Sam did not understand how long it took for what was the equivalent of the bulbus glandis in Bobby to disgorge. In canines, it might take five to twenty minutes, sometimes more, and he had some sense it was longer, but he didn’t care. The vague awareness of, at some point, the other man slipping out of him, didn’t matter. Bobby had claimed him, changed him, even though he didn’t shift.
They snuggled in a big puppy pile, bodies entwined, Bobby and Chantelle’s hands on his skin, their lips on his flesh. There was something equal in their caresses; both those he received, and those he gave. He drifted.
Somewhere close to dawn, he opened his eyes when Chantelle’s hand brushed across his face. “Sam, honey.” She leaned over. “Forgive us. We need to run.”
For several seconds what she said made
