Channing knew the sounds coming from him were pure cat, long trills and rowls. He arched, his whole body feeling empty.

  Sharp slaps rained on his ass, and he caught himself rolling back toward each one, begging for it. Bowie gave him what he needed, the flat of his big hand landing hard, the pattern deliberate.

  “Bowie! Bowie, come on!”

  “Oh, baby, I’ll give you everything when I’m ready.” The smacks escalated, stinging, ringing in his ears.

  He began to burn, and he bent his knees, drawing them underneath him. It put him in a position to move, but it also exposed him more to Bowie’s hand. Bowie slapped his thighs, the undersides of his ass cheeks, the burn making him twist.

  Channing lunged forward, but his fierce Bowie followed him, that hand unyielding. His ass burned, and he knew it was glowing. It had to be. A low growl sounded, and Bowie pulled him back, sitting him up, his back against Bowie’s chest.

  “Gonna fuck you, baby.”

  “Please. Now. Hurry!” He hissed as his burning ass rasped along those awful fucking jeans.

  “Soon.” Bowie reached down to stroke Channing’s cock again, that hand on fire from hitting his skin.

  “You bastard.” He twisted, desperate for more, for sensation. That was his problem. He was always desperate, and no one else had ever been Bowie.

  “Mmmhmm. Never denied it.” Bowie finally opened up those stupid jeans and rubbed that thick prick against his skin.

  His Bowie.

  Time stopped, and he gasped. Oh fuck. Fuck. Bowie. The scent was right there, his mate. He squeezed his eyes shut. God.

  Nails scraped along his belly, his chest. “Stay with me, baby.”

  “Stay.” He moaned, belly tight as anything. He could do that, right? He could be right there as long as Bowie gave him what he needed. A blistering kiss caught his jaw, right near his ear, and that fat cock slammed into him, making him scream in pure pleasure. The burn intensified, but he was created for this, made to be taken hard and often by this man.

  Bowie’s hips slapped against his burning ass, stronger than any human could be. Yes. Yes. He needed this so bad.

  He threw his head back, his thighs spread wide enough over Bowie’s legs that they burned. Bowie never let up on him, one hand on his cock, using it more to hold him in place than anything else. He tried to move, tried to twist, but all he could do was hang there and take what Bowie gave him.

  It was perfectly delicious, making him bite the air. His cock pushed against Bowie’s palm, his balls swinging. His ass was on fire, both from the spanking and from Bowie’s cock spreading him so wide. Wider than his biggest plug.

  Bowie’s free hand pressed above his cock, keeping that fat prick buried to the root, Bowie’s hips moving in tiny, jerking motions.

  “Bastard. I need to come!” Channing was going to shoot. Surely. Maybe.

  “You’ll do what I tell you to.”

  “Fucker.”

  “Yes.” Bowie pinched his slit closed, slamming into him.

  “Again. Oh fuck. Again. You evil bastard.”

  “Like that, baby? Like that sting?”

  He did, and Bowie knew it. It was as if they’d never been apart, except he could accept this now, could admit he needed it. Bowie gave it to him, over and over, not letting him get too close to the edge, tugging his balls every time Channing thought he might let go.

  He began to snarl and curse, finally reaching for his cock, knowing it would push one of them over the edge.

  Bowie rumbled, such an alpha sound that it sent shivers down his spine. Then the damn fool bit him, right on his nape, demanding his pleasure.

  He arched, shooting hard, spunk splashing on his belly. A low grunt sounded next to his ear, and Bowie filled him deep, wet and hot inside his ass. Marking him.

  Marking him deep inside.

  “Gonna let me stay for tacos now, baby?” Bowie said the words against his skin, licking the mark throbbing on the nape of Channing’s neck.

  “Uh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay.”

  “Oh good. I didn’t get a hotel.” Bowie stroked Channing’s belly, soothing him.

  His purr started in the pit of his stomach, filled his chest. His body felt lax, happy, and he really wanted a nap more than he wanted those tacos. Still, Bowie had gone out of the way to get them…

  Suddenly they were fuzzy, grooming each other, head butting and nuzzling each other, Bowie biting at his ruff. He snagged the food, tearing the bag open. There was no foil, thank goodness, because once he started, he might have eaten a little paper. Then he was fed, fuzzy, happy and batting his Bowie’s tail.

