then he went home and made bread. Cleaned the kitchen. Made sure he had a ton of lube.

Called in to the restaurant and told them he wouldn’t be in, possibly for a few days.

Then he waited for the doorbell to ring. He wanted Clay with him. He knew when he woke alone that Clay had freaked out and run. Thank God he’d gone to Cassie, who must be a kickass chick by now.

He’d almost fucking died when Clay had called him. Called him and asked for a steak. He’d had to pretend to be calm, pretend not to be over the fucking moon. He didn’t want Clay to go kitty on him before he got home.

The knock on the door was soft, but sure. Fuck, yes. His lover.

Brock bounded to the door and flung it open, the calm absolutely gone. He needed to touch.

Clay stood there, staring at him with those fucking fake eyes. “Brock.”

“So, chicken pizza, huh?” He took Clay’s arm and pulled him inside.

“Uh-huh.”

The door was closed, locked behind him. He wasn’t letting Clay out now. Not ever, maybe.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

Maybe it was finally time for Clay to be out. Out of his self-imposed cage.

“I thought it would be me, not the chicken pizza,” Brock teased.

“It’s your fault. I had control.” Clay smelled so good, like spice and sex, still.

Brock reached out and touched Clay’s cheek. “I’m not sorry. I need to see your eyes.”

“I have some saline in my backpack. I haven’t let anyone see in fifteen years.”

“Please, baby.” He wanted to see those bright green-and-gold eyes staring at him.

Clay sat down, pulled a case from his backpack, and popped them out, eyes trained on the floor.

“Now, look at me.” Brock squatted in front of Clay, fingers under that sharp chin.

Oh fuck. Fuck. He groaned, his cock achingly, brutally hard at the sight of his eyes. The pupils were slit, completely feline, utterly perfect.

“Hello. I missed you so much.” He leaned in to kiss Clay’s lips, so damned happy he could bust.

The flavor of his lover was stronger now, more present, the taste rich and meaty. Heady. He pushed his tongue into Clay’s mouth, moaning, his balls already pulling. He crawled over Clay, shoving him back into the cushions, fingers moving to tear at clothes. Brock needed skin and heat and touch and taste. He needed his lover. A wild sound came out of him—part pain from having waited so long, but mostly hunger.

He humped, heedless of his own clothes, the thin sweats he wore no real barrier.

“You too. Us. Together.” Oh, listen to that growl.

Brock struggled out of his pants so they were both bare, both rubbing like mad. The odd passivity had been replaced with sharp nips, Clay’s fingers digging into his ass and tugging them together.

Their cocks pressed close, the tip of his catching just under the head of Clay’s. God, that was good, making him shudder.

“Want. Want more.” Clay bit his shoulder, his earlobe.

“Anything. Want you so bad.” The lube was in the bedroom.

“Please. Please, I’m so….” Those eyes met his, pure Clay. “Caught.”

“Good.” He pulled off, lifting Clay with him. “Bedroom. I want to play, baby. Like I mean it.”

“Uh-huh. I might change, after. I don’t know.”

“I won’t mind that a bit, and you know it.” He’d always been the one to encourage Clay to be a kitty.

“I do. I know. Hurry.”

“Lube. Where the hell did I put the lube?” He was so fucking hard he hurt, and holding Clay wasn’t helping one bit. That lean, wriggling body was making him pant, making him crazy.

He dropped Clay onto the bed, and watching all the things bounce made his mouth dry. Then he tore his eyes from the beautiful sight and grabbed the lube he’d been hunting.

Oh.

There.

Lube. Cock. Ass. Orgasms.

He grinned, feeling feral, as if his cat waited to pounce.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

“Ha-ha.” Brock leaned down and bit Clay’s nipple. “Much tastier than canary.”

Clay’s body stiffened like Brock had hit him with electricity, a happy yowl on the air. “Tweet tweet?”

“Uh-huh.” He chuckled, the sound buzzing against skin.

“Damned carnivore.”

“I know. I like meat.” He let his hand speak for what he wanted right now, sliding down to close over Clay’s cock. Clay spread like soft butter with a hot knife, body offered up on a silver platter.

Fuck, that lean body had the kind of beauty that made a man want to explore. He licked his way down Clay’s flat belly, making a mental note to get some meat on those bones.

He nudged Clay’s needy, wet-tipped cock with his chin, bumping it. He fucking loved the way his stubble made Clay growl, so he did it again and again. He licked the single drop of precome up, then sucked the head into his mouth. Clay’s flavor made his eyes cross and he gave in to the need to pull, make his lover twist. Hot, salty, a little spicy, Clay was everything he ever wanted and had never hoped to have again.

