The man stood, slowly – I hadn't expected him to, at least not without further prodding.  “I'm not armed any further,” he insisted.  “I already removed my weapons.  I wanted us to be on equal terms.”  He arched an eyebrow down at me.  “You don't believe me?”
	“It doesn't matter what I believe,” I said.  “The fact is, you had your hands on me, and that was an intrusion on my decency.”
	The man balked at that, seemingly caught between disbelief and shame.  I momentarily felt a pang of regret for making him feel guilty about anything he'd done, he'd been in the right, after all.  But I pressed forward, despite my reservations.
	“Arms up,” I demanded, in an echo of the position he'd had me in.  I was manipulating the man's dense moral fiber, and I knew it.  But he could still turn me down.  He'd be well within his rights to do so, in fact.
	He didn't.  Silently, and without a visible change in expression, he lifted his arms.
	I felt a heaviness at the back of my throat as I closed the distance between us.  His eyes followed mine as I stepped up to him, and I could sense in the way he looked at me. . . a wandering, halting train of thought.  I knew what was going through his head, I realized.  Because I'd been here, at this juncture, before.  He was convincing himself he'd had no choice in allowing the distance between us to close, like this.  But he had.  And he also knew that, he just didn't want to admit it.
	As I ran my hands slowly down his arms, searching for hidden straps or blades, and of course finding none, my eyes lifted to his again.  I wanted to say 'you could have stopped this', and really grind it in, but I didn't feel I had to.  
	Some people had to feel they'd been pushed, or they weren't comfortable with their choices.   I think that's what he was waiting for, but I didn't actually want to push him, and I didn't want him to feel that I had.  Even if it made him more comfortable.
	My breath was a bit uneven, and so was his.  And even if he was in denial about why, I wasn't.  I wasn't sure when my perception of the man had shifted throughout the course of the night, but I was absolutely certain now of my own mind, and I knew myself too well to lie, even inwardly.  
	“I'm attracted to you, too, you know,” I said softly, as my fingers slowly fell away from his wrists.
	He blew out a breath through his nose, his eyes shifting to the ceiling.  “God, woman, you certainly don't lack for confidence.  I appreciate your candor, but-”
	He stilled when my hands moved to his hips.  They were lean and solid beneath his worn cotton shirt.  The rigidity wasn't entirely in tone, of course, he was stiff because I was touching him. . . but still, I couldn't help the appreciative thrum in the back of my throat.  He wore his clothing loose, lending him an almost scarecrow-like appearance.  I'd expected him to be thinner. . . less dense.
	“I was far more decent about this,” the man commented, after gods-knew-how-long I'd spent resting my hands in one spot.  I blinked, then smiled, biting at my lower lip and none-too-shyly looking back up at him.
	“I'm a woman,” I said, as though he needed to be reminded.  “I'm always decent, and my intentions are always pure.  Isn't that why we need to be protected by you big, strong menfolk?  We're delicate flowers.”
	“Cunning commentary on my culture there,” the man muttered, dryly.  “Although I'll remind you, that's our women.  There isn't anything in the scripture about the inherent purity of your women.  And I was married too long to believe your sex doesn't get. . . amorous- and you are dragging this out,” he ground out, with a frustrated whuff.  “Are you not content yet?'
	“Not done yet,” I said in an almost sing-song tone, still smiling.  I slid my palms just a bit further up his chest, and felt him shudder.  My eyes rose to his.  “Fairly content, though.  How are you feeling?”
	“Please,” he said, his voice sounding raw.  “Please. . . hurry this along.  I don't understand to what end. . . why you're baiting me, but-”
	“If you're being 'baited', it's only in your own mind,” I said.  “I've been fairly direct, but I wouldn't say I've done anything indecent.  You're fighting yourself, not me.”  I moved my hands from his hips to his thighs, to finish the last of the check, with no additional flourish or ceremony.  I'd been hoping the attraction was as mutual as I'd been imagining it to be. . . and I was still quite convinced it was, but if the man was honestly unwilling, then that's all there was to it.  I'm not even certain what my plans would have been had he relented.
	I had just been hoping he would.
