Sleepy Fox Hollow To the house in the pines where the road ends

if there was a time in which wylla had touched him before, mahler did not know it. the flicker of her tongue was like a blaze; it trailed a line of smooth fire over his flesh, set the root of his pelt there to heat. he was hard-pressed to keep himself still.
mahler's control of self was admirable, and yet even he found the bloom of her warmth against him an undeniable dirge to compulsion.
rapid blinking assailed his eyes; he closed them a long moment before slowly bringing his face alongside her own, pausing a moment before up came the broad scarred expanse of his muzzle to seek the same place upon wylla, if she did not first draw away.
a sugared torment; he gave himself only a moment before pouring steel once more into the base of his spine. birdsong in the cold air; the low sound of her breathing so close, so close.
and the totality of her simple touch, the gentle grace of it; the glint of something mahler desperately refused to let himself take as invitation.
it was not. there was nothing reciprocal in this interlude; wylla had reached to him only as a wolf might preen her packmate in passing.
so he told himself; his emotions tangled as strands of woven vine, unsorted, for mahler had not bothered to categorize the things believed only to be felt one time.
now they reared like jungle foliage from the neck of a bottle, spilling over ivy-grown and green, tendriling, spiraling — he locked himself in check.