Is love more than words in a song, as meaningless as only words can be?
George tried. He reached up and pressed his hand over Yeri’s, trapping it. He took a few more deep breaths, looked at Yeri and started to laugh again.
Yeri set the bouzouki aside and did the unthinkable. He climbed into George’s lap, pressed himself against the man and started to purr. It worked. George’s hysterical laughter died away, his arms came around Yeri’s body, his hands dug into Yeri’s fur. Yeri rested his forehead on George’s shoulder, allowed his eyes to close. His sense of smell had returned, creeping up on him almost unnoticed, and George smelled wonderful. Like everything good in the world, everything that made Yeri happy, all rolled into one perfect inhaled package. It made his purr ridiculously easy to evoke, and even if he didn’t like his purr, George did.
George started to stroke him, causing the purr to deepen. Yeri didn’t mind. He liked being stroked. He’d been designed to be stroked. One of his trainers had even said that his fur was good for people to stroke.
“Thank you,” George murmured. “God, you feel good. Is this something you’re trained to do? Become a human security blanket until they can calm down?”
“No, master, never. Yeri should not touch you without permission.” Yeri was too comfortable to care if George beat him, just so long as he didn’t stop stroking.
“You always have permission to touch me if you want,” George told him hoarsely. His large, hot human hands continued to stroke him.
Yeri purred louder in response. Those hands were waking his desire, his lust was a force that was always simmering just under the surface, and his growing love for George made his reaction to the man inevitable. Even though he’d avoided scent-locking himself, he still wanted this man, badly.