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Tiger tiptoed into the living room and smiled fondly at his boyfriend, sprawled across the couch. For someone so particular, he was splayed in the most haphazard configuration—clearly having nodded off where he sat, still in his daytime clothing. Head tilted back over the arm of the couch and mouth open, covered in cat hair from the blanket draped across his awkwardly slumped posture.
It was Tiger’s responsibility—his highest reward—to take care of those small details for his particular lover.
I’m going to bed, Lynx had texted, while Tiger was out. Don’t you dare wake me up. And yet here he was, waiting up on the couch, gilded by the light of a single floor lamp as if under a spotlight.
Lynx knew how happy Tiger would be, to find him here. To have the privilege of putting him properly to bed.
Tiger sat gingerly on the couch and watched his boyfriend breathe for a moment. The soft fall of hair over his face, the parted lips. Tiger was not allowed to take photos, and he obeyed this as he obeyed all of Lynx’s rules. But he tried to imprint on the back of his eyelids this image—Lynx, so soft and adorable, a fussy cat exhausted from hours of hissing at every small annoyance. Now he was small and precious, skin glowing with warmth, nose twitching at the brush of hair with each breath.
Tiger leaned over and moved the lock away, savoring the silky texture between the pads of his fingers. Just so, he would remove every irritation in Lynx’s life. Just so, he would preen and coddle and cherish his lover, without him ever needing to witness the efforts.
As he moved back, he caught a glimpse of black velvet, high on Lynx’s neck above his shirt collar. “Oh, kitten,” he breathed, overcome by a burst of heat through his chest. If he needed any confirmation that Lynx planned to indulge him tonight, it was sated by the sight of that black ribbon.
Lynx sighed, as if reacting to Tiger’s burgeoning excitement, and snuggled deeper into the orange blanket. Tiger smiled. Took one last fond look at his temporarily declawed lover’s slack expression, and then began his work.
First, he removed and folded the blanket, then used the lint roller to remove all cat hair from Lynx’s clothing. He paid fastidious attention to the hems, even lifting Lynx’s shirt to get the inside edges—without brushing the warm skin underneath.
Later, he would remove Lynx’s clothes and wash them—but there was that time Lynx had spat out a black cat hair. The pinch of his delicate brow, the narrowing of his eyes in affront as his pretty pink tongue stuck out, Tiger remembered the moment with a shudder. He could do better. He did do better—to prevent any errant cling, he lint-rollered the couch, too.
Tiger breathed in the warm scent of home, breathed out the stress of the day. Leaving Lynx alone for an evening always sank lead through Tiger’s body, but the soothing movement of roller over cloth eased every lingering line of tension across his shoulders.
His lover might pretend to hoard alone time, might claim that merely the sound of another person breathing irritated him—but Lynx canted towards him in every moment of their domestic life. He might prefer quiet, but if Tiger moved to the kitchen or the couch, it was mere minutes later that Lynx followed, always with a pretense, always with a flicker of annoyance as he resettled into Tiger’s presence.
Now, peace nestled into those beloved features. The silence of the night cuddled close, threaded only with Lynx’s soft breath, a contentment limned with the promise of more.
When not a single cat hair remained anywhere in Lynx’s vicinity, Tiger put the roller away and stood. Now was the trickiest part—getting his particular lover to bed without waking. Tiger was allowed one stirring, because cats were light sleepers, but if Lynx came to full consciousness the ritual would break. Not that he minded his boyfriend conscious, but woken cats were grumpy cats, and Lynx’s claws were sharper than any of the cafe’s felines.
First, Tiger crouched down next to the sofa and slid one hand easily into the gap between Lynx’s back and the arm. He’d propped himself up with a pillow, as if for that purpose, though Tiger knew Lynx did not like to make things easy for him. Tiger’s other arm also found purchase beneath Lynx’s bent legs, and he was beginning to think maybe Lynx’s self-abnegation had relaxed for a single evening.
Then, as he rocked Lynx’s body to create space and prepared to lift, he felt a tug of resistance: Lynx’s far arm, wedged down between the seat cushion and the back of the couch.