One hand was in his hair, holding on like Clay’s life depended on it.

Hell, maybe it did. His poor love had to be a little scared still, a little freaked about letting loose.

Good thing he was there to turn the man inside out.

He sucked, lips sealed tight to Clay’s skin.

“Brock. Brock.” His name punctuated every roll of Clay’s hips.

“Mmm.” He moaned, his fingers tapping behind Clay’s balls hard enough Clay curled up, shoulders leaving the mattress, belly rubbing his head. Sweet love, so responsive. So his.

Clay growled low, climbed over him and crawled down, mouth surrounding his cock as he tugged the lean hips around to suck Clay’s prick back in. He’d always wanted to try this but had never wanted to do it with anyone but Clay. They rocked, sucking and moaning, licking and growling happily.

When he touched Clay’s tight little hole, he could feel that fat cock jump in his mouth.

He was going to bury himself in there, watch Clay’s eyes as he filled that sweet ass up. He pushed one finger inside, testing the stretch.

Still hot and barely swollen from yesterday. Clay bore down, riding his touch. He had to let go for a moment to get the lube open, but then he was back to sucking and fucking Clay’s ass with his wet fingers. Clay’s mouth was fiery around him, the suction steady and fierce, demanding more of him, now.

Brock popped his mouth free. “Don’t want to come in your mouth, baby.”

“Hmmm?” At least Clay had heard him.

“I want your ass, baby.”

The moan he got almost sent him right over the edge, long and heartfelt and so good around his cock.

He pulled away, moved between Clay’s legs. He wanted to dive in immediately, but he waited, stretching Clay so much more.

Clay’s eyes were closed, lips open and panting.

“Let me see your eyes, baby. I want to see them when I fuck you.”

“You’re obsessed.” They opened, though, didn’t they? Bright and wild and wonderful.

“I am. They’re what I dream about when I dream of you.”

The blush clawed its way up Clay’s chest, ending in his cheeks. The tiny frown of confused pleasure made Brock growl, made him push forward with his hips so he could slide into Clay’s body.

They moaned together, both making the same sound of pure need. He pressed in until his hips met Clay’s ass, his balls nudging against Clay’s skin.

All the while, Clay stared at him. Watched him, those eyes taking in every detail of him. Another sort of caress, and Brock soaked it in like a cat basking in the glow of the sun.

“Perfect.” He muttered the word, hips drawing back, pulling him out and then slamming back in.

Clay hummed, heels digging into Brock’s ass, and they began to move, too fast and not enough. The rhythm was rough and raw, and they were both going to be sore in the morning. Brock couldn’t stop, couldn’t even slow down. Clay was with him, calling out, crying out to him, the sounds growls at the edges.

He leaned down to bite Clay’s skin, right there on one shoulder, and Clay stiffened, hands curling into claws. “Please. Brock, please.”

“Love you so, baby.” He could say it now that Clay wasn’t hiding. “Always have.”

“I left so they wouldn’t hurt you, so they wouldn’t hurt the people I love.”

“Shh.” He knew that. Brock had always known it, but Clay couldn’t bury who he was forever.

“No. No, I don’t want to hush. I missed you.”

“Good.” He grinned, feeling bizarre having a hard-core talk while they were fucking.

“Uh-huh.” Clay smiled right back, and then they both started laughing, shaking the bed.

The movement made Brock catch his breath, made him remember what they were doing. He rolled his hips and Clay’s eyes went wide, needy, the hunger in them clear as crystal. He grunted, his hips moving again, rolling, driving deep. This time there wasn’t talking, laughing. Hell, there wasn’t even moaning, just his hips slapping Clay’s ass. He panted, his chest heaving, his hands on Clay’s hips. His balls drew up, pulled tight, and he threw his head back, trying to hold himself together.

“Brock.” Clay clawed at his chest, the tiny sting of blunt nails enough to make him shout.

He reached down, rolling over the tip of Clay’s prick. They needed to come together. He needed Clay with him.

Clay’s ass clenched around his cock, squeezing, milking him.

“Now, baby. I got to go now.” He couldn’t hold on. Brock came hard, his seed deep in Clay’s body.

Like his pushed Clay’s out, spunk splashed on his belly between them. The scent of his lover sent another spasm through his balls, his belly tight, his back arching. Best of all were those eyes, staring at him. He could look into those eyes for the rest of his life.

Clay reached up, cupped his cheek, fingers stroking.

“My Clay. God, it’s good to see you. Your hair will grow out, right?”

“You don’t like my hair?”

