“Woman,” he said in a ragged voice, “you might kill me.” “I would never wish to kill my wolf,” she said solemnly. Then her naughty smile peeped out. “Unless it is la petite mort.” He chuckled. He knew that phrase, too: the little death. Thankfully, that was the sort of death that allowed for resurrection, even if his refractory period wasn’t what it had been in college.