  Bowie growled, but it was a happy sound, and they rolled together, playing. This they had always been good at.

  They crashed through his lair, and he showed off. Here there were toys. Here there were sparkly things. Here was the bed.

  The bed stopped Bowie cold, and those sharp teeth closed on his tail, stopping him too. Yes. Nap.

  He hopped up, and they buried themselves in the covers, curling together. The entire bed vibrated with his purrs.

  He chuffed as he was dropping off to sleep. So much for he and Bowie being estranged.

  Maybe he should bite Bowie hard.

  In the morning.

  Chapter Two

  Bowie woke up feeling better than he had in, well, who knew how long. For eternal moments he didn’t really know why. Then he realized he was all fuzzy and curled up with one of his mates. Channing.

  He purred softly, gnawing gently on one velvety soft ear, filling himself with Channing’s scent. It was still the same, smooth as butterscotch and good vodka.

  Those bright pure-gold eyes popped open, staring at him, and Channing yawned, batting at him, so lazy. His boy did love to snuggle, to be a layabout. Bowie rumbled, licking those whiskers.

  Channing curled back close, grooming with long, slow licks and laps, smoothing his fur. This part was almost as important as the spanking and the fucking. Almost.

  His paws were cleaned, his jaw, his ears -- Channing had always been fastidious. Bowie let his paws expand and contract, stretching, letting his boy relearn him. The purrs vibrated all inside him, deep and right. So fucking right.

  He rolled, batting at Channing. He was so happy he could bust.

  Channing gave him half a heartbeat of warning before pouncing his belly, playing with him. Gnawing. Lord, that kitty was still so young.

  He caught the back of Channing’s neck with one paw, pushing his mate to the floor.

  All four of Channing’s feet waved in the air for a moment, but when Bowie chewed on the exposed throat, Channing went still.

  That was right. He growled, slow, deep, letting his boy know he was in charge here. Grooming stopped when he said. So did play. It was their way, built into their genes, into their souls.

  Channing chirruped for him, offering him a tiny little sound, curious. Making a happy noise, he licked that soft throat, pushing the fur back and forth. His happy kitty purred, quiet and easy under him.

  Perfect boy. Bowie had known, if he could just get Channing to let him in…

  Channing bit his ear. Hard.

  Growling low, he pressed down, knowing his weight would make it hard to breathe. Channing twisted, mouth open as he tried to pant. Bowie just gnawed on Channing a little, making sure the kit understood who was in charge.

  Those pretty eyes made him ache, made him want to run in circles announcing that this one, this one was his. His omega. His mate. His beautiful boy.

  He cleaned Channing’s whiskers, then stood, stretching, his toes reaching.

  Channing padded away, tail moving side-to-side. Oh, someone was pissy. He crouched, his butt in the air, his tail a crook.

  Bowie pounced, taking Channing’s ass end out as he turned the corner. Channing snarled, turning to swipe at him, but he ducked it. They went sliding over the floor, snarling and swatting at each other. At the other side of the room, they hit a pile of pillows.

  Goddess, Channing’s place was amazing.

  He leaped, hitting a cushy ottoman and taking the high ground.

  Channing yowled, swiped at his legs. He bit at that surprisingly large paw, catching some of the soft hairs.

  Channing hissed, backing off, carefully checking the affronted paw.

  It was time for breakfast, and maybe some human communication.

  He let himself come back to his human form, let himself stretch and yawn. Channing just watched him, eyes glittering, focused. Bowie had to admit, it was a little unnerving, being hunted. Now he knew what the prey he usually went after felt like.

  Bowie forced himself to stay loose, relaxed, unintimidated. He was the Dom. He was in control.

  Those were pretty big teeth, though.

  He walked to the kitchen, leaning against the door of the fridge.

  He knew Channing. The boy was anal as anything and wouldn’t want Bowie messing around in his kitchen. Oh. Anal. That was funny. He wiggled his butt a little, just to see what would happen.

