by Huskyteer
“That I’m a little jealous of that cherry,” he blurted, then winced. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Mahri reached over and touched the back of his hand with two fingers. “You already told me you thought I was attractive.” She smiled mischievously, looking straight into his eyes. “And there’s so many interesting ways to take you being jealous of that cherry. I like all of them.”
Okay, there was the obvious innuendo, but what were the other ways? Being helpless in her grip? Being her prey? Silly—and, quite unexpectedly, a tremendous turn-on. Sterling blinked twice, trying not to squirm in his seat. “Wow.” He smiled more self-consciously than before. “I…I think I might have had a little too much to drink.”
“Six ounces of rum for somebody who probably only has a glass of wine once a week?” Mahri laughed. “I know you’ve had too much to drink.”
“So I think… I think I’d definitely better call it a night.” He rose to his feet, then stood still until he felt steady.
“Pay for our drinks, and then walk me home.”
“Sure. But no. I drove here. To…the coffee place. Wit’s End. I’ll drive you home.”
“No, you’ll walk me home. It’s only a few blocks and you need to sober up.”
He took a deep breath, nodding, then flagged down Jesse and paid for the drinks, leaving what he hoped was an extravagant tip.
The night air had gone from cool to brisk in the time they’d been in the Anvil. He checked his watch. Uncomfortably close to midnight. As they turned a corner, Mahri in the lead, the neighborhood grew steadily seedier. He could imagine his parents driving down the street, his mother saying to his father sharply, “Roll up the windows, Hal,” ears flattening at the sight of shifty-eyed cats sitting in row house doorways.
“And we’re here. Almost.” Mahri crossed the street and walked up a short set of steps between two storefronts—one boarded up—and unlocked a cracked glass door to reveal a short hallway. Two more solid doors stood to either side and a worn, unpainted wooden staircase rose dead ahead. “Come on.” She headed up the stairs, each board creaking under her paws.
The second-floor landing in front of her real front door barely had room for both of them. “This must have been fun getting furniture in.”
“There’s a loading elevator facing the back alley, although the landlord doesn’t want us to use it past nine o’clock.” She unlocked the door and stepped in.
“Well, I guess this is—”
She turned around, facing him with her hands on her hips. “Put your finger to the tip of your nose and spin.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You were wobbling most of the way here.”
Rolling his eyes and sighing, he did as instructed. “I feel fine.” Despite his words, when he stopped spinning the room kept going for another two seconds. “Mostly.” He steadied himself on the railing.
“So ‘mostly’ is wolf for ‘shit-faced,’ is it? You’re sleeping it off here tonight.” She motioned for him to follow.
He stepped over the threshold and looked around the place. A studio loft, eighteen-foot ceiling over a varnished but heavily scuffed hardwood floor with a few throw rugs scattered across it. A sofa and two butterfly chairs faced a glass-top coffee table, and a few bookshelves made with “decorative” concrete blocks and wooden planks lined one wall. No television, but she had a nice stereo system. And a queen-sized bed with a big wooden headboard.
“Mahri, I can’t—I mean, I’m glad you’re concerned, but I’ll just walk around the block a couple times, I promise.”
“Just sleep on the sofa. I’m not going to take advantage of you.” She grinned. “Unless that’s what you want.”
He laughed. “It’s not that.”
“Hey, if you don’t think I’d take advantage of you, you haven’t been paying attention.” She reached behind him to lock the door.
He put his hand on hers to stop her, his ears folded back. He felt like he’d regressed to grade school. “I mean this is—just a first date. I wasn’t expecting to spend the night. Even if, you know, nothing happens.” He cleared his throat. “This has been a date, hasn’t it?”
“More of a hookup, which makes it kind of nuts that I’m standing here promising to keep my hands off you.” She ignored his hand and finished locking the door, then looked back into his eyes again. “But you remember, you’re not in charge here tonight, right?”
