Tristan woke up to the trailing heat of kisses riding the tendons in his throat. Until that point he’d been having a disturbing dream about some large motorcycle-stealing alligators in the New York City sewer system. One of the reptiles suddenly developed surprisingly soft lips, and the dream evaporated, leaving him in the warm velvet dark between sensation and rational thought. His skin was still warm from sleep and the soft pocket of blankets around him, and so when the kisses continued, his body opened trustingly to the attention.

As he settled more onto his back, he felt a palm sliding over the flat of his stomach beneath the covers. Fingertips touched muscle, counted ribs, and cupped around his side. The hands that never completely stopped moving were familiar…Tristan’s consciousness surfaced through the furry layers of sleep with a slowness that suited the lazy, insistent touches. He recognized the hands and mouth with an easy, gentle rise in the flow of warmth, and curled his arm around the neck that he knew would be just there…let Seto move closer, against and then above him…

They exchanged amused “good-mornings,” against Tristan’s throat and Seto’s earlobe, and as the dance began the scaly motorcycle thieves melted into the space where forgotten nightmares go.

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