  Channing chuffed softly, padding toward him.

  He grinned, hiding the expression in the cooler. Yes, here, kitty.

  There was the softest touch of a cold, wet nose to the crease where his ass met his thigh. Bowie worked hard not to jump. “You gonna get unfuzzy here, baby?”

  The drag of that rough tongue slipped up his ass, turning softer and silkier as Channing shifted and stood.

  “Mmm. Better.” He turned and took Channing in his arms, rubbing their bodies together.

  “Mmmmorning.” Channing nuzzled him, purring. “Get out of my kitchen, and I’ll make you breakfast.”

  “Yeah?” Bowie caressed that sweet butt for a moment in reward. “I’ll let you.”

  Channing purred softly, all slinky and smooth against him. It made his mouth water and frustrated him at the same time. So much time had been lost, and he’d known -- known -- Channing was meant for this.

  Maybe they’d both needed to go out and experience things. Who knew?

  “What’s for breakfast?” he asked.

  “I have sausage and eggs, toast.” Channing pulled him from the perfectly arranged shelves of the fridge. “Shoo.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. Bowie hit the bathroom, then washed up a bit, hunting a robe. He found one that Channing obviously never wore and pulled it on before the scent of sausage drew him back to the main room.

  His nose wrinkled. There was no scent of other males, of lovers. Of anyone but his kit. There was music playing, windows open and blowing in delicious scents, making all the decorations sway and dance. He’d know his Channing lived here in a second. The man was sunk into every inch. There was joy, a little frenzy, and a side dish of OCD about the whole place. It made him smile, and it made him wonder what Andy’s place looked like.

  “Milk?” The milk that came out of the fridge looked amazing -- rich and sweet and creamy.

  “God, yes.” He owned a share of a cow back up in Seattle, got real milk all the time. He’d been missing it on this trip.

  Two huge glasses were poured, and Channing let some of the cream drip on those long fingers, coating them so the milk could be lapped off.

  Oh, that was an invitation he couldn’t resist. He walked to Channing’s side, grabbing that hand so he could dip Channing’s fingers in the milk again. Then he licked them clean this time.

  “I didn’t say you could do that.” Channing’s nostrils flared, eyes lit up.

  “You don’t get to say, baby.” Such a pushy bottom, his boy.

  “I’m cooking.” And buzzing for him. For him.

  “We can’t play and cook at the same time?”

  “No…” Fuck, Channing’s need smelled so delicious. Better than sausage. Better than the milk, even. That was saying something.

  “Then you’d better turn off the stove,” Bowie said. “I want to play.”

  “I thought you were hungry.”

  He was going to blister Channing’s pushy little bottom. He grabbed the glass of milk and drained it. “There. Full.”

  “Actually, the glass is empty.”

  Lord. He popped Channing’s butt. Hard. “You need to be a half-full kitty.”

  Channing’s body arched for him, as if he’d jolted the man with a live wire. “Only half-full?”

  “Oh, physically you need to be full. Plugs. My hand. My cock.”

  The sound that bubbled in Channing’s chest was pure need. He could give his kit what Channing needed, better than anyone. He intended to prove it over and over. He slapped that sweet ass again.

  Channing leaned over, turned off the stove, eyes glowing just about the edges. “Tease.”

  “Nope. I will tan your hide all you want. Do you want a safeword?” He was used to humans. He always asked.

  Channing snorted. “If I need you to stop, I’ll tear your throat out.”

  Bowie grinned, his hand aching for Channing’s ass. Then he pounced, lifting Channing off his feet and carrying him to the sofa.

  Channing yowled softly, teeth stinging his shoulder, tugging at him. The tiny, sharp sensation made Bowie’s cock harden all the way, the last rush of blood making him gasp.

  He sat, bringing Channing over his thighs, that needy prick between his legs, his hand set firmly in the small of Channing’s back. He knew what his boy wanted, and he was lucky that he was on the same page. He stroked Channing’s back, up and down, letting the anticipation build.

  It only took bare moments before Channing was shifting, moving with him, answering his rhythm. The undulations were like a dance, and for a moment he thought of Andy, dancing in Vegas for all to see. He gritted his teeth and focused on Channing, raising his hand and letting it fall.