“It’s… pale.” He liked the crazy gold color Clay’s hair had always been.

“Bleached. I have to work hard to make it stay. My hairdresser is going to have an aneurysm.”

“Hairdressers like a challenge.” Not that he knew. He had a barber.

Clay’s stomach snarled, rumbling against him.

Brock chuckled. “I got the steak out. It’s ready to grill.”

“Yeah?” Clay arched up, cheek sliding against his in a purely natural motion. “I’m so hungry.”

He stroked Clay’s chest and belly a moment. “Well, let’s eat. I live to feed folks.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s the rumor I hear.”

“Hey, I will feed you anything but tofu.”

“Steak. Potato. Mostly steak.”

“Cool.” Brock slid free and slapped Clay’s ass. “You’re not fuzzy.”

“You noticed. Maybe I can’t. It’s possible.”

“No, it’s right there.” He would bet the steak did it.

“Yeah?”

“God, yes.” He stroked Clay’s cheek and his lover nuzzled right into the touch. “Sex is better as humans. Even your confused body knows that.”

Clay chuckled, rolled up and touched him, fingers dragging on his skin. “Feed me.”

Brock just shivered happily before heading to the kitchen. He had an apron, so who needed pants?

He heard his lover padding behind him, quiet as a mouse. It was like being hunted. His tail would twitch if he had it, and his whiskers too. He refused to speed or look back. He was the one in control. Him.

The big male. Dominant. Him. He grinned, feeling like a dork.

Suddenly Clay was pressed behind him, snuggling into him with a happy sound. Oh God, yes, that felt amazing. He wanted more, wanted this every day of his life.

“You smell like heaven.” Clay’s sigh was satisfied as fuck.

“I thought you wanted steak.” Not that he was complaining. Nope, he was loving this.

“Uh-huh.” Surprisingly rough hands dragged over his thighs, framed his cock.

“Calluses.” He chuckled. “Guess you actually work with clay, huh?”

“I do. Not for my job so much, but for fun. I spend a lot of time meditating at the wheel.”

“I’d love to watch that.”

“Anytime. Well, not now. Now isn’t good for me.”

“No, now we’ll have another orgasm and a steak.”

Clay answered him with a deep groan, teeth barely grazing his nape.

“Are you trying to alpha me, baby?” He knew Clay was just hungry, needy, but he had to tease.

“Oh yeah. I’m totally toppy.”

He laughed out loud at that. They’d figured out right quick who liked to pitch and who liked to catch. Hell, they’d figured that out years ago. Some things didn’t change. Thank God.

Clay pushed up, cock sliding on his belly. They sank to the floor, landing there, kissing, touching. Clay was right with him, in his lap, in his arms. He held tight, taking long, drugging kisses. This was a gift, dropped in his hands, and he needed to hold on.

“Not letting you go again, baby. Keeping you.”

“You think?” God, he loved that, the way Clay played.

“Mmm-hmm. Chain you to my bed and feed you.”

“Pervert.” Clay nibbled on his lips.

“I always have been. I have this fetish for a lover with cat eyes.” He kissed Clay’s nose, then his chin. Clay lifted, offering him a long, pale throat. So, he nibbled on that too, licking to ease the sting.

“They’re ugly, Brock. Abnormal.”

“Stop.” He put his hands on Clay’s cheeks. “You’re a cat-man. They’re evolution in progress. I mean, you’re stunning.” He wanted Clay to understand that, to know nothing could be as important as this. As them.

“I’m tired of pretending to be Jean-Claude, human.”

“Good. I want you as you’re meant to be. Promise me you’ll be you when you’re with me.” Promise me you’ll stay.

“As long as you’ll keep me.”

“I always meant to have you forever, Clay. I just lost you before I could make good on the promise.” It sucked, the whole thing, but it hadn’t been his fault. His or Clay’s. This made going to his mom’s even less appealing.

“Kiss me again. We’re losing the mood.”

“We are.” He planted one on Clay’s mouth, grabbing those too-skinny hips to rock them together. Orgasm. Food. Kitty time. Possibly a nap.

The possibilities were endless.

 

 

CLAY’S BELLY was snarling after their lovemaking, loud enough that his cheeks burned. “Sorry, love. That’s embarrassing.”

“Why? You’ve been going without so long.” Brock rose after kissing him gently and went to clean up a little.

“I wasn’t starving.”

He got this look, pure disbelief. Brock shook his head before tying on the cutest apron ever, all wild florals. “Bullshit. We eat meat and you went vegan.”

“Cats eat meat. I ate beans.”