Tiger smiled at his silly cat. “Can’t just let yourself have it, hmm?” he said, too soft to bother the sleeping figure.
Lifting his lover wholesale could result in a painful twist to the lodged elbow. So Tiger retracted his arms and stood to hover over the couch. With one hand, he pried the seam of the couch cushions open. With the other, he circled Lynx’s wrist and tugged. As the elbow came free, Lynx huffed and stiffened, shifting sideways towards Tiger’s chest.
“Shhh,” Tiger soothed.
He paused to caress the back of Lynx’s neck, thumb smoothing under one flushed ear—overheating from the blanket? The back of his hand to Lynx’s forehead reassured himself that there was no fever. With a deep breath, inhaling Lynx’s comforting scent of coffee and cardamom from a day working the cafe, Tiger once again slid both arms into position and lifted the bundle of cat to his chest.
Lynx nuzzled into him, nose brushing against breastbone, then relaxed into a sigh.
“That’s it.”
Tiger waited one more moment to be sure Lynx hadn’t woken, then headed to the bedroom, where the golden light of their bedside lamp spilled invitingly into the hallway. He laid Lynx on the sheets, not bothering to cover him. The thermostat was set high—another sign that Lynx was conquering his instincts.
“Good job, kitten,” Tiger whispered, brushing a kiss to one warm cheek. “Letting me take care of you.”
He lifted one of Lynx’s hands, noting the nails. Just that morning, Lynx had broken one while washing dishes. From the bathroom, Tiger fetched the clippers and file, and carefully manicured both hands, then both feet. As he worked, he braced each limb on his lap so the shavings fell over a trash can, knowing the look he would receive if Lynx found anything in their bed.
Nails taken care of, Tiger decided there was not enough moustache to justify shaving. Instead, he satisfied himself with a thorough brushing of Lynx’s hair, keeping each stroke of the boar-bristle brush slow, and smiling at the luxurious shine it left behind. Lynx made a soft noise of contentment, pressing his cheek into the palm of Tiger’s bracing hand.
“Sleep, kitten,” Tiger murmured. When Lynx’s brow twitched again, he began to hum the song Je’Meow always sang as she worked around the cafe. The lilting tune not only resettled his lover, but forced Tiger to take deep, even breaths around the hot coal flaring in his chest. It would be so easy to lean down and press his lips to Lynx’s. So easy, to slip his tongue between plush, half-open lips. Wasn’t Lynx tempting him? Wasn’t it unfair, to have such a lovely, vulnerable creature at his whim and not be allowed to—
Tiger shook his head. Firmed his voice as it shook on a higher note. Finished brushing Lynx’s hair with nothing more intimate than a soft caress of thumb over smooth cheek.
Next, he cleansed Lynx’s face, using a warm, wet cloth to remove the day’s grime from dewy skin. Then, serum and lotion—the mask would have to wait. He smoothed lotion down Lynx’s neck, careful not to catch the velvet ribbon with trembling hands. Couldn’t help leaning in to savor the deceptively mellow coffee scent of his lover as it blended with rosewater sweetness.
“Lynx.” For a single moment, Tiger let his voice break on desperation. For a fleeting kiss of a moment, he brushed lips to soft velvet, and pretended it was warm skin.
Tiger straightened. Tucked his need away and focused on the next step in the ablutions. “Please excuse me,” he murmured, before disrobing his lover. This was where the true test would lie. The trap, if Lynx had set one.
But at every step, he found evidence of Lynx’s permission. A button-down shirt that slid easily from narrow shoulders. Loose, drawstring pants. Boxers that slid down firm thighs with only a whisper of cloth against skin.
Tiger took steadying breaths, focused on the minute weave of fabric under his fingers. Did not allow his eyes to linger where his hands—mouth—wished to touch. Every movement ran on autopilot, a habitual routine of care layered over the molten slosh of his organs.
Lynx—wanted this. Lynx permitted this. What other conclusion could he draw?
The boxers slid free of Lynx’s ankles. Tiger stared at them for a long moment, fine-boned and delicate, leading to perfectly arched feet. He weighted his eyelashes with every ounce of control to keep from glancing up the perfect length of Lynx’s body before he could handle it.
