“Tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“We’ve made our own pack, Jane. We’re two monsters who do as they like, when they like. Everyone else had best stay out of our way.”

“Ooooh, God, I love it when you talk like that…”

“How about when I do this?” He leaned down and nibbled on her impudent nipple, running his tongue over the velvety bumps of her areola.

“Oh, God.”

“Or this?” He sucked hard and nipped her very, very lightly.

“Ummmmm…”

“I love you.”

“Ummmm. Me, too. Don’t stop.”

He laughed and bent to her warm, lush flesh. “Not for a hundred years, at least.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Epilogue

From the private papers of Richard Will, Ten Beacon Hill, Boston, Massachusetts

I’m in love! No entries of late—too busy. Too much to do just to keep up with my lovely monster. She’s everything I ever wanted and, even better, I appear to be everything she ever wanted.

“No more time to write today—we’re breaking in a new chef. He’s used to catering large office functions, so he should be able to keep Janet satisfied.

“I suppose I’ll give up this journal very soon. I realize now I wrote in it as a way to stave off my loneliness. No need for such distracting tricks any longer.

“Must go—my bride has just playfully tossed a marble bust at my head to get my attention. I think I’ll chase her down and spank her.”

There’s No Such Thing as a Werewolf

Chapter 1

As any werewolf knows, smells and emotions and even raised voices have colors and texture. And as any blind werewolf knows (not that there were any besides him to the best of his knowledge), you could take those smells and emotions and conversations and do a pretty good job of seeing. Not a great job, comparably speaking, but enough to get around. Enough to have a solid sense of the world.

“But I can’t be pregnant,” Mrs. Dane was saying. “There’s just no way.”

“There’s at least one way.”

“But I’m infertile! The clinic said!”

“Accidents happen,” he said cheerfully. He knew she was stunned but pleased. And as soon as the shock wore off, she’d be ecstatic. He could have told her that her fallopian tubes had managed to unblock themselves over the years, but that would raise awkward questions. After all, he was just her G.P. He wasn’t treating her for infertility.

“I’d say you’re”—Thirty-nine and a half days along—“about six weeks pregnant. I’m going to write you a scrip for some prenatal vitamins, and I want you to take two a day. And the usual blandishments, of course—ease off alcohol, don’t smoke; blah-blah-blah. You know all this.” Mrs. Dane was an OB nurse.

“Yeah, but…I never thought I’d need it.”