  Channing gasped, legs curling up, and Bowie fought the urge to roar in satisfaction. That was right. It wasn’t some stranger, some well-trained human doing this to his mate.

  This was personal. He knew how much Channing’s body could take, and he laid another slap, then another on that smooth skin. The shape of his handprints were clear, sharp on Channing’s skin, white for a moment before they turned red.

  His marks. God, he couldn’t wait to put more marks there, stripes from a crop, welts from a flogger. Rope burns.

  Then he’d start on the front.

  He smacked down at the tops of Channing’s thighs, letting the rougher texture of hair there tickle his fingers. Channing’s prick was stiff, nudging at his legs as his kit snarled and wriggled, dancing under his blows. The heat coming off Channing’s skin amazed him, made his mouth water.

  “No coming yet, baby.”

  “Bowie…”

  “That’s me. Not until I say.” He knew what Channing was capable of. He’d seen it. Not in person, damn it all. But he knew. Just for that thought, he slapped harder.

  “Fuck!” Sharp nails dragged along his calf.

  “You need it, kit. So bad. No human can give you this.”

  “No one does. Not even the wolves. I keep looking.”

  “You should have come to me.” Dogs? Jesus. He knew better. Bowie knew it had to be him to track his mates down and remind them they were all grown-ups now. It was how it worked. He proved he was strong enough to care for his pride. He could provide for them.

  His pride. Bowie growled, tapping Channing’s hole hard with his fingertips.

  “Fucker!”

  Oh, no. That wouldn’t do. “No cursing at me.”

  He started swatting, hard and fast, and Channing yowled. That lean, muscular body twisted on his lap as if his boy were trying to get away, but the way Channing ground the hard cock under him into Bowie’s leg told a different story.

  His kit needed like no one else ever, and he was going to make Channing fly. He knew he had to, or he’d never convince the man to stay with him, or to go get their boy.

  They needed Andy to join them, just as Andy and Bowie needed Channing to balance them. They would be constantly battling without Channing. Andy would stabilize them, give them the beta, the strength they both needed. He was -- not the voice of reason, never that -- but their fulcrum.

  Channing bit his calf and he jumped, swatting that ass so hard his arm jolted all the way to his shoulder. “No biting!”

  Channing growled, the snarl like tearing cloth. “Pay attention.”

  “I am.” His tail would be lashing if he were in cat form, he was so frustrated.

  “Prove it.”

  Fucker. Bossy little fucker. A good challenge, though. A really good challenge. Bowie smiled. He’d missed this fine son of a bitch, bone deep.

  He squeezed his legs tight around Channing’s cock, knowing it would make his boy cry out, make him wiggle. The friction would be even better that way. Channing started humping his thighs, driving against him.

  Which was why he plucked the man up, leaving him dangling. “I said no coming.”

  “Bowie?” Channing’s face was a study in confusion.

  “Shh.” Bowie gave Channing a real smile, so happy he could explode. “Kiss me.”

  “Oh.” His mate’s face softened, and Bowie’s arms were filled with needy, warm boy, his mouth taken with a little cry.

  He liked keeping Channing off balance, and God knew they would do deep scenes, but right now, Bowie needed this. The kissing, the holding and rubbing. Channing’s fingers tangled in his hair, and his lips were tongue-fucked, his kit hungry and happy.

  Bowie took the kiss even deeper, tilting his head, letting Channing know how he felt through the touch. He could feel the happy rumbles moving through Channing’s chest.

  He put Channing down in his lap, letting that hot ass rest against his thighs. The act made Channing’s eyes cross again, and he couldn’t help the grin that drew out. God, he’d missed this. So damn good.

  “Smug ass.” Channing wriggled like a fish on a hook. “Why did you look me up?”

  “I showed you the picture. I know I did.”

  “He’s not interested in us. Andy’s a star in Vegas. He’s probably mated to some stud.”

  He growled, pinching Channing’s burning ass. “No. He’s ours, baby. He always has been.” Bowie wouldn’t let his mates belong to anyone else. He’d fight for them.