“You look pleased.” Bowie followed, grabbing random stuff and peering at it,

  “I’m cooking for you.” Of course he was pleased.

  “I think I might have to kiss you, baby.”

  “You think so?” He thought he might let Bowie do it.

  “Yes.” Bowie pulled him into the bulk aisle, where not a single customer lurked, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  He moaned and opened, pressing against Bowie, chest to knee, luxuriating in the touch. Bowie controlled the kiss easily, holding him still once they were positioned just right. Fuck, this was insane. Crazy. A dream.

  Someone cleared his throat, and Bowie moved slowly, breaking off the kiss. Channing blinked, swaying a bit, rumbling in his chest.

  “Shh. Fish, baby.”

  “Fish. Toro. Tuna.” Right. Bowie grinned, sliding past him, cock hard against his ass, hot even through their clothes. “No touching.” Butthead.

  “Why? This is the perfect place to play. Even people who might be offended have to act as though they aren’t.” Bowie had a note of pure evil in his voice.

  “I’ll come after you with a Jerusalem artichoke…” They were sort of large and threatening, right? By the moon, Bowie made him stupid.

  “What the hell is that?” Bowie peered at him over one shoulder, raising a brow.

  “A tuber. It’s a bit like ginger, but it’s big.”

  “Ginger.” Now Bowie turned back to face him. “Now that’s a root that has possibilities.”

  His eyebrows climbed into his hairline. Bowie knew about figging?

  No way.

  No.

  Way.

  Bowie was… blustery and spanky and blisteringly hot, not… lifestyle.

  “Now, is that look because I know about its use in sex, or because you absolutely don’t want to try it?” That grin. He could be addicted to that.

  “I. I. I.”

  No way. There was no fucking way he was going to do that, with or without Bowie. Especially not with Bowie. His brain jabbered on until Bowie came close again and pinched his nipple through his shirt. “Breathe.”

  He sucked in a deep lungful of air, shaking his head a little to clear it. “Sorry. Low blood sugar.” That worked as a lie, right?

  Bowie frowned, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “Do you need to sit? Should I get you something?”

  “No. No. Tuna.” That was Bowie. His Bowie. No. No, not his, but yeah, his. His Bowie. Channing was going to bite something.

  “Baby, you’re not making sense.” Now Bowie appeared genuinely worried. “Too much sugar in the coffee?”

  “No, too many pheromones in the air. Too little blood in my brain.”

  “Oh.” Those beautiful lips curled in another smile. Just like life with Bowie had always been. Up. Down. Up. “If you’re a good boy I’ll let you suck me in the car.”

  “Shut up.” Oh, he could grab a little caramel, have his salty with his sweet.

  “Nope. I’m on a roll now.” Bowie petted his belly for a few devastating seconds.

  “I swear, if you don’t stop, I will bite you.”

  “Maybe I want you to try.” Bowie lowered his voice even more. “Then I would get to spank you.” Channing growled, his entire body alight, focused, ready. Something about the challenging tilt of Bowie’s head made his teeth snap together. “Mmm, naughty kit. Are you ruffling your fur for me?”

  Channing decided talking was overrated. No monologuing. He simply pounced, biting Bowie’s upper arm. Hard. Bowie yowled softly, then backed him up against a rack of gluten-free flours and cake mixes. “Kit.” He bit again. They were in a store. In public. He was safe.

  “Oh, you are asking for it, love.” Bowie bent and nipped at his throat, teeth sharp.

  Love. Mate. Bowie. God. Yes.

  “I’m going to lose it. Please.”

  “Oh, baby. You’re so very mine.” Bowie kissed him, hard enough to burn, hand sliding right into his jeans, insistent.

  “We can’t do this here…” Oh, fuck. He was going to lose his fucking mind.

  “No one is watching. No one would dare.” He had no idea how, because the damn market usually felt elbow deep in people, but no one was coming into their aisle. “So hard for me. How hard would you be if I plugged you, bound your cock before we did this?”

  “Shut up. God, how did you… You’re Bowie.”

  “I am.” That frown was back. “I can’t learn things?”

