Rene looked at his mate, who was sleeping on the divan, long old legs dangling in front of the fire, fine erection making a tent.
Silly Barthe, having a fire when the world was warm, just because it was the holidays. Silly mate, drinking of the green fairy and having dreams that slid down his spine, too.
His tail wagged, moving slowly side-to-side, before he pounced and landing in the center of all that mess.
He’d waited enough for a hundred wolves. He was ready to chase the moon and be hunted.
Bartholome and Rene live in Absinthe (cowritten with Julia Talbot)