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nonchalantly, and they both trotted over to the front of the cabin. Since he was the one with
fingers, Leander opened the door.
They tumbled out onto the porch, into the snow, and ran.
++
The next two days were busy. They shoveled snow and Axton helped Leander pack his
bags, and their progress was slowed by the way they stopped every few hours to make out
wildly. They slept not just next to each other at night, but tangled together, entwined. Those
two days were possibly the best of Axton's life.
So of course: those two days flew by.
Axton deliberately overslept on the third day, in case it would help.
It didn't, but they had sleepy blowjob time before Leander rushed off to stuff the last few
things into his car. All too soon, Axton was standing on his porch, watching him go.
"Are you going to howl good bye to me this time?" Leander asked, swooping in for a quick
kiss as he took the lunch bag Axton was holding. "As usual?"
"Ah," Axton said, "So you heard, all those times."
"Every one," Leander confirmed, "I always thought the sound was so sad."
"It was," Axton said, ducking his head. "I never knew when you'd be back, if ever." He didn't
mean to sound plaintive, but a trace of melancholy twinged his voice.
"If you got your fucking phone fixed," Leander said, stepping down and tossing his lunch
into the car, "I might be able to let you know."
Axton scoffed and kicked at a clump of snow. Leander smiled.
"Spring," he said gently, "I'll be back in spring."
"Winter is my best season," Axton said, "Always has been." He paused. "But spring is good,
too."
"You owe me the mountain," Leander reminded, "It's been almost a year."
"Oh," Axton said, "I went without you."
"You dick," Leander said cheerfully, "Then I'll collect the other thing you owe me."
"And what's that?" Axton asked, stepping down off the porch.
"You said we'd go dancing," Leander said, "At a club."
"Sure," Axton said.
"And there's no gay club here," Leander went on.
"Nope," Axton agreed.
"So I figure we'll do it when you come visit me," Leander concluded, "In the city."
"Right," Axton said.
"I bought you plane tickets," Leander informed him.
"That's great," Axton nodded.
Leander beamed.
"Bye, lover," he said, stealing another kiss, this one more lingering.
"Mmm," Axton said, muffled, but then, tentative and hopeful once Leander broke off and
walked to his car, "See you in spring?"
"Your plane tickets are for two months from now," Leander called out after pulling his car
door shut.
Axton laughed.
Leander waved.
"Oh, god," Axton said suddenly, in realization, "You're serious."
Leander grinned and shifted into drive.
This time, he watched Axton grow smaller and smaller in the review mirror, knowing he was
watching. This time, they kept on waving to each other until the car was out of sight.
Axton dropped down to his knees, and then onto furred black paws. A symphony of love
and glory and joy welled up in his chest, and he threw his head back to the sky.
This time, the howl that followed Leander down the road was a song of triumph.
About the Author
S.P. Wayne graduated with a degree in psychology and promptly got a job with a zoo's primate
behavior observation team. While there, her main research project involved waiting for
monkeys to have sex on film. S.P. held the camera. After the monkeys successfully had sex,
she had to write a summary about it. Thus began a promising career in academic monkey
porno production.
After spending weeks asking herself, "THIS what I went to college for?" S.P. realized that
this was indeed her destiny: writing about sex. She ditched the monkeys, though.
After she did her time at the zoo, S.P. juggled writing about gay superheroes with her work
in animal rescue and later as an elementary school teacher. Somehow capes turned to fur and
grappling hooks turned into fangs, and she has been happily writing paranormal romance since.
Somewhere in the Southern US, S.P. lives with plants, a twenty pound cat named after a
Norse god, a rescue dog named Ernesto who may or may not be a pit bull, and her Karate
Boyfriend, Z. She enjoys long walks on the beach and drinking hot coffee.
Acknowledgements
Without Mr. Z, Karate Boyfriend Wonder, this book wouldn't have been written. Z drafts up
plans for my dreams so I can reach out and touch them. He's also a great lay, just FYI.
To Sarah: Kurt Vonnegut's seventh rule for writing is this: Write to please just one person.
She is my one person.
I'd also like to thank my dad, who was happy and proud when I told him I finished a novel,
and was still happy and proud when I told him it was about gay werewolves.
Shout outs to my kick ass cover artist, C.L. Hunter, my early readers (Morgana and K.
Conway!), and all the people on the internet who have enabled the writing addiction.
Wait up!
You're at the end of the book, but a click away is the very final page. Amazon's about to give
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