This is the last installment of the Cat and Mouse trilogy. If you liked this, look for Mouse Trap and The Naming of Cats for more about the cat and mouse.

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The mouse was dreaming. He twitched as he slept, curled up in his favorite spot in the second-floor linen closet. He It was dreaming of the past, before he had come to this house of cats and claws, bait and traps. Dreaming of music, smoke, dancing. Rushes of pleasure and body heat followed by lonely, endless cold hours before dawn.

They were not good dreams.

The mouse’s legs jerked in reaction to an old memory and his foot hit the baseboard beneath the lowest shelf. He awoke for a moment, blinking in confusion and dull pain. Then the scent of fresh linen and cedar filled his nose, and he remembered where he was.

His stomach growled, and the mouse pressed a hand against his flat belly, his fingers curving over his hipbones. He had to eat. He was getting too thin again, and if the cat caught him this way, weak and ill with hunger, there would be hell to pay. The cat had no tolerance for its mice not taking care of themselves.

The mouse’s fingers slid over his skin, tempted by the thread-like scabs that laced his chest and abdomen. The cuts and scratches were only a couple of days old, but they were already healing – as much as they had hurt at the time, none of them had been deep. Now they itched faintly, enough that running his fingertips over them made them tingle with sensation. He knew that if he scratched, he would pull the tiny scabs and it would sting a little, like shallow pinpricks on his skin.

He drew his hand away, to save that pleasure for later.

Hungry.

The mouse made his way down the steps, slowing as he neared the bottom, where the dark, rich aroma of coffee filled the air. It was freshly made, a whole pot, judging by the strength of the smell. Only three people made coffee in the morning – two of them the oldest, most daring mice, who feared the cat less than the others. The last was the cat itself.

The mouse paused as he took the last step, his growling stomach helping him muster his courage. At last, he peeked around the doorframe, into the sunlit kitchen. What he saw made him whip back around to the relative safety behind the wall.

It was the cat. It sat reading the paper at the table in the breakfast nook, its blond hair glowing in the mid-morning sun, its long, lean body relaxed. One hand loosely held the edge of the page it was reading, the other touched the handle of its steaming mug.

The cat was dressed for business: silk shirt, wool slacks, black socks and slim loafers. It wore a watch with a black leather strap, and a faint hint of cologne joined the scent of coffee. So, maybe the cat had somewhere else to be and did not have time to play with a careless, curious mouse. Before he could stop himself, the mouse had slid forward until he could curve his head around the corner and see the cat again.

The mouse couldn’t see its face, concealed behind a golden curtain of hair. He couldn’t see the sharpened claws that tipped the cat’s elegant fingers, but he knew – oh, so well – that they were there. The mouse knew, too, the warm skin and hard muscle that lay beneath the soft folds of the cat’s shirt. He knew what fire could burn within the cat’s cool green eyes.

So beautiful...

The thought did not shock the mouse as it should have. He had thought it before, and it was the truth. Beautiful, skilled, generous... the cat was the only person in the world who understood what Davey needed, and knew exactly how to give it to him.

The cat’s hand moved, bringing the cup to a mouth still hidden behind its hair. A sip, barely audible, then the cup lowered again to the surface of the table.

The mouse focused on the cup, the memory of the cat’s full, sensuous lips suddenly leaping into his mind. The cat’s lips on his; the cat’s mouth on his skin; the cat nipping and licking... The mouse bit down on a whimper borne entirely of memory.

Are you afraid? The cat’s low, purring voice echoed in the mouse’s ears. I warn you, pretty mouse—

The cat’s entire arm moved as it turned the newspaper to the next page. The mouse watched its hands, looking for the sharp points his skin remembered so well. There – there was one, on the index finger of its left hand. It glinted in the sun and then was gone, hidden behind the paper.

Another sip of coffee, another brush of lips against ceramic. The cat lifted its head, shook back its hair, just in time for the mouse to see its throat move as it swallowed.

– your hungers will be harder to control now—

The mouse’s stomach growled softly again. The cat closed the newspaper and took another sip that had an air of finality about it. It rose, laying the folded paper down on the table, but keeping the cup in its hand. Such strong, fluid movements. The cat didn’t walk, it flowed.

– and food isn’t the only bait that tempts you anymore.

The mouse tensed as the cat strode to the sink and set its cup down. But the cat didn’t look up, didn’t notice the wide-eyed, hungry mouse watching it from behind the doorframe. The cat turned back to the table and lifted a jacket from the back of its chair. A hand disappeared into a pocket and emerged with keys, the clink and jangle breaking the silence.

Green eyes flicked toward the mouse – only an instant, a glance, but they struck the mouse like a physical blow. Such desire in them, such possessive heat...

“Goodbye, Davey-mouse,” the cat said, his voice rich and warm. He stepped toward the door that led to the garage. “I’ll see you tonight.”

The door clicked shut and Davey shook himself out of his reverie. Had he just stood here, half-exposed, for minutes on end, watching the cat? As if he did not know what it meant to be a mouse, as if he had never felt those claws opening his skin, as if he had never screamed in the cat’s embrace?

Yes.

Davey sagged against the wall as memories of exquisite pain and incoherent pleasure rolled through him, stealing his strength. He closed his eyes, his tongue running along lips suddenly parched with thirst.

“Yes,” he whispered.