Page 20 of Tender Wild

From the hallway, Psycho reappeared, creeping along the edge of the room with suspicious eyes locked on Jared. She darted across the coffee table, knocking magazines to the floor, then leaped to the bookshelf. Yellow eyes glared down at them as she knocked a paperback to the floor, tail lashing.

Then, living up to her name, she raced across the back of the couch before furiously scrabbling back out of the room.

“Your cat needs therapy,” Jared muttered. “Or an exorcist.”

Miguel snorted, remembering the time Suero bathed her. Psycho had tried to carve him up with her nails. “If you want to sprinkle water on her, be my guest.”

His hands worked their way to Jared’s shoulders, kneading the tense muscles with just the right amount of pressure. Every knot he found, he pressed his thumbs into, working out the stiffness with slow, firm movements. Each press drew a soft gasp from Jared, whose head dropped forward.

“Too hard?” he asked, easing up slightly.

“God, no.” Jared’s voice came out rougher than before. “Feels amazing.”

Miguel smiled, moving his hands lower, tracing the curve of Jared’s spine through his thin T-shirt. The fabric bunched under his palms, revealing a sliver of skin above the man’s jeans.

Shit. He had Venus dimples. Miguel forced himself to focus on the massage and not the smooth skin he was dying to run his tongue over.

“These motorcycle muscles need attention,” he murmured, working his way down to Jared’s lower back. His fingertips traced the waistband of the guy’s jeans, then slid beneath his shirt to make direct contact with warm skin.

Jared sucked in a quick breath. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

“Got a better name?” He kneaded the tight muscles at the base of Jared’s spine, feeling them gradually loosen.

“Torture devices,” Jared suggested, his voice hitching when Miguel hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Death traps. Instruments of—oh.” The word dissolved into a soft moan as Miguel pressed into a knot, the tiny sound sending blood rushing to his cock.

Another feline blur shot across the room—Psycho making her displeasure known—but he barely noticed. His focus had narrowed to where his skin met Jared’s, to the warmth radiating under the fabric of his shirt.

“Arms next,” Miguel murmured, voice rough at the edges.

Jared obeyed without protest, letting Miguel work his biceps, forearms, and wrists. When his fingers brushed the sensitive skin at Jared’s inner elbow, a small tremor passed through the cheetah’s body.

“Cold?” Miguel asked, though the room was warm.

“No,” Jared muttered, his voice husky in the quiet room. “Definitely not cold. But my thighs are the real problem,”

Miguel paused, fingers stilling. “You asking me to massage your thighs, mi solecito?”

A flush crawled up Jared’s neck. “I mean…if you want, just, they’re really sore from the ride—”

Miguel chuckled, amused by the fumbling words. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

“Hard to relax with a demon cat plotting my murder.”

“Forget about Psycho. Focus on this.” Miguel’s thumbs pressed deeper into a cluster of knots.

“Focusing,” Jared murmured.

Miguel slid his hands lower, working along sleek muscle. “Turn sideways. Need better access to your lower back.”

Jared turned until his profile faced Miguel. Beneath his hands, the tension started to melt away.

Drawn by an impulse he couldn’t resist, Miguel leaned forward, brushing his lips over the nape of Jared’s neck. His hands continued their work, sliding around to the cheetah’s sides, feeling ribs expand with each breath.

Jared went completely still, muscles tensing. For one gut-wrenching moment, Miguel thought he’d misread everything.

Then a catch of breath, the slightest arch, before Jared’s back melted against his chest. The sudden contact sent heat rushing through his veins.

“This okay?” He breathed in the scent of citrus.

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