Don’t fuck it up now.
There was still so much to be done. So much of his lover to attend to.
When his pulse calmed to a reasonable clatter, Tiger fetched a bowl of warm water and the softest terry cloth. Lynx stayed lax under his touch, the rise and fall of his chest never faltering as Tiger worked from freshly manicured fingers and toes inward.
Each stripe of the cloth wound carefully towards Lynx’s chest and hips. Behind the gentle strokes, his whole body flushed, from the friction, from the heat, until delicate blue veins stood out stark on the thin skin of his wrists.
Tiger, too, found heat rising through his core, though he kept his touch impersonal. Soon, he told himself sternly. And why was it so much more difficult now, when every day he waited on Lynx’s command? Why now, when he faced the true test, did he find his heart quailing at the thought of what he easily managed under sunlight and Lynx’s anxious gaze?
And the collar—did that mean Lynx wanted him to fail?
The cloth smoothed over one dusky nipple. Lynx made a low noise in the back of his throat and Tiger froze, breath stolen by the sound.
Despite the sharp lance of nerves down his spine, he couldn’t help another swab of the cloth. Couldn’t help glancing down Lynx’s body to see the soft swell of him begin to lift. This time, it was Tiger who emitted the involuntary noise.
He was so close. He could skip ahead. He could take his satisfaction, and Lynx would never know. Would almost certainly not be able to tell, but—
Tiger shook his head, noticing only then the way his hair clung to his neck with sweat.
Steady.
The point was this, the care, the ritual. The point was meticulous service to his lover, not the reward he might claim at the end.
Dragging his gaze up from Lynx’s subconscious arousal, Tiger returned to swabbing each dip of ribcage.
Who knew if Lynx had fully capitulated to Tiger’s care this time? The collar meant that Tiger was allowed to touch without explicit permission, but Tiger had yet to turn Lynx’s naked body over and check how far that allowance extended. He didn’t quite know how he would react if Lynx had actually—
Tiger retracted his touch and shook his head with a sharp jerk.
Focus.
He would care for his lover, and cherish the indulgence of it regardless of how chastely his night ended.
Only after three deep breaths, only when he was sure his hands would not spasm and inflict harsh touch on his sleeping lover, did Tiger continue the bathing process.
His circular caresses narrowed again, until Lynx’s chest was a lovely pink with the friction. Until his nipples hardened and his skin pearled as Tiger’s harsh breath fell across the lingering damp.
One hand splayed over his lover’s heart, fingers spasming in the cloth. Tiger’s other hand slipped from where he had braced it on his thigh. Up the rough weave of his pants, to the seam of his zipper. His eyes fluttered closed as he palmed himself over his linen slacks, fingers spasming in terry cloth, fingers pressing over his cock.
“Kitten.”
His pulse thundered in his palms, in his head, in his ache for Lynx.
“You’re asleep, right, kitten?”
No answer. He pushed down again, rougher this time. Terry cloth and linen. Lynx’s steady heartbeat and his own wild thunder. Grasping need and gentle care.
Control. Where is your control?
Tiger wrenched his eyes open on the echo of Lynx’s voice.
Hands shaking, he lifted the cloth, dipped it in the warm water. Wrung it out with both hands before sweeping it gently down the dip between Lynx’s hip bones, dampening the dark curl of hair.
His mouth watered. Wouldn’t it be lovely, to wake Lynx up like that? Wouldn’t it be efficient, the perfect way to clean this most precious part of his lover? Tiger returned his left hand to his own body, his touch harsh, grinding pain into his cock. Exacting a pre-emptive punishment to balance the gentle sweep of cloth over Lynx’s most delicate skin.
A different kind of control, maybe. But one he thought Lynx would approve of all the same.
He could finish them both like this. He could clean Lynx with his mouth and dispose of his own filthy savagery at the same time. Show Lynx just how good he could be, when no one was watching.
But.
I know you want to fuck me like that, Lynx had said, almost defiantly. Daring Tiger to disagree.
Tiger, of course, had not.
And he knew better than to think he was doing either of them any favors by refusing such a gift. His prickly cat never understood deferral as anything but rejection.