	“No more complaints about your age, by the way,” I said good-naturedly, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice as I completed my search.  “You're very. . . solid. . . for a man at any age.”
	“Physical conditioning is a necessity for my work,” the man sighed, “it isn't for vanity.”  After a few moments of silence, he mumbled a “. . . but. . . thank you.”
	“You're welcome,” I said with a soft smile.  “See?  It's not so hard to take a compliment from a woman every once in awh- oh my gods!”  I started, yanking my hand back away from him for a moment, then returning it to his waist just as quickly.  He went ramrod straight when my paw settled back over what I'd found, and then he tried to pull away.
	“You slick son-of-a-bitch!”  I said, aghast, caught between laughing and honestly being offended.  “You thought you could hide this from me?!”
	The man opened his muzzle as if to say something, then just shut it and looked aside, guiltily.  At length, he muttered, “Please at least take your hand off of it.”
	“Like hell!” I snorted, and grabbed at the offending protrusion beneath his britches.  He resisted only a moment longer, then sighed.
	“I'm guessing by the length of the sheath,” I said, sliding my thumb up the ridge of it, “. . . throwing knife?  Like your others?”
	“. . . aye,” he muttered, with another sigh, but this one he cut off, and looked at me accusingly.  “Can you really blame me?  I'd be a fool to entirely disarm myself at any time, let alone around a would-be assassin.”
	“You're the assassin!” I insisted, still vainly trying to keep myself from smiling.
	“Knight Templar.”
	“Whatever!”  I rolled my eyes.  “But, really?  A knife beneath the hem of your pants?  That. . . that seems like it would take too long to pull out to really be useful-”
	Before I'd so much as finished the statement, he tucked two fingers beneath the hem of his britches, came up with the entirely metal blade, and was holding it in front of my face.  The movement was so quick, and so fluid, I had trouble following it.  I blinked at the small blade for a few seconds, before he flipped it around in his paw and dangled it by one finger.  There wasn't really much of a handle to it, nor any sort of guard, so it wouldn't really work for much other than throwing, or shallow stabbing.  Where the handle would have been was just a metal loop through which he presumably tugged it out with one finger.  
	“. . . that's pretty ingenious,” I had to admit.  “Most people check the sleeves.  But still.  Cheat.  I took you for an honest man, and you lied to me.”
	“I can when the occasion suits,” the wolfhound shrugged.  “I don't enjoy it, but don't underestimate me.”	  
	“You underestimated me, too,” I countered.
	“I most certainly did not,” the wolfhound insisted.
	“Oh yes you did,” I crowed victoriously, and dug a hand into my chest fur, beneath the dress to where my breasts were bound.  
	When I produced the long, thin needle I always kept hidden there, (a porcupine needle I'd whittled down on one end to fit neatly in that exact spot. . . no good for much other than stabbing someone's eyes if I was cornered, but still a weapon) the wolfhound's muzzle twitched, and he muttered something I didn't catch, looking angry at himself.
	“What was that?”  I asked with a smirk, leaning in.
	“. . . I said 'I didn't take you for the type',” the canine groused.  “They warned us about that. . . particular hiding spot, on females, when I was in training.  I didn't think checking you there was necessary.  And it's so indecent-”
	“Wait, why didn't you think it was necessary?”  I asked, tipping an eyebrow.  When the man didn't answer right away, I huffed out a laugh.  “Is it because-”
	“I just didn't think you'd be hiding any weapons. . . there.”
	“It's because I'm small-breasted, isn't it!”  I declared, stabbing a finger at my, admittedly, fairly flat chest.  The wolfhound's sudden stammer and his inability to look me in the eyes afterward was all the confirmation I needed.  
	“It's not as though I take issue with that,” the man said defensively, putting his paws up.  “I'm not some crass. . . bar hound. . . ogling women's. . . and my wife was petite as well-”
	“Ah, so it's your preference.”
	“I didn't say that, either!”
	I smirked, “I caught you considering my breasts, and  I out-assassined you.  Take that.”
	“I was considering your breasts. . . only as they related to my survival,” he insisted.