“Exactly.” Brock waggled both eyebrows. “You’re a cat.” A grill pan went on the stove.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Except he had to be, didn’t he? He couldn’t hold it in and be with Brock. And he was with Brock for sure. What if it didn’t work? What if he’d forgotten? What if?

The steak hit the hot, hot pan with a sizzle, and Clay shuddered at the smell, his cat clawing to get out.

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to fight it.” Brock nodded at him over the kitchen island, a fond smile on his face.

“No? You’re sure?” His muscles jerked and rippled under his skin.

“I want to see you. If I wasn’t cooking so your belly doesn’t eat your backbone, I’d be grooming you.”

He panted and slid off the barstool, uncomfortable, aching. “Hungrrrrrrrry.”

“I’ll feed you even if you’re all kitty.”

He wriggled, nostrils working, his heart pounding. Changing. Changing. He wanted that meat. Needed. He headed over to Brock, chuffing softly, slowly moving to the floor. His tail appeared, his whiskers twitching. He growled softly, the world tightening, sharpening. He panted, his tongue pushing out to taste the air.

“Look at you, baby.” Brock’s voice was husky, rough. “Just look at you.”

Brock came to him and stroked his ears. He sniffed his mate, smelling steak. His nose brushed Brock’s thigh, nudging the heavy balls.

“Sweet boy. The steak needs five minutes to rest.”

He stretched up, paws on Brock’s shoulders, and slid their cheeks together. Mate.

Brock’s eyes widened. Yes. Mate.

His tongue flicked out, then dragged over Brock’s skin. Oh. Oh, salty.

“My Clay. You’re so beautiful.” Brock’s hands dragged down his back, rubbing his muscles, massaging them. He arched into the touch, his tail dragging along Brock’s arm. “Oh, look at your tail.”

Brock sounded so very pleased.

Steak. Steak, steak.

“Yes, I hear you.” One of the steaks was placed on the ground, and he snarled, teeth bared, the scent of blood amazing.

“It’s yours, baby. Have it.” Brock backed up a step.

He panted and then pounced, starvation catching up to him, making him burn inside. He tore the steak up and chewed it in seconds. The second one he caught in midair, Brock tossing it.

He ripped it up, then offered a juicy bit to his Brock.

“I got more, baby. I’ll cook one up for me. You eat.” Brock praised him with touch, though, proud of him.

Brock’s touch made him moan, made him rumble happily. Ears. Do my ears.

Anything. Brock rubbed his ears good and hard, scratching deep.

His eyes crossed and his nails dug into the floor. Oh, good.

Brock knew where to rub, what to do for him, loving on him so good with strong hands. It was everything good and right, satisfying him bone-deep.

When he rubbed his cheek against the apron, Brock grunted, tugging off the cloth so Brock’s cat could come out too. He licked and groomed, encouraging the shift, needing to see his lover’s true form.

They rubbed cheeks, their whiskers rasping. Brock looked more stunning now than ever, his cat heavy, fully grown, all male. Tan and lovely, with the most amazing paws and dark-tipped tail.

He head-butted Brock, wild needy sounds escaping him. Oh. Oh, it was him. Brock. Love. Clay had never thought to have this again. Ever. He’d missed it so, held everything tight inside for fear of losing his mind.

Now he felt like it was joy that did it for him, like he couldn’t hold himself together. He could be him, and Brock would help him stay between the lines.

Brock leaped at him, teeth sinking into his nape and shaking before bouncing away, panting. Play.

Play.

Oh, he remembered that. He did.

They could tear around and chase and bite.

He tensed, muscles shaking as he gathered the energy to pounce. Brock backed away, tail lashing, nose twitching. Tease. Still, he couldn’t resist. He needed to jump.

He sailed over the top of Brock, totally missing his mate.

Brock chuffed, so he guessed that looked pretty funny.

He spun around, swatting Brock on the hindquarters and then taking off like a fuck-starved jackrabbit.

Brock’s claws scrabbled on the floors, his mate chasing him like a freight train. He slid and turned in circles, yowling happily as he went. Brock slipped past him, looking comically surprised. Then his ass end slammed into Brock and they both went winding.

Rolling, Brock tumbled him over, their bodies fetching up against the kitchen island. Then Brock landed on him with a thump, covering him.

He mock growled, wiggling madly, but Brock lay heavily on him, grooming him. It was comforting and undeniable. Important.

Something he thought he’d lost forever. This was his.

His eyelids got heavy, and he blinked, so slow. Sex, food, play. Now sleep.

Clay sighed, snuggled in, head on Brock’s paws. He could stay here, just stay here for the rest of time.

He thought that might be okay.