With a sigh, Tiger lifted both of his hands. He’d made a mess of his underwear, but it was only right for his physical state to match the degradation of his wicked heart. Lynx was pristine, flushed red and half hard, but still unsullied by Tiger’s impatience. And that was all that mattered.
He pressed the cloth to his face for one delicious breath. Grumbled at himself for adding the rosewater and ruining his lover’s scent. But Lynx enjoyed florals and again, again he reminded himself: this isn’t about what you want.
Tiger lifted one delicate hipbone, already wetting a fresh cloth to start on Lynx’s back. He almost dropped Lynx facedown in the bed when he turned back from the bowl.
“Oh, kitten.” The nickname was a swallowed choke of gratitude. “You’re too indulgent with me.”
There, flaring out of Lynx’s body, was a utilitarian black plug. Tiger flushed from his ears to his toes, and thanked whatever small god watched over him that he had held onto his restraint. He was so lucky. So damn lucky to be allowed to worship this beautiful man.
Smoothing a hand down the swell of Lynx’s waist, he bit his bottom lip. Just the thought of Lynx preparing himself. Cleaning just this one part of himself—because meticulous Lynx certainly would insist on that much—and then putting his daytime clothing back on. Leaving the rest of himself for Tiger, trusting Tiger with that—
It was almost too much.
Clenching his free hand into his forearm until nail pierced skin, so he bore down on the unworthy urges circling his restraint with sawtooth grins.
Control.
Lynx trusted him to do things properly. A moment of bowed head and careful breath and pinprick pain. A moment of watching Lynx’s steady inhale and reaffirming his promises alongside Lynx’s voice in his head. Control. Cleanliness. Every detail seen to with satisfaction.
These joys his lover had taught him over their time together, and he practiced them as devoutly as any acolyte. There were, of course, moments of doubt along any path to enlightenment.
This would not be one of them.
“Thank you, kitten,” Tiger said. And he put the plug out of his mind.
He carefully arranged Lynx on his stomach, making sure his head was turned gently on the pillow to allow easy breathing. Then, he repeated his ministrations with the towel, avoiding the area around the plug but otherwise cleansing every nook of Lynx’s body. By the time he warmed lotion in his hands, his shoulders rested easy and he was humming again. His neck no longer craned towards Lynx’s ass, his mouth no longer watered.
His cock ached with that ever-present disgraceful urge to jump ahead, but it was duller now. A manageable burden that he carried in the service of his lover. So it was with a light heart that Tiger massaged all the tight muscles of Lynx’s back until his hands ached and the light brown skin under them flushed warm with attention.
After smoothing the last of the lotion up Lynx’s neck, carefully avoiding the ends of his hair, Tiger sat back on his heels and admired his work. Lynx was angelic, clean and dewy in the warm lamplight, hair glossy, nails buffed and filed. Every centimeter of him polished with love, until even his perpetual frown of why are you still here smoothed away.
Almost, Tiger wanted to wake him. See, he would say. See how well I care for you? See how safe you are, how I hold your vulnerability dear? See how I obey, even when you aren’t here to watch?
The thought sent a shudder of pure pleasure through every nerve.
Almost, this was enough—Lynx’s wide, trusting gaze upon waking. Almost, Tiger could be content with that.
Except, he knew what Lynx’s expression would be. He knew, now, the thoughts that would circle in his lover’s brain like scent hounds: you wasted all your time, why did you bother, you didn’t want this gift I gave you.
Except, even a saint could not turn away from the sight of Lynx, sprawled and vulnerable on their bed. Waiting to be taken, owned, possessed—as he never allowed when awake.
Tiger stripped off his own clothes with abandon, hastily folding them only because he knew Lynx would disapprove of mess strewn about the floor.
But it was with utmost care that he drew the plug from Lynx’s body, and utmost care that he cuddled in behind his lover, until their bodies matched from shoulders to hips. Lynx’s smaller frame fit perfectly in his arms, and he nestled into Tiger’s shoulder as if finally coming to true rest. Even the thought that he would ruin that rest couldn’t overwhelm the spike of searing need through Tiger’s core as his hips pressed to the swell of Lynx’s ass.