	I couldn't stop the giggle that bubbled up at that, and the awkward way the man reached up to scratch the back of his neck afterward didn't help.  Soon I was outright laughing. . . at the situation, at his comment, at my life. . . and I felt no need to hold back.   It felt good.
	It felt so good.
	I was so caught up in the moment, I didn't realize the wolfhound had begun to chuckle alongside me until his shoulders were visibly shaking.  His deep-throated laughter, even as subdued as it was, warmed me inside.  
	We laughed together for some time, I can't say how long, before I wiped a paw across my eyes, and looked up at him, smiling.  “You have a nice laugh,” I said, reaching up instinctively to straighten his collar.  It had come askew at some point when I'd been searching him, and it just felt so natural to put it right.
	I didn't realize until after I'd done it that had been an oddly familiar gesture to make, for someone I really didn't have the right to act so personal with.  The man stared down at me for a silent span after my hand slipped away, his dark pupils wide and dark in the dim light of the one flickering lantern on the table side.
	“I. . . am attracted to you,” he said, in a tone that was anything but uncertain.  The sudden admission shocked me, especially after the topic seemed to have closed.
	I caught my breath.  “I. . . I know,” I said at length.
	“I despise lying,” he explained quietly, “especially to a woman.  It just occurred to me that I've lied twice to you in one night.  I didn't want. . . I needed to correct that.”  His hand was hesitant, when it came to mine.  I looked down at it, at the prominent claws that canines had, the rough, black paw-pads. . . the way it dwarfed mine.  
	It did things to me, I realized.  The size difference between us.  All the differences between us.  It made heat bubble up in my chest, made something twinge in my abdomen. 
	It wasn't just that, of course.  I'd met many canines since we'd come overseas, and I hadn't felt like this.  It didn't seem rational, really. . . the man did have a point about the many logical reasons why this was a bad idea.  A ludicrous one, really.  
	But at least now I had confirmation it was mutual.
	And now I was at that point where my plans fell short.  The uncharted area, the bridge I'd told myself I'd cross when I got to it.  What to do now?
	My hand was still in his, I realized.  And he was still looking at me.  This hadn't been a passing gesture, like my slip-up with his collar had been.  
	I swept my eyes back up to his, questioningly.  Something had definitely flipped in his gaze.  It was impossible to know what the man was thinking, obviously, or what had changed, but I could ask him about it later on.  Right now, he looked different.  Intense, which was saying something for a man who always looked intense.  Decided.
	“No more dancing around,” he murmured, and all I could do was nod.  I liked this more assertive side he was showing, and I didn't for a second want to make him question it.  I felt something along my cheek ruff and glanced to the side, surprised to see his other palm moving hesitantly along the fringe of fur along my jawline.  He seemed more curious of it than anything else, but the touch was deliberately gentle, his thumb sliding up along the ridge of one of my cheekbones.  It couldn't have been meant to be anything but sensual, and that was certainly how my body was interpreting it.  My breath caught in my throat, warmth spreading through my paws and ears.  It had been a long time since anyone had touched me like this, and it was like waking up to a sense that I'd lost.  
	 I leaned my cheek into his hand, at about the same time he looked ready to say something else.  The words stilled in his throat, and his fingers twitched.  It occurred to me then that I was purring.
	“. . . I was going to ask if you were. . . certain in your. . . interest. . .” he murmured, “. . . but I suppose that answers that question.”
	“So you won't ask me for permission any more, right?”  I said softly, nuzzling my nose into his thick, calloused palm.  I could feel the minute ridges of old scars there, could smell the traces of his day, where he'd not managed to scrub it all clean.  I could hear his pulse, could feel it against the soft spot on my nose. . . wanted those rough paw pads everywhere, suddenly.  
	“No,” the man stated, and I liked the finality in his tone.  I liked that he wasn't hesitant now that he'd clearly made up his mind, wasn't wavering in uncertainty even though we'd both accepted our mutual interest.  A lot of men. . . even men I'd once held very dear. . . could be maddeningly uncertain when they were being intimate with a woman.  And in at least this one area of my life, I didn't want to have to be the one who led the way for the other, or bolstered their confidence throughout.  I didn't want to have to give him confirmation every step of the way that yes, this was what I wanted, and please stop asking, because honestly. . . all that did was make me nervous.  Made those old flutters of uncertainty come back. 
