His pinch made Channing’s cock slap his belly, leave a wet kiss. “Asshole.”

  “Yep.” He was through sitting on the back burner of Channing’s life. “Your asshole, and I’m not leaving without you.”

  Channing stared at him, wide-eyed. “I have a job, Bowie. Responsibilities. Shows. I can’t just go.”

  Shows. Bowie growled, deep in his chest. Oh, he didn’t think so. No more playing bottom boy for random men. Never again.

  “You can work in Seattle. You’ll love the food scene there.” He pulled Channing close enough to be nose to nose. “No more shows unless I do them with you, and I pick the attendees.”

  “Fuck off, Bowie.” The words were brave, but the scent on the air was pure arousal.

  “My boy, baby. I know what you need.” He grabbed Channing’s cock. “I know how you want to be bound, how you want to be beaten. I’ve always known.”

  “I was scared then. Stuck. I thought it was weak. I know better now.”

  “Good.” Bowie kissed his boy hard, their lips mashing together. He wanted to devour Channing, just… Yeah. Channing met him halfway, fingers framing his face, holding onto him.

  His body heated again, his need for Channing boiling up, almost unbearable. This whole thing might kill him.

  “Fuck me, Bowie. Come in me and mark me.” Sharp teeth tugged his bottom lip. “Now.”

  “Anything, baby.” He shoved Channing down, letting his lover land on hands and knees. Then he slid down behind that fiery ass.

  He let his nails drag on the skin, burn all the way down. Every little shudder Channing gave him made him want to mark that skin permanently. God, just thinking about it made his cock jerk, and he pressed it to that tiny, tight hole.

  He leaned over Channing’s back, growling happily. “Going to keep you, kit. Forever.”

  Then he slammed in.

  Channing arched, back bowing almost impossibly. So fucking beautiful.

  He reached out, grabbed Channing’s long hair, tugging in a slow motion so he got ache, not sting.

  “Bowie…”

  That was the sweetest sound, his name on those pretty, swollen lips.

  “Yes. Yes, kit. Fuck, you’re mine. Never losing you again.”

  “Keep saying that.” Channing struggled, all twisting muscle. “Prove it.”

  The alpha inside him roared to the front and he buried himself balls deep, wrapping himself around his kit as his teeth sank into Channing’s nape. He would prove it over and over. Channing was addiction made flesh.

  Everything was red and spinning, the cat screaming under his skin, Channing snarling under his body. Suddenly they were rutting, the animal coming to the fore, even if they didn’t go fuzzy.

  His teeth broke the skin, and the flavor of Channing’s blood was life and copper and… eternity.

  His.

  Finally.

  He jerked, his hips rocking, his cock slamming into Channing over and over.

  One of his hands was holding Channing, right above the needy cock dragging that beautiful body into the curve of his. He panted, his spine tingling with how close he was to coming.

  “Mine,” he growled, time slowing. “Say it.”

  Channing ground down onto his cock, the feeling exquisite. Amazing. Not what he wanted.

  He flipped them, slamming Channing on the couch, hips moving, driving into his kit furiously. “Say it.”

  “Yours. Yours, you asshole!”

  “Yes.” He would let Channing come now. Hell, he would demand it. He focused on that sweet ass, taking that tiny hole, banging away, his hand jacking at Channing’s cock. “Mine. So mine.”

  “Yes. Yes, fuck, I need you. How the fuck can I still need you?”

  “Mates, baby.” He grinned, feeling feral, as if he’d just had a successful hunt.

  He stretched out, hips moving steadily, pushing Channing into his fingers. They rocked like that, and the heat coming off Channing’s ass was going to set him on fire.

  “Bowie. Bowie, please. Come on.”

  He knew Channing needed a spark, that bright point of pain to get him off. So Bowie pinched the slit of Channing’s cock closed, hard, holding it for a long few seconds.

  Then he let go.

  He felt Channing’s orgasm all around him, smelled it. Best of all, he knew it. That pleasure rang inside him. He growled his pleasure, holding off on his own orgasm as long as possible.

  “You now.” Channing’s voice was blown, pure rasp.

  Bowie groaned, the sound ringing in his ears, and he let Channing have everything, hips popping that fine ass. The world spun around in a wild arc, and he roared as he shot, pumping his scent into his mate.

  Marking his territory.

  Chapter Three

  Bowie was in his house.

  Bowie.

  Bowie was in his house.

  He cleaned the kitchen, jittering, bouncing from thing to thing as Bowie snored, long, muscular body draped over his sofa.

  His sofa.

  The man was stunning. The cat -- Bowie as a cat left him speechless. When had Bowie grown into such a powerful creature, all long muscles, that tail perfect and fluffy and black-tipped?

  He remembered them all being together, him, Andy, and Bowie desperate for sensation, for new things, for pleasure. Bowie, though… Bowie had made him feel things that had shamed him, deeply.

  Once he’d left, he’d hidden for years, culinary school his only outlet. When he had started exploring the scene, he’d known. Known that Bowie was right, but by then it was too late for their relationship. His first Dom had spent two years with him, helping him work through his shame, his regrets, his pain.

  After that, he’d been able to find his center, his space, but never again with another shifter. Only humans.

  Now…

  Bowie was right there. Right there and he wasn’t sure what to do when his entire body was focused on rolling over and showing his belly.

  Channing chewed his thumbnail, wandering into the kitchen again. Maybe he should just cook.

  He started pulling out eggs and milk, pondering bread.

  Bread was good.

  Kneading. Cats liked kneading, right? Relieved stress. Bowie looked so tired.

  He grabbed some yeast from the freezer, set to proofing it. Andy was a dancer. A stripper. Well, not a private dancer/poledancer-stripper, a burlesque dancer. He looked amazing in his picture, a truly natural stud. Nothing fake for their Andy. He’d always been that way.

  Proofing box ready. Bread flour next. And music. He needed music.

  He glanced at Bowie, biting his lip. Headphones.

  Right.

  Headphones. Milk heating. Mixer. Salt. Butter. Oh, sandwiches. Sandwiches would be good. Did Bowie still like turkey? What kind of cat didn’t like turkey? He had provolone.

  There should be potato salad. He liked that with mustard.

  Before Channing knew it, bread was in the oven, potato and eggs were boiling, a cake made and he was now pondering cookies.

  Bowie stretched, drawing his attention to that white belly when the big cat turned on his back, batting the air with huge paws.

  He purred deep in his chest, stumbling forward toward the big male.

  Golden eyes blinked open, Bowie staring at him. Then Bowie was on the floor, pacing toward him.

  “H-hey. I cooked.”

  A low, rough sound came out of Bowie, that big head butting his hip. Bowie had always been so controlled about the cat, so rigid. This was… new.

  He reached down, fingers tangling in Bowie’s heavy ruff. The fur was coarse on his fingers, so much thicker than he remembered. He also had to wonder how Andy had changed. Bowie blew his lips, the air tickling his thigh. No beast should be this sexy.

  “There’s bread, cake, potato salad.” His balls drew up, and he wiggled. He had to.

  The air shimmered, Bowie’s body lengthening, changing. Somehow the man ended up on his feet, not in an ungraceful sprawl on the floor. “You cooked a lot, baby.”

  “I was…” Nervous. “Bored.”

  “Were you? I slept far longer than I expected. My apologies.” So formal. So polite.

  “Don’t. I needed to do things.” He stepped away, unnerved as hell. Ice the cake. He needed to ice the cake.

  “Don’t what?” Bowie followed him, so close, body heat an addiction near Channing’s skin.

  “Be so uptight. Apologize. You don’t have to.”

  If anything, Bowie drew in even more, face still, controlled. “I’m just careful these days, baby.”

  “Hey. You came here. I was hiding out. Or living. Something.”

  “I did.” Bowie paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “What kind of cake?”

  “Carrot. I put raisins in it. I like raisins.” He needed a drink.

  “Do you? I remember you used to hate grapes, though.”

  “There are all sorts of things I had to grow up to like.”

  “I bloomed early, huh?” Bowie touched his ass, the contact so fleeting he could almost believe he’d imagined it.

  “I wanted to be strong, I didn’t understand back then how much power and strength it took to submit.”

  “No. You were so determined to run from it all. Hell, from being bi.” Bowie moved another inch closer.

  “I know. I started with Dommes. They showed me how good anal sex could be.” It had been Master G, though, who had torn his whole world open.

  Bowie rumbled, the sound as close to a growl as such a controlled man could give. “I hate the thought of you with someone else.”

  “Like you’ve been a virgin. Or Andy. You think he’s not getting fucked up against a wall at will?” None of them were children.

  “I said I hate the thought of it. I suppose I should be grateful that someone got through to you.” Crowding him, Bowie pushed him up against the counter, hips pressing against his.

  “And now I’m a pro. Go figure.” His nerves were firing, his skin felt too small. “Back off, man.”

  “You smell good.” Slowly, deliberately, Bowie leaned down to sniff his throat.

  “I smell like bread.” He swallowed convulsively, head spinning.

  “I like bread.” Bowie licked a long line on his skin, wet and warm.

  “When… When did you start being seductive?”

  “Just as you said, baby. I grew up too. I practiced.” Bowie lifted his head, and for a moment stark pain showed in Bowie’s eyes. “I thought you were gone for good, so I tried to move on.”

  “I was. We’re fucked up, the three of us. Andy and me, you and me, you and him. It’s cracked, right down the center.” Maybe they’d been smart. Their situation would have been hard to maintain back home, and they were all meant for different things.

  “We can start over, now.”

  “What if it’s still broken?” What if it had been him? It could have been.

  “What if it’s not?” Bowie kissed him, a short, hard press of lips. “Cake first.”

  “There’s going to be potato salad and sandwiches too.”

  “Sounds good.” Bowie backed off, giving him room to breathe, to think a moment.

  He pondered a cigarette, something. A cigarette would be good, though. After the potatoes went in the dressing.

  Andy had been perfect, beautiful, hard and fierce. Stubborn too, and no more willing to submit to barely adult Bowie than he’d been, less so maybe. “I won’t let you unless Channing does,” he’d said, and his pride had been stung. As if he were an omega, made to be nurtured. The thought, always heard in their dominant male’s voice, came right back to him.

  Bowie had snarled and snapped and tried to force it, no more ready for the things he wanted than Channing and Andy. The need had been so difficult to deny, the desperation in Bowie’s eyes back then a living thing. And he’d just snarled and swatted and run. “I’m going to have a smoke. Lunch will be when I get back in.”

  “No.” Bowie took his wrist in one hand, fingers circling it as a manacle. “No smoking.”

  “Stop it. I need one.” He needed a second of clarity. He felt as if he were lost in a 1970s film.

  “I said no.” Bowie never raised his voice, just reeled Channing in, right up against that bare chest. They pressed together from toes to nipples, Bowie’s skin like fire.

  “I’m not your sub.” He could be, though. He could fucking wallow in this fine bastard.

  “This is where we have a problem. I want you to be mine.” Bowie was so close now, Channing could see each dark gold eyelash.

  “You don’t even know me anymore, Bowie.” He couldn’t stop his free hand from reaching out, touching. Stroking. By the moon, Bowie smelled so fucking good.

  “I know a lot about you, baby. The rest I can learn. I’m a fast learner these days.” Bowie reached up and pinched his nipple, the tiny flare of pain better than nicotine.

  “I don’t know you. You never used to be… irresistible.”

  “Then get to know me again.” Bowie smiled, but there was nothing but warmth and need there.

  “You want a sandwich?”

  “I do.” Once again, Bowie stepped back, gave him space, the advance and retreat keeping him off guard.

  He made the potato salad and the sandwiches and pulled the bread out of the oven. Then there were two plates on the table and two ginger ales, and he was sitting and jittering.

  “Breathe.” Bowie pulled a chair around to sit more beside him than across from him, knee touching him.

  “I’m trying. I am. God, Bowie, you’re here. You know how many times I fantasized?”

  “No. Tell me.” Bowie picked up the sandwich for a bite, chewing slowly. Watching him.

  “Shit, I wandered for months after I left before someone put me over her knee and knocked some sense into me. Then I spent a year fucking myself with a dildo and imagining it was you and pretending that I wasn’t doing it.”

  Bowie’s stare went predatory, and he could smell sex on the air suddenly, Bowie pushing toward him. “I can just see that, baby. I might make you do it for me just so I can watch.”

  His body tightened, and he keened softly. “I fucked things up with all of us.”

  “We all did.” Bowie’s mouth flattened for a moment. “I was so damn righteous.”

  “I was ashamed.” And scared.

  “And Andy wasn’t interested in sticking around.” Bowie kissed him, slow and deep, tongue fucking his lips for long moments. “Eat, baby. You’ll need your strength.”

  “You think so?” That made him laugh. “At least it all tastes good.”

  “It’s amazing.” Bowie sat back and nibbled another bite of bread. “You’re good.”

  “I am. I really am. Weird, huh?”

  “Not a bit.” Bowie stared at him intently. “I always knew you had talent.”

  God, it was like sitting near a laser, every move he made seen, evaluated. Bowie had always been ruthless about going after what he wanted, but it seemed his years in the business world had honed him like a dangerous blade, making him such a threat to Channing’s peace of mind.

  His world depended on balance and work and a schedule. He knew when things were happening, he was in control. He only subbed when he was ready, when he needed that quiet place in his brain. Bowie would want him to be on all the time. Bowie would always be watching him, judging him. And he would always be lacking because he was the one who’d fucked up.

  “What are you thinking now? More self-deprecating thoughts, huh?”

  “What?” Get out of my head!

  “We’ll work on that too,” Bowie said, the words seeming utterly cryptic. “Eat, baby.”

  Eat. Right. He could do that. He could, right?

  * * *

  Bowie tapped away at his laptop, needing to do a half hour of work or so. It had taken damn near an hour for Channing to choke down a sandwich and potato salad. Now his boy, because Channing was his boy, was frosting cake.

  He hated how fucking awkward this was.

  He hated how Channing’s nerves were bouncing about, making his mate crazy. They could talk about growing up all they wanted, but putting them together had made them both regress to uncertain teenagers.

  “How long have you lived here, Chan?”

  “About three years. It’s nice, huh?”

  “It is. I like it.” He wanted Channing to see his place, to explore.

  “What… what about you? Where are you settled again?”

  “Seattle. It’s wetter than I like, but there’s room to run up at my place.” He loved his house with all its windows.

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “You’d like Seattle. It’s a foodie place.” The market would fascinate his boy.

  “Do you have… someone there?”

  “No.” Bowie had never taken anyone home. He had clubs, and some friends with open houses. “You had a Dom here, you said.”

  “Once upon a time. He left. I work professionally now, help out the Doms.”

  “Why did he leave?” He shouldn’t push, but Bowie needed to know, to understand what made Channing tick now.

  “Family troubles. Something about his mom needing him. It wasn’t a love affair, just wild sex.”

  “Then I won’t lie and say I’m sorry.” He smiled to soften the words, but he wanted to find whoever this Dom was and kill him. Or thank him. Maybe thank him while ripping his throat open. The thought made him smile.

  He clicked to send his last email and sat back, stretching.

  Channing was hunting for something, nostrils working, checking his pockets, drawers.

  “What are you doing, baby?”

  “I need a cigarette.”

  “Nope.” Bowie rolled up out of his chair, stalking his prey.

  “I do, too.”

  God, Channing was hot. Lean, asthetic, those eyes so dark and needy. Edible. Channing opened another drawer, rifled through it. By the time Bowie reached Channing’s side, his boy was almost frantic. So Bowie popped that bubble butt just hard enough to shock him.

  “Stop it!”

  “Why? I like it.” He did it again to prove his point.

  “Going to bite you.” The cat flashed, Channing’s face trying to flatten.