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Max stared at them, then slowly lifted his gaze to me.

“You brought those to watch me turn into a dragon.”

“I brought them to a farm. With you. For a weekend.” I set them on the ledge of the stall beside us. “Call it forecasting.”

“You didn’t know what I was going to show you.”

“No, but I knew I was going to want you.” I hooked my fingers into his jeans and tugged him off the post. “I always want you after. After games. After you yell at rookies. After you stand in a doorway looking like you’re about to say something and then don’t.” I got the button open. “So. Pockets.”

He laughed, low and startled, and there was something raw underneath it that made me want to stop and hold him, along with something considerably hotter that made me want to do anything but.

“You are the least romantic man I have ever met.”

“You’re the one who purrs, Renaud. Get on your knees.”

Every trace of laughter disappeared from his face.

It wasn’t fear. I knew what fear looked like on him now because I’d seen it in the clearing, in that horrible frozen second before I’d said anything. This was something else entirely, something that looked a lot like wanting to be told what to do for once in his goddamn life.

He got on his knees.

I stripped the jeans off him from behind while he braced his hands in the loose hay, and Christ, the sight of him. All that size and strength folded down on a barn floor, shoulders bunched and head lowered as he waited for me. The silver at his temples, the muscle running down his back where wings had been half an hour ago.

I put my hand flat between his shoulder blades and felt him shiver.

“You’ve done this before,” I said. It wasn’t really a question, but I needed to hear the answer.

“Toys.”

I stilled. Toys weren’t the same thing, and there was no fucking way I was going to hurt him because both of us were too impatient to think.

Max looked back at me and apparently read every thought on my face. “Big fucking toys.”

Despite everything, I nearly laughed.

“I know what I can take, Ash.”

I knelt behind him slowly because my ribs let me know exactly what they thought about the angle, then pressed my mouth to the base of his spine and felt his breath leave him in a rush.

“I’m not ever hurting you,” I said against his skin. “Any time.”

“You won’t.”

“Tell me if—”

“Oui.”

There it was, the French slipping out before he could catch it.

I took my time with him, ignoring his impatience and the muttered complaints that gradually slipped from English into French as his control frayed. When I found what made his arms shake, I stayed there until he dropped his forehead to his forearm and said my name like a complaint.

“Ash.”

“Mm.”

“If you make me wait any longer, I am going to throw you into that stall.”

“Ribs.”