  “Of course you can. You were always the smartest one of the three of us, but… I don’t know. In my brain we’re all eighteen and horny and creaming our jeans at the slightest touch. When I thought about you, imagined you, you were… still that.” Still something he could ignore, could walk away from, not this perfect, controlled, amazing Top who pushed every single one of his buttons.

  “I did too. About you and Andy both. Someone opened my eyes. It’s time to open yours, baby.” Bowie squeezed his cock.

  He did, staring Bowie right in the eyes. “You do it for me, balls to bones.”

  “Good. I want you. Want you to come for me.”

  “Here?” He stepped closer, eyes squeezing shut. They were going to ban him.

  “Yes. Right here.” Bowie pressed the head of Channing’s cock with one thumb, pushing against the slit. Channing shoved his hand into his teeth, muffling the wild sound that fought to come out, his balls drawing up so tight they hurt.

  “I can smell you, baby. I know it’s right there on the edge. Come.” Bowie squeezed.

  That was all she wrote. Spunk sprayed from him, everything inside him clenching. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he’d just done this in the grocery store.

  “Bowie.” He stared at his lover, wide-eyed.

  Bowie purred for him, giving him a happy pat before pulling his hand free and licking it clean.

  Channing’s heart stopped.

  Home. Home and tuna and sucking in the car.

  Home.

  Please.

  “Let’s go, Kit. You’re fine. I have you.” Have him? That was the understatement of the century.

  Chapter Five

  Bowie tried not to watch Channing pace. Something was up with his boy. They’d had an idyllic three days, but now Channing walked in circles, chewing his thumbnail. Bowie had been trying to pretend he was working on his laptop, but it was getting tougher to concentrate.

  “I have to go out tonight. I have a job.”

  Bowie glanced up, frowning, then sniffing the air. “Are you cooking there? I don’t smell amazing food in the kitchen.”

  “Not the cooking kind of job, the whips-and-chains type.”

  “What?” He gave up the pretense of disinterest. “Why?”

  “Money, but mostly, because I said I would and I’m not a flake.”

  “Call and tell them you can’t come.”

  Channing stared at him. “What? I can’t. I made a commitment.”

  The laptop hit the floor when he pushed it aside so he could stand. He took two strides to reach Channing. “You’re my boy now, Channing. I don’t share.”

  “Don’t. Don’t. This is my job. One of my jobs. You know that. I’m not going to fuck him.”

  “So? What are you going to let him do?” What the hell was Channing thinking? They were mated again. Even if this Dom didn’t fuck Channing, things could go very badly.

  “I don’t know. We didn’t discuss it yet. We will at the club. Back off!”

  Channing didn’t want to do this either, that was clear on his mate’s face. So why was he doing it?

  “Just call them, love. Tell them you’re in a relationship now and your Dom doesn’t share.”

  “Bowie, I won’t take more jobs, if I can afford it. It’s good money.”

  “I know that, baby.” He didn’t want to make this about money, but he had more than enough to go around. “You don’t need this one.”

  “I’m not going to stand Rick up. That’s shitty.”

  “Channing.” Now he was starting to get a wee bit grumpy. “I said no.”

  “You seem to have missed the part where I didn’t ask.”

  “Damn it, Channing. Why are you so set on doing this?”

  “It’s my job. Just… I’m going to go. I’ll be back late.” Channing’s stress, fury, and worry poured off him.

  “No.” The protest was instinctive, and so was the grab he made for Channing’s arm.

  “This isn’t how it works. I’m a grown-up and this is my job.” Channing’s voice was all hiss and growl, eyes flashing gold.

  Bowie’s back wanted to arch, his tail wanted to twitch. He held the cat in. “Channing…” He put everything he had into that one word.

  Channing stopped, sobbed once then stamped his foot. “We can’t start like this! We need to do this right!”

  “How is it right if you go sub for someone else?” He held out his hand. “Stay with me, love.”

  “One job. My rent. One job and I’ll… I…” Channing threw back his head and roared, the cat right there.