Sterling’s breath caught. Falling into someone’s eyes always seemed like romantic crap to him, but in a stomach-churning rush he suddenly knew it wasn’t. It was real. It was this. “Mahri…”
“Right?”
He should just turn the lock and walk out the door. He was doing it. Yes, right now. Turning, walking. Back on the rails.
Except he hadn’t. He might as well be stuck to flypaper. This wasn’t romantic crap, it was scary. He tried to picture falling into Lauren’s eyes. He couldn’t even picture Lauren.
“Right?” she prompted again, voice just above a whisper.
“Right,” he mumbled. “But… but I’m letting you.”
She wrapped her hand around his again and led him toward the couch. “I didn’t quite catch that, so I’m going to assume it was ‘Yes, Mahri, you’re completely in charge.’”
They sat down, and he took off his jacket, laying it across the couch’s back, then shifted position so he could look back into her eyes. “Are all rabbit girls this terrifying?”
“Only when we’re hunting.” She put her hands on his shoulders and touched her nose to his.
“I don’t follow much about primal species psychology.” He tried to sound amused, confident, but his voice had gone hoarse. “But I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be the hunter here.”
She moved closer and slid her hands down his back, letting them come to rest above his tail. The touch of the dull claw tips pierced his alcohol fog like a beacon. Or maybe it was the way she had to lean over, across his lap, her chest resting against his. “C’mon, Sterling. We both know who’s caught who.”
“I…” He trailed off as she brushed her lips against his neck, then nipped lightly. The thought he’d been trying to form evaporated as her lips traced up his cheek. The sound of her swallowing the doomed, helpless candied cherry came back to him. He twitched.
The rabbit’s hands came up to the back of his neck and tilted his head down, and she closed her lips around the tip of his ear. He bit back a whimper—or at least tried to. It came out as a soft, longing whine. That made her nip the ear lightly. Sterling jerked back at the nip, but Mahri stayed with him. He toppled onto the couch, head just by the cushioned armrest, the rabbit falling on top of him.
After another nuzzle, though, she drew back. “If your eyes got any wider I think they’d pop out,” she murmured, propping her head and shoulders up over his. This still left her chest pressed against his—and her stomach, and hips, and, as she shifted position, legs. “You haven’t gone too far on those arranged dates, have you?”
The wolf swallowed, ears back. “Well. Sure. We’ve. Uh. This far, at least.”
She smiled and sat up slowly, moving so she knelt over him on the couch, knees pressing against his sides and thighs settling down right on his God he hoped he wasn’t going to ruin his slacks in very short order. Then she sighed, and her smile became more wistful than teasing. “I’m not going to lie. I’d really like to be your first. But the last thing I want you to think when you wake up next to me in the morning is ‘Oh God, what have I done.’” She ran a hand over his chest, then stroked the back of her fingers along the underside of his muzzle.
He swallowed, then smiled lopsidedly. “I guess I seem old-fashioned.”
“Yeah. You do.” She climbed off of him and stood up. “That’s part of what I like about you. I kind of want to…bring you forward.” Her gaze wandered up and down his body in a way that made that phrase searingly suggestive.
Sterling sat up and took a deep breath. “That makes it sound like
you want to train me.”
Mahri lifted both brows and went still for a few seconds, tongue just peeking out between her lips. Then she grinned and started walking toward the closet.
“What was that look?”
“You don’t want to know.” She pulled off her T-shirt, revealing a plain, low-cut white bra and a sleek, well-toned torso. As she unsnapped her jeans, he realized part of him had been perversely hoping she wouldn’t be quite as attractive in a state of undress as she had been dressed. No such luck.
“That just makes me want to know more.”
“Nope.” She got down a blanket from the closet’s top shelf. He couldn’t help but stare at her puff tail—and rump, and legs—as she faced away. “Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
“Take off your shirt. And slacks.” She walked back toward him with the blanket and a pillow.
“I, uh—”
“I’m standing in front of you in my underwear, and even if neither of us are getting off tonight, I’m going to damn well see you in your underwear.” She tossed the pillow onto the couch. “Strip already.”