“Kitten,” he breathed, barely stirring the soft hair at the back of Lynx’s neck. “I can’t hold back any longer.” He smoothed one hand down Lynx’s flank, keeping his touch even and sure and unstartling, though his neck prickled at the audacity of his intention.
Surely the test was over now.
He could hardly believe that Lynx indulged him this way, even in the secret and damp heat of midnight. Tomorrow, kneeling at Lynx’s feet and waiting for permission for a single, unworthy touch, Tiger would remember this moment of wanton hedonism. This moment, when Tiger seized control, plunged into the small and vulnerable body in his arms—it bloomed already into gratitude for the sparkling relief of Lynx’s careful discipline.
How terrifying, to feel this rising, inexorable tide at all moments. How grateful he was for Lynx, and the sure hand on his leash.
“Please excuse me,” he moaned against Lynx’s back, and crossed the threshold.
Lynx’s breath hitched, the only evidence of any effect from Tiger’s entrance. Tiger, on the other hand, tightened from his neck to his toes, strung up with the impossible urge to destroy all of his hard work.
“Kitten.” His breath had to be loud in Lynx’s ear, but the figure beneath him stayed pliable. For a stomach-clenching moment, he wanted to withdraw. Flip Lynx over so he would watch the expression on his face. See the slackness of sleep grow taut as his body betrayed him.
Almost.
Next time, he would remember. If he remembered anything from this moment besides Lynx, blazing hot around him, the beautifully faint stirring of his chest, the delicious smell of sleep filling Tiger’s throat as he pressed forward into complete bliss.
It took everything in him not to thrust with abandon. To preserve the careful slide Lynx had enabled with the plug and copious amounts of lubrication. As he pulled out, bearing down with iron will on the tug and slide of sweet friction, Lynx made a small noise, the softest hum.
Tiger went insane.
Every fantasy of Tiger’s daily life—bending Lynx over a counter in the cafe, pulling him aside during work hours, carrying him to bed when he insisted on another round of cleaning—every impulse he quelled because he was good and Lynx insisted on propriety—
All of it, shattered at the feeling of Lynx, around him. His. Yielding to Tiger’s intrusion without complaint, without even a protest. Trusting, in his vulnerability, that Tiger would—
The muscles of Lynx’s back rippled.
Not yet. Not yet. More. Please—
Tiger pinned Lynx to his chest and snapped his hips without finesse, a thorny spiral of fear winding around the lust and driving him into his lover’s body over and over.
“—Lynx.” His voice broke on the name, as the owner of it stirred in his arms.
“I told you not to wake me,” Lynx slurred, all of his edges blunted by sleep.
Tiger breathed hard through his nose. Shattered all his sharp edges back to bluntness to speak in his usual, complacent tone. Tiger, who knew very well the moment his lover had woken, knew how long Lynx had fought to keep silent and pliant in his arms, only said, “I’m sorry, kitten.”
He placed a hand on Lynx’s chest, pressing him back and taking deep breaths to encourage Lynx to stay relaxed. “Go back to sleep.”
Please, he begged silently, and buried his nose in the back of Lynx’s neck. His cock ached in the agony of half-earned ecstasy. His chest shuddered, heaving Lynx’s body with the force of his breath.
Control.
But the echo of Lynx’s daytime voice was soft, nearly forgotten. Overwritten in the crimson impossibility of Lynx’s sleep-soaked murmur, the small sounds of need falling from his lips as he shifted minutely on Tiger’s cock.
Tiger slid his hand down from Lynx’s soft stomach, praying to finally take care of his lover the way he craved. The velvet hardness he found belied the possibility of sleep—and that thought limned his deepest fear in a lurid fantasy he had never even dared to dream of.
Lynx shifted. “I told you not to—”
Before he could finish the words, Tiger rolled him half onto his front, smothering his face in the sheets. “Shh.” His other hand went carefully to Lynx’s mouth.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Tiger, frozen by his own audacity. Lynx, no doubt weighing future punishments.
