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About the author:
He was not born in California, but now considers it his home. He loves to travel and dine out with his husband Kit Silver, and can be seen at furry conventions around the world. More information about him and his books is available at http://www.kyellgold.com.
What inspired you to write your book?
A flash of an idea with the two characters that became the scene at the end of the first chapter. The two characters from different worlds bound together with love was a story I was anxious to find out more of–so I had to write it.
Here is a short sample from the book:
walk you home?”
She shrugs. “I know my own way, and I’m not drunk.”
Damn foxes. Goddamn them. I’m about to walk away in disgust when I see that there’s a sparkle in her eyes, a challenge, and maybe, just maybe, this time it’ll be worth the trouble. “Yeah,” I say, “But it’s late, and dark. All kinds of unsavory people hanging around. I wouldn’t want you to get assaulted.”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Her chocolate-brown paw plays with the matchbook on the counter, nimbly threading it between her fingers. I imagine those fingers engaged in other activities and feel myself getting hard.
“I’m sure you can,” I say, “but wouldn’t it be more pleasant to let me take care of you?” I work in a subtle double meaning there.
She hesitates. I decide to play a little of her own game with her, since she’s obviously interested by now. “But, if you’d rather fly solo tonight.” I pretend to get up.
She lets me get to my feet, even lets me get partway to the door. I hear her behind me as I’m passing the big jukebox at the front that’s only there for show. “Well,” she says, “if you’re going to be leaving anyway.”
I turn and see her leaning on the jukebox, small red purse over one arm, that satisfied grin on her muzzle. I offer my left arm, and she takes it, touching me for the first time.
Her arm is light but strong, and it feels good in mine. She barely comes up to my chest, but as we walk out of the place, I have the odd feeling that I am just an orange-and-black striped accessory, like the purse she has shifted to her other arm.
She lives in a run-down row house off campus, without a number or a mailbox, the kind where there are six rooms and twelve students and two bathrooms. She unlocks the door and flicks her tail, waiting for me to make the next move.
“Well…you’re home.” I look at the paint flaking off the door frame.
She gives me one of those smiles. “Are you going to ask me for a thank you for the escort?”
If I do, she’ll drag me into one of those games again. So I don’t ask.
Her muzzle is soft and sweet, and she doesn’t resist my tongue. I reach down to hold her shoulders, and she wraps her arms around my waist. I respond to the soft brush of her tail against my legs by wrapping mine around hers, keeping her in my embrace.
“So you were only drinking water,” I say when we part, panting.
She just smiles again and slides one of those delicate, able paws down my stomach, and doesn’t stop when she reaches the throbbing hard-on below it. “I think you’d better come inside.”
I can’t say anything. I just follow her.