Sterling did as commanded. “You’re enjoying ordering me around too much,” he muttered.
Her eyes lingered on his boxers a moment. “You’re enjoying me ordering you around, too.”
Sterling grabbed the blanket from her, ears burning. “I can’t help—I mean…” He dropped onto the couch, blanket in his lap.
A smile played across Mahri’s lips. Then she shook her head and walked toward her bed. “We’d both better get to sleep before I lose my willpower.”
He counted silently to ten. Then twenty-five. Then one hundred. Finally he stretched out on the couch, arranging the blanket over him, and closed his eyes. When she turned out the light, he could hear her shifting under the sheets, hear her faint draws of breath. He could all too easily pick out her scent. Some nights he felt a sense of pride, of standing against libertine modernity, for having followed his parents’ dictum not to have sex with a woman he didn’t fully intend to marry. Tonight, though, that was clearly the stupidest, most archaic mindset in the world.
Sterling didn’t remember falling asleep, and for a few seconds when he woke up, he didn’t remember where he was. He sat up quickly, then winced at the abrupt stab to his temples. This must be what a hangover feels like.
That thought snapped the rest of the evening back into focus—fuzzy focus, to be sure, but focus nonetheless. With several high, warehouse-like windows and the always-on lights of the city infusing the sky with a milky glow, Mahri’s pad never became truly dark, quite unlike either the suburban home he grew up in or the equally suburban garden apartment he lived in now.
He looked across the back of the couch toward the bed. Mahri lay only partially covered by the sheet, both upper torso and feet exposed. They were awfully cute paws, although he suspected few rabbits didn’t have cute paws.
Getting up, he made his way a painstaking dozen feet to the kitchen, finding a glass and filling it with tap water. He headed back to the couch, sitting down with a soft groan and taking a long drink.
“I have some Tylenol, too,” Mahri said from right behind him.
He jumped, then looked up. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She moved to sit next to him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Achy but sober.” He took another sip. “Kind of felt like there was an icepick jammed in my right eye for a minute or so, but it’s fading quick.”
She nodded. “You’ve gotta watch out for the girly drinks. They sneak up on you.”
He looked at her.
“Why I stick with bourbon.” She kept her face perfectly straight.
Sterling chuckled, setting down the glass, then ran a hand through his hair. “So. Funny story. I went out to a beatnik coffee shop, got picked up by a gorgeous singer, and ended up going home with her to sleep off a hangover on her couch in my boxers.”
“That’s just weird. What’s the punchline?”
He shook his head, looking into her eyes. “I don’t know yet.”
“Well, wolves should know to watch out for rabbits.” She leaned forward, nearly touching her muzzle to his.
“At least one rabbit,” he murmured, and turned it into a light, gentle kiss.
“At least one wolf.” She put her hands on his shoulders, pressed her lips against his and made her return kiss much less light.
His breath caught, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding the kiss, his tongue against hers, until she drew away.
“I’m going to make you put your pants on. You have work today, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not—”
“It’s nearly five. You’d better get home first to shower, change, and make yourself look less like you had an interesting night.”
He laughed ruefully. “Yeah.” He reached back for his slacks, and started sliding them on. “So…I am going to get your number, right?”
She stood up and crossed her arms lightly. “You sure you want it?”
He paused, looking up at her.
A little grin crept back to her lips. “Don’t get my hopes up for training you if you don’t mean it.”
“Rabbit girls, terrifying,” he muttered, which just made her grin wider. He finished putting on his pants and shirt, then got his jacket and reached for his address book in the inner pocket. “What’s your last name?”
“Give it.” She took the book from him, then headed over to a desk and pulled out a pen. After a few seconds she handed it back, turned to the last page in the “M” section. She’d written “MAHRI” and a phone number across the entire page, in thick, dark green marker.
“Right,” he said with a laugh, putting it away again.
“You remember where you parked?”
“Yes.”
“Need me to walk you there?”