 

 

BROCK SMILED at the final product Clay presented him with, the china just like his mom’s, only new, more modern.

“You like it, honey? It’s okay?”

“It’s wonderful. Like the best parts of my childhood.”

Clay looked at him, eyes warm, pleased. “Thank you. Just wait until you see the plates for your new restaurant. Those will be magical.”

“I’m looking forward to those, baby.” He had to grin—Clay had gained twenty pounds and the thick gold hair was already to his shoulders. He’d even seen his lover in public without the contacts.

Beautiful man.

Clay had offered to go back to their old hometown for his mom and dad’s anniversary. Although the man had nightmares for days after.

There was no way. No way he would ask his mate to do that, not after everything Clay had given him.

Which meant he had to get the china ready to ship and call his mom.

“You okay, love?” Clay came to him, rubbed against him, so feline it hurt.

“I am. I hate disappointing people, you know, but I have to.”

“You don’t. You could go. I wouldn’t judge.”

“I know that.” He gave Clay a smile. “That’s why I can’t go.”

Clay rested their cheeks together, breathing, hearts beating in sync.

He hummed. “They would judge, baby. They already did once. And now I have you back I’m not giving them that power.”

“I’m… I don’t know what to say. I just want to make it right.”

“Nothing to say, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He rubbed noses with his mate. “You can hand me my phone, though.”

Clay handed his phone over, then headed to the studio, giving him his space. There was something about watching Clay on the pottery wheel that was soothing. Brock moved so he could see, so he could center himself.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. Got a minute?”

“Sure, son. How are you doing?” Oh, it was harder when she was nice.

“I just wanted you to know I’ll be sending your anniversary gift early. So you have it for the party.”

“So I have it? You’re not coming? Again?” He could hear her lips getting tight, pursing.

“No, ma’am. I know I said I would, but things are different now.”

“Different? Something’s always different with you. Is it work? Are you that busy?”

“No.” He didn’t need to mince words. “I know what you did back when we were kids. To Clay’s family. I knew it when I left, but I know now how my life could have been.”

She was silent a second, and then she started in. “Son, we were trying to do what’s best for you.”

“You were doing what you thought was best for the pride.” He actually got it. That didn’t mean he would subject himself or Clay to that torture ever again. “I won’t ask him to come back there with me, and I won’t come without him.”

“You’re…. You found him? Again?”

“We’re mates, Mom. It was inevitable.” He believed that.

“Well, I… I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me you’re sorry about what you’ve done. Tell me it was a mistake.” Lie to me.

“I don’t think it was a mistake. They’re defective. We serve the pride.”

“I know.” And that was that. He shrugged, knowing she would scold him for it if she could see. “I hope you like your gift. Tell Dad happy anniversary for me.”

“I will. I love you, son.”

“I love you too.” He wanted to say how sorry he was they’d felt the need to fuck with his life, but what good would it do? They were who they were.

So was he.

He didn’t think he could ever go back there again, though, knowing what he knew. Knowing that they would threaten an entire family, leave them homeless, broken, in the hope that he’d make kittens.

Brock hung up before he said anything else, and went to lean in the doorway of the studio room. Clay had rented out his high-rise, and Brock had made his man-cave into an art room for his mate. The rhythmic whir of the pottery wheel had him smiling in no time.

“You’ll have to tell me how to pack the china for shipping.”

“I’ll have the factory do it. No worries.” Clay offered him a tentative grin. “Want to come practice?”

Practice was Clay’s version of “fuck up my pottery and get slick and muddy with me,” but it was still fun to play.

“I do.” He went to sit behind Clay, half expecting “Unchained Melody” to start playing. Clay hit him with an elbow if he mentioned it, though.

“Okay. Not so hard this time.”

He snorted. He didn’t hear that very often. Usually Clay begged him to go harder, deeper, faster. His body tightened, and he forced himself to relax. “Slow and easy. Got it.”

“It’s all in the wrist, you know.”

“Is it?” Brock bit the back of Clay’s neck.

The wild yowl that sounded was perfect, and he knew Clay’s eyes were glowing, the cat ready to spring free of the human body.

“Pot, baby.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say kettle?”

He chuckled. “No. This is where you tell me how to shape the rim.”

“Then no biting. You know how I get.”

“Mmm. I do.” He pressed his hard cock against Clay’s lower back, just feeling good.

“No regrets, love?”

“Not a single one.” Brock wasn’t looking back anymore. He had Clay in his life, hell, in his home and his bed. Everything was fucking perfect. Except for Clay’s rumbling belly.

“So, are you hungry? Let me make you a steak.”

If he was lucky, they’d even eat them off plates.