	He gave a soft sigh, and I couldn't see the expression he wore because I was busily burying my muzzle into that big, comfortable paw, but he sounded somewhat tired.  “And I won't bother asking why, any more,” he murmured.  “I've never entirely understood what pleases women or why, but so long as you accept this is absolutely mad, and likely to end poorly for both of us-”
	“You're thinking too far ahead,” I assured him.  “I'm not thinking past tonight.”
	“Clearly,” he said, with a wry edge to his tone, “but I'm a planner.  I have trouble reconciling. . . .”
	I purred again, this time intentionally, and that seemed to entirely undo him.  He exhaled, the breath sounding labored, before murmuring, “To hell with it.  Perhaps I'm drunk on good humor.  Or it could be the mission.  Near-death experiences often drop mens' inhibitions.”
	One of his hands gently came to rest on my hip as he said that, and I instantly reciprocated the gesture, something leaping inside me.  The fact that this was real, that in a few moments' time, I might actually cross this boundary, with this foreign man. . . the unknown element of it was thrilling in a way that felt dangerous, but intoxicating.  It was hard to believe the impulse had come from my own mind.  This was not the sort of person I knew myself to be.  And maybe that, not anything external, was what was making my heart pound.  The fact that I had changed from the guarded, terrified woman I'd once been, to transform into someone so daring, so confident.
	“. . . or maybe it's just because I've never met a woman quite like you, before. . .” his voice was a low rumble, and suddenly very near my ear.  “But to hell with it,” he repeated, the utterance so low and quiet, it nearly disappeared.  
	I leaned up on my hind-paws as much as I could, since he had to stoop a considerable amount to get his muzzle as near my nose as it was now.  I felt the first hint of his fur brushing along my cheek, and closed my eyes, breathing in the canine's scent.  The scent he'd been hoping to hide.  The subtle hint of canine musk, beneath the more mellow, everyday scents of linen, cedar and soap.  Even the most clean-cut men had it, and for some reason, ever since I'd first begun to interact with canines, I'd found it appealing.
	His nose was running along the hollow of the nape of my neck now, his muzzle dwarfing mine.  The presence of him nuzzling up against me like this felt overwhelming, in the best way.  His voice was low, deep, accented with that foreign brogue, and my fur stood on end when he spoke again, nearly against my throat this time.
	“. . . no one can know. . . about this,” he rumbled.  “Promise me.”
	I nodded, silently.  He circled an arm around my waist, slowly, and I felt our hips meet.  Or, more appropriately, my hips met his thighs.  My own hands had slipped around his lean waist, my claws worrying at the crisp hem of his britches beneath the edge of his un-tucked shirt.  Strange though it sounded. . . I was attracted to the man, but it was hard for me to picture what we'd be doing together.  I couldn't imagine how a man like him might behave.  Civility and decency didn't equate well to sex in my head, even after the strides I'd made with Grant.  After all, I'd only ever shared one night with the man in the end, and what had taken place between us had been good, but frantic with need and hurried along by the somewhat unhinged passion the two of us had been swept up in.  Even now I had trouble reflecting on just why it had been so different, so enjoyable, as opposed to every other time in my life.  If we'd had more time together, I could have really learned my passions, really explored this part of myself, with his help.  But that hadn't been how things had turned out, of course. 
	All I really knew was that I'd wanted to be with him, and things had been better.  I'd trusted him, and I hadn't been scared, for the first time in my life.  I hadn't known at the time that I loved him, but that may have had something to do with it, as well.
	Would it be the same, with another man?  Or would it go back to hurting, because we weren't in love?  I certainly respected the wolfhound, but this wasn't love for either of us, and it never would be.  He'd given his heart away to someone who had passed, and if I was being completely honest with myself. . . so had I.  Maybe that was the real reason I was drawn to him like this.  Because I'd wanted this, but I hadn't wanted to lead a man astray, to risk them growing too invested, when I couldn't ever really reciprocate.  This felt safe.  We both wanted exactly the same thing.
	And I trusted Johannes to be civil, and kind.