He grinned. “I think I’ll be safe. Are you at Wit’s End every Wednesday?”
She shook her head. “No, but at least once a month. And I’m usually there a couple other nights each week. At the Anvil, too.”
“That one I might want you to be with me at. Although maybe just two piña coladas next time.”
She laughed, then tilted her head. “All teasing aside, you’d better call me, all right? Even just to say you’ve decided you don’t want to see me again.”
“I will, and trust me, I want to know what a second, more intentional date with you would be like.”
“Mmm. Just wait ’til the third.”
* * * *
Sterling didn’t have much trouble finding his car, and it appeared to have been left unmolested through the night. He drove back in a mild, pleasant delirium, but by the time he reached his apartment it had given way to apprehension. Mahri was undeniably amazing, but if he let her into his life she’d turn it upside down. He’d lose Lauren, no question. Alienate his parents. Probably screw up his career. All for a woman he’d known less than a day who talked like she’d have him wearing a leash given half a chance and goddammit why did that image make him squirm in the car seat like that.
As he hung up his jacket, a blinking light caught his eye. The answering machine—a new and intrusive gadget the company, which meant his father, had insisted on buying for him—had messages waiting. Grunting, he went over to the kitchen counter and hit the playback button, listening to the tape as he started to undress again.
“Mr. MacMillan,” a dry male voice said, “This is Jack calling from Baron’s Steakhouse. We apologize for the short notice, but we’ve had a small kitchen fire, and we’re going to have to cancel your reservation for tomorrow night. If you’re able to come to our sister café next door we have an opening this evening, but otherwise we’ll have to set you up for next week. Again, we do apologize.”
Oh, for God’s sake. He’d had everything set up: the chocolate soufflé you needed to order ahead. The flower delivery. The—
The machine beeped and clicked as it went on to a s
econd message. “Sterling? Sterling…? I guess you’re not there.” Lauren sounded agitated. “The restaurant called to say our reservations for tomorrow were cancelled but they could do something for us tonight. Where are you? I called your office and you’re not there either. Did something happen? Were you in an accident? Call me when you get in.”
Another, and the tape stopped.
“Oh, Jesus.” He rubbed his face. He’d call her from the office and explain—
Explain what? That he, of all people, had impulsively gone off schedule, spent the evening at a coffeehouse and a gay bar, and ended up in a strange woman’s apartment? But it’s okay, dear, I didn’t sleep with her, just near her. And I probably won’t call her again, because I might just end up under one of those cute paws and—uh—
Enough nonsense. Enough. It was already 6:20, past time for his morning shower. Maybe he could shave off a minute or two here and there and get back on schedule.
As he headed to the bathroom, a recovery plan started to take shape. Lauren knew he ate out most nights, that he did often work late. Yes, this would work. He’d tried a new place to eat at George’s insistence. Service had been slow. He’d gotten back unexpectedly late and gone straight to bed without checking messages. Conservative, believable. Like him. If he threaded the needle carefully enough, he wouldn’t even have to lie. Much.
He and Lauren would have dinner next week, he’d get her flowers tonight, too, as apology, and everything would be back on track, back on the rails. He’d keep advancing at the family business. He wanted that. He wanted Lauren as his wife. He wanted to stare across the table into her hazel eyes—
He growled and balled his fist. Green eyes! Green eyes, goddammit. Not hazel eyes over a mischievous, beautiful jackrabbit smile.
Sterling wrenched the dial all the way to the left, gritted his teeth, and stepped into the icy stream.
THE DARKNESS OF DEAD STARS, by Dwale
It was standard procedure that personnel awoken from cold sleep were granted four things: a bathroom, a caffeinated beverage, a meal and an hour to shake off the cobwebs. Ordinarily the cafeteria would have been all astir with the motion and half-dazed chatter of a hundred or more crew members fresh from E block’s stasis chambers, but on this occasion Ben found himself alone amidst the grey rows of tables and eye-watering brightness of the bulbs overhead.