They both drew breath, chests moving together, but Tiger was just a fraction faster, just a sliver more desperate and before Lynx could speak, a monstrous roar of need welled up from his core and devoured the smaller, vulnerable figure under him. His hips thrust without permission against Lynx’s perfect ass, to grind him into the mattress and claim ownership of the fantasy which Lynx had been a fool to indulge.
This was why they needed the daytime. This was why he needed control. Tiger groaned, unable to obey the frantic scream of his thoughts, driven into tight heat by the illicit fantasy that this perfection was his to take, even as he ruined it, ruined it.
Only when he buried his face in Lynx’s hair, only when the bitter scent of coffee brought him to his lover in the daylight, expression severe as he told Tiger, once again, how he had failed—
Only then did Tiger manage to jerk to a stop.
“S-sorry. Kitten—I—” he mewled into Lynx’s shoulder, hips still working in grinding circles against all his remaining sanity. “You’re too—” His hand tightened over Lynx’s mouth, as if he could prevent the words, the reprimand, the fully deserved halt to this sublime pleasure that he was about to receive.
But when he finally shuddered to silence, finally grasped the fraying ends of control and braced for all the repercussions—
Lynx yawned. His muscles, still lax with sleep, slackened further. “Hurry up, then,” was the only verbal response, breathed against Tiger’s palm like a miracle.
Tiger hummed, not trusting his shaking jaw to speak.
He wouldn’t dare to countermand a direct order. But he couldn’t imagine hurrying this luxury, now that he—incredibly—seemed to have it.
Every day, he sought out ways to satisfy his contrary lover. Every day, he failed. Lynx’s disappointment was delicious in its own way—more a permission for Tiger to try harder than a condemnation of his latest attempt.
But this was something different.
This was Lynx, allowing himself to be satisfied.
His hand slid from Lynx’s mouth to splay over collarbones, fingers just brushing the velvet ribbon, just tapping against the thin skin at the hollow of Lynx’s throat, to feel the vibrations of every soft sound. Lynx was awake. Awake, and gasping and Tiger’s for just a little longer.
Slowly now, so slowly it made him lightheaded, he withdrew from Lynx’s body. When he pushed back in, when Lynx stayed quiescent, when his conscious body allowed the intrusion, Tiger almost sobbed.
“More.” Lynx turned his head, just enough for Tiger to glimpse his face.
A low moan rippled through Tiger’s chest. His intentions for careful rhythm disintegrated at the sight of parted lips, flushed cheeks, slitted eyes. At the sight of Lynx, all of his hazy veils tugged aside. Falling apart in Tiger’s arms, in a way he would never permit himself in daylight.
Gone, the neutral curiosity of why can’t you control yourself around me. Gone the vague fondness of I suppose you can have it if you want.
“Fuck me,” he said, and his expression was raw, unfiltered need.
Tiger shuddered as his final compulsion to obedience came crashing down. That brittle barrier of wishing to be good, to follow the rules, to maintain Lynx’s rigid need for independence. It melted, collapsed into the wild euphoria of a release made all the sweeter for how tightly Lynx always clutched at the reins.
“Lynx, Lynx,” he moaned, shattering into fractions of coherency. “Lynx, p-please excuse me,” he panted. One final plea for understanding, for indulgence, as he succumbed to the monstrous need built over all the long days of obedience. As he moved his hands on Lynx’s body and presumed to satisfy the need he found matched there. As he finally, finally let ecstasy overwhelm them both.
For one electric breath of aftershock, his nerves still synchronized to Lynx’s heartbeat, Tiger wished that he could linger. That he could merge into the body under him, become the blood, the vitality that pulsed through his beloved’s veins; the mechanism by which his lungs rose and fell. A piece of his body so vital that there would be no separating them, no moment tomorrow when Lynx shied away from their commingled and all-consuming need.
Then Lynx shifted forward, and Tiger fell away, and he remembered that while this was a gift, so was Lynx in the daylight. And even lungs could fail their owners, every piece of Lynx’s body could one day betray him.
Tiger never would.
Lynx turned to look over his shoulder, and while that flicker of red desperation was gone, Tiger thought the veils had not been drawn just yet.
