he returned to his pond. He took a long drink of the cold, green-tasting water. Then he padded quickly around the perimeter of his yard, pausing every several feet to mark his territory. He was going to go inside where it was warm and dry. But instead he darted through the poplar trees. He glanced with slight interest at the little house, at the collection of cars and trucks that huddled behind the house and smelled of old metal, at the splintery porch and piles of empty bottles and cans. The lights were on inside, and he could make out voices, then tinny laughter, followed by bright, bouncy music.
Dylan pissed on the corners of the porch and then, for good measure, around the edges of the weedy yard.
The back door to his own house was still open. When he got into the kitchen he shook droplets of condensation off his fur. In the hallway he found a bit of ham that he or Chris had dropped at lunchtime, and he snatched it up. He clambered up the stairs—not liking the way his nails slid on the slippery wood—and into his bedroom. He hopped onto his neatly made bed, turned around a few times, and, dimly thankful that for some reason the change back to human was considerably less traumatic than the change to wolf, collapsed into a deep and contented sleep.
Chapter 7
W HEN Dylan woke nude on his bed, there were grass stains and dirt on the duvet and grayish hairs clinging to his pillow. He had no idea how to enforce a no-animals-on-the-bed rule when he was both master and… pet. Or something.
But aside from the housekeeping issue, he felt better than he had in a very long time. That terrible yearning he usually felt the morning after a change was gone—the wolf had run and fed and was content to rest for a month. His memories of the previous night were jumbled, perhaps because wolf thoughts didn’t set well in a human-shaped brain, but he knew he’d felt good and that the only casualty had been Thumper.
He also remembered nosing around next door, and his feelings about that were a little more unsettled. What had he been looking for? God, what if Chris had come outside, maybe to take a leak off his porch again, as he had every right to do. But he hadn’t, and hopefully wouldn’t that one night a month when the moon was full.
Dylan stood and stretched hugely. He was filthy and covered in countless fine scratches, especially over his belly where the fur had been a little thinner and the brambles caught him. He padded into the bathroom. While he waited for the water to heat and the tub to fill, he used the toilet, then brushed his teeth—ugh, fur in his molars—and looked down at his dick, which felt as languid as the rest of him.
His tub was huge, and the water felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an honest-to-god bath. He wondered if purchasing scented salts would be too gay even for him. His mind meandered lazily to the house he was designing for the firm and to his intentions for his own kitchen. Of course that reminded him of Chris. He was sorry they wouldn’t be working together today, although he didn’t know quite what to expect the next time they faced each other. Had Chris been teasing him with that kiss? It sure as hell had felt authentic. Dylan had never known his gaydar to be so off, but then he’d never met someone like Chris before.
Since his turning a couple of years before, things had been difficult. First, it had taken Dylan several months to accept that he was now a werewolf. Yeah, he’d known that Bad Things Happened. If the fairly unpleasant process of coming out to his family hadn’t taught him that, the sudden and premature deaths of his parents would have certainly driven the point home. Part of accepting what he had become had involved acknowledging the fact that he would never be able to have a serious love relationship. Which was ironic, considering that before the bite nobody had paid him much attention, and after the bite men seemed to find him
Dylan pissed on the corners of the porch and then, for good measure, around the edges of the weedy yard.
The back door to his own house was still open. When he got into the kitchen he shook droplets of condensation off his fur. In the hallway he found a bit of ham that he or Chris had dropped at lunchtime, and he snatched it up. He clambered up the stairs—not liking the way his nails slid on the slippery wood—and into his bedroom. He hopped onto his neatly made bed, turned around a few times, and, dimly thankful that for some reason the change back to human was considerably less traumatic than the change to wolf, collapsed into a deep and contented sleep.
Chapter 7
W HEN Dylan woke nude on his bed, there were grass stains and dirt on the duvet and grayish hairs clinging to his pillow. He had no idea how to enforce a no-animals-on-the-bed rule when he was both master and… pet. Or something.
But aside from the housekeeping issue, he felt better than he had in a very long time. That terrible yearning he usually felt the morning after a change was gone—the wolf had run and fed and was content to rest for a month. His memories of the previous night were jumbled, perhaps because wolf thoughts didn’t set well in a human-shaped brain, but he knew he’d felt good and that the only casualty had been Thumper.
He also remembered nosing around next door, and his feelings about that were a little more unsettled. What had he been looking for? God, what if Chris had come outside, maybe to take a leak off his porch again, as he had every right to do. But he hadn’t, and hopefully wouldn’t that one night a month when the moon was full.
Dylan stood and stretched hugely. He was filthy and covered in countless fine scratches, especially over his belly where the fur had been a little thinner and the brambles caught him. He padded into the bathroom. While he waited for the water to heat and the tub to fill, he used the toilet, then brushed his teeth—ugh, fur in his molars—and looked down at his dick, which felt as languid as the rest of him.
His tub was huge, and the water felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an honest-to-god bath. He wondered if purchasing scented salts would be too gay even for him. His mind meandered lazily to the house he was designing for the firm and to his intentions for his own kitchen. Of course that reminded him of Chris. He was sorry they wouldn’t be working together today, although he didn’t know quite what to expect the next time they faced each other. Had Chris been teasing him with that kiss? It sure as hell had felt authentic. Dylan had never known his gaydar to be so off, but then he’d never met someone like Chris before.
Since his turning a couple of years before, things had been difficult. First, it had taken Dylan several months to accept that he was now a werewolf. Yeah, he’d known that Bad Things Happened. If the fairly unpleasant process of coming out to his family hadn’t taught him that, the sudden and premature deaths of his parents would have certainly driven the point home. Part of accepting what he had become had involved acknowledging the fact that he would never be able to have a serious love relationship. Which was ironic, considering that before the bite nobody had paid him much attention, and after the bite men seemed to find him
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