  Then Channing turned and ran. Bowie didn’t even stand a chance of catching that lean body, and he found himself reaching, blinking.

  This wasn’t about him. Well, okay, it was a little, but Channing was marked, mated, the lion right there at the surface, primed for sensation. More accurately, this wasn’t about Channing not wanting to be with him. It was about Bowie not making sure Channing felt safe, protected. He needed to show Channing he wasn’t just a lover, and not just an old friend.

  He needed to show Channing he was the only one the man should do scenes with anymore. That he was a strong, capable Dom.

  That this wasn’t a fucking job. It was them. Their life.

  He was damn well going to show Channing that they were together, and from now on, that part of Channing was only for him. And hopefully Andy.

  Oh God. Andy. Andy and him -- they could turn Channing inside out together. He had always been a natural, able to be yielding and giving or strong and demanding when the situation called for it.

  Channing, though, it was his right, his duty, his honor to protect and love, and to give his boy what he needed. Bowie finally shook himself and found his shoes. He had to figure out where Channing was off to, so he could stop this before it started.

  He needed Channing to understand who his Dom was. Finding Channing’s planner took only minutes. His anal boy kept track of everything.

  The Iron. God, sometimes he just wanted a club named Joe’s or Fudge Packers R Us. Bowie chuckled. He’d have to tell one of his clients about that one. Lane would no doubt use it.

  Leather. He needed something… No. No. A suit. Humans needed leather.

  He just needed to prove who he was.

  It was time to go get his boy.

  * * *

  His head was pounding and he paced the wee dressing room, trying to calm the fuck down. The last thing anyone needed was him playing Mr. Psycho Kitty in Chains.

  Bowie was everywhere. Fucking everywhere. Inside him. Against him.

  On his skin.

  Not that he minded. Not a bit, normally. This job, though. This job made Bowie claiming him a little untimely. A little harder than he expected.

  Complicated.

  Bowie always made things complicated.

  Channing smiled, grabbing a towel to wipe his sweaty hands. Bowie had never been easy, not even as a kit. Now that he was in his prime, Bowie was a fucking juggernaut of complication.

  Okay?

  Okay.

  Clothes?

  Clothes.

  Leather or easy-off?

  He should have asked Rick, the Dom who was doing the lesson. That was what this was, after all, a demonstration. Oh, he could text. Right.

  He grabbed his phone, texting Rick with Clothes?

  The reply came back immediately. Easy-off.

  k.

  Easy-off it was. Loose gauzy pants, open shirt with a tie at the waist, sandals.

  Bingo.

  He dressed, his skin overly sensitive, his chest rising and falling too fast.

  He was fucking out of control, which was totally not him. Absolutely. He needed to find his center. Do a few yoga poses.

  He bent forward at the waist, rocking back and forth to release some tension. He couldn’t do this, but he couldn’t let Rick down. The man had been good to him.

  Goddess, he didn’t know what to do.

  “Chan? Honey?” Little Misha grinned at him from the door, all shaggy and blond and cute as a button. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Okay.” He stood up, posed. “Tell me I’m beautiful.”

  “You’re perfect. Every eye in the room will be on you.”

  His stomach knotted up. “Yeah.”

  “Come on.”

  He wanted to go home. Damn it.

  Instead, he followed Misha out the door, heading for the instruction room. At least it was by invitation only.

  He caught himself growling, forced the sound down. Be good. Deep breaths. What the heck were they demonstrating tonight? He couldn’t remember.

  Maybe he hadn’t even known. When he normally would be checking in with Rick a day or two ahead, he’d been fucking like bunnies with Bowie. Oh fuck. Was he supposed to be completely cleaned out? He sure hoped not.

  No. No, for ass play Rick wanted a plug in, right? Right.

  He stepped into the darkened room, a spanking bench there, lit up, straps to hold him down.

  Oh. Oh, he couldn’t do this.

  He stopped short, shook his head, and a solid hand came to rest on the small of his back, warm, sure and immediately comforting. Not Rick. Rick always wore gloves.

  “Are you ready, Channing?” Bowie asked him.

  “What?” He tried to spin, his eyes burning in his head.