“You made a mess.” The tone jerked Tiger upright, ass to his calves as he knelt on the bed. He had fucked up. He had ruined it. Lynx was covered in filth, after all of his careful—
“‘Ger.” The soft and unfamiliar use of his name lifted Tiger’s chin. He opened his mouth to make futile amends.
Lynx’s pointer finger tapped absently on the black velvet collar, draped loose above his collarbones. Tiger’s collar. Too big for Lynx’s delicate neck. The collar, which his fiercely independent cat only donned when he allowed Tiger free rein.
Tiger’s hand rose to his own, shockingly bare, throat.
“Kitten,” he said, voice hoarse with his own daring. “I’ll clean you up.”
Lynx’s hand flinched on the ribbon—and then gripped it with redoubled certainty as he lay back on the sheets. “Okay.”
Gently, so gently, he pushed Lynx’s legs apart and surveyed the mess he had made of his beautiful lover. Lynx’s eyes fluttered closed, and the hand not on his neck fisted the sheets. Vividly, Tiger inhabited the memory of harsh daylight, where a fully clothed Lynx took him apart and put him back together without once breaking a sweat. How brave his Lynx was.
“Thank you,” he whispered against one silky thigh.
Then, Tiger set about his task with enthusiasm. He tried his best to ignore the suppressed noises from above, as he lapped at the mess he had made of his lover. But even as he finished cleaning between perfectly edible ass cheeks, he found Lynx’s soft belly sticky again with arousal. Tsking to himself—and never once glancing up to mortify his delicate kitten’s sensibilities—he renewed his efforts on Lynx’s front. Cleaned his flushed cock with long, careful swipes of his tongue and, when that only produced more mess, took the whole thing in his mouth to swallow.
He did not hum in approval, as Lynx hardened against his tongue. It was not for him to comment on the needs of his lover. But he did close his eyes, bask in the warm that bloomed through his stomach, spin a fantasy of Lynx grabbing his head, taking what he needed, whining with—
“‘Ger...” Again that soft whisper of his name, and the single breathy syllable flushed him with more pleasure than any orgasm. Still, he was careful never to look up, never to acknowledge that this was anything more than a step in the routine ablutions he had been permitted.
A shuddering whole-body sigh, followed by liquid heat flooding his mouth, alerted him that he had done the job thoroughly to satisfaction. And so he withdrew—but not without one final, presumptuous kiss to the tip of Lynx’s softening cock. It earned him a hiss and a halfhearted swipe to his head, and he did not regret it.
When he finally dared to look up, slitted eyes watched him, glittering with something feral. A street cat, not quite trusting the proffered hand of kindness.
“Clean?” Lynx asked into the waiting silence, as if he couldn’t feel how thoroughly Tiger had administered to him.
Tiger sat back on his heels and nodded. “You can go back to sleep, kitten. I need to reapply your serum again. And a mask.”
Lynx raised an absent hand to his cheek, where Tiger’s first application still shone on flushed skin. Tiger wondered if—hoped—he was imagining those long moments of vulnerability. Of worship.
“What was the point of the first round then?” Lynx shook his head, no doubt knowing better than to expect an answer. “And if I go to sleep, we both know how it will end.”
Tiger paused, already halfway to the bathroom for a fresh cloth and bowl of warm water, heart in his throat.
Lynx wrinkled his nose. “I’m tired, okay? I don’t want to go again.” Color stood out high on his cheeks as he chewed on his bottom lip.
Tiger viciously forced down the urge to pounce back onto the bed. “Then you’ll stay awake? While I take care of you?” It was difficult to keep his voice level. To keep the excitement from vibrating out of his chest into violent joy.
A sigh. Dark eyes watched Tiger, lightened with hope. “I guess I’ll have to. If I want to get any rest.”
“Thank you, kitten,” he said, careful to keep the abject gratitude, the instinct to fall to his knees and kiss Lynx’s bare feet, to a minimum.
“You’re the one—oh, whatever,” Lynx grumbled. But he lay back on the bed and allowed Tiger to minister to him without further protest.
And so Tiger began the ritual again. This time with his lover’s eyes on him, warm and unyielding. This time, with Lynx’s gentle hand threading through his hair, all the thanks he would ever need.