  Bowie held him in place, hands firm, voice low-pitched but calm. “Rick is allowing me to stand in tonight.”

  “Oh.” The incredible stress dissipated with a pop, leaving him shaken and weak-kneed with relief.

  “Do you need a moment, love?” Bowie stroked his back, up and down, as if no one else were there.

  “No. No, I’m good.” He could breathe. He was fine.

  “Good. We’re doing a simple spanking scene today, love. I need to know what signal you want to use, as I may gag you.”

  He placed his thumb and finger together, formed a zero. “I might get hard.”

  “Is that bad?” Bowie sounded amused now.

  “It’s just not normal.” His nostrils flared as he scented Bowie’s sudden rush of desire.

  “No?” Bowie stroked his hip, then his ass cheek. “Rick has explained to the club members, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He got to the stage, stripped down and climbed on the bench. Bowie fastened the straps around his upper thighs and his waist, but left his hands free. The question trembled on the tip of his tongue, but Bowie laid a hand on his back.

  “Only when spoken to, love. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Love.

  The word echoed through him, over and over until the sound turned into “mate.”

  “Good. I’m going to start with a light paddle. They want to see a variety of instruments.” Unlike Rick, Bowie touched Channing while he talked, petting the line of his spine, the curve of his ass.

  Bowie started talking and Channing let himself float, focusing on the touches. The first few blows of the paddle barely registered, Channing too focused on Bowie’s presence. On the fact that Bowie was here, the two parts of his life colliding.

  The sting began to make itself known on blow four or five, his skin heating a tiny bit. Bowie had a good stroke, not too light, not hard enough to be too much too fast.

  The paddle was tossed aside, for a soft flogger, the tails dragging on his skin. He shivered at the too-light touch, knowing it was deliberate, that Bowie wanted him to have as much sensation as possible.

  The flogger started falling, slow and steady, the ends of the tails barely biting. The touch of leather felt more like a caress to begin with, a lover rubbing on him. The intensity grew, his cock filling, his balls drawing up and a soft moan escaping him.

  Bowie slapped the flogger against his thighs, shorter, harder blows that made his toes curl.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His hands opened and closed, and he sucked in air. He tried hard not to wiggle. He was strapped, so he would look as if he were struggling, which he wasn’t. He was just surprised, pleased at how good Bowie was.

  “Now the crop. Reach back, love, hold yourself open for me.”

  Channing’s eyes went wide, fingers clenching as he fought not to growl. It was the hardest thing he’d done in months, to reach back and spread. This was why his hands were free, and he wanted to hide instead of being a good boy.

  “That’s it,” Bowie murmured, voice like a balm on his skin. “I know how hard this is.” Bowie’s lips brushed his shoulder, feather light. “Wait ‘til we get home, and I’ll prove how good you are.”

  Then the crop came down on him, the burn making him cry out.

  It crossed his ass, then crisscrossed, and then it fell on his exposed hole.

  He jumped, his hands jerking so he lay open even more. Channing bit his lip, trying not to shout.

  “Do you need the gag?” Bowie paused, the crop just grazing him.

  He nodded, fighting his sounds with everything he had. He knew he needed to be the consummate sub at this place, knew they wanted him to be quiet, subservient. Bowie moved away, stirring the air over his hot skin, then returned with a gag, a leather bit that buckled on the back of his head.

  Channing had a moment of pure hysteria, but Bowie was there, close, staring into him. Those eyes burned into his, glowing, the cat right under the surface.

  Easy. Easy. The words echoed inside him.

  He nodded slightly. Yes. He could chew on the bit, let it take his sounds.

  The blows started again, sharp, burning, rocking him to the bone. Bowie had precision, but he also knew Channing better than Rick, knew what spots would make him crazy. His hands clenched on his own ass as Bowie smacked his fingers.

  “Now my hand, love. Keep yourself open.” The crop dropped to the floor.

  He gritted his teeth on the gag, but nodded. He could do this. Hell, he craved this -- the intimacy, the heat.

  Bowie’s pants brushed his skin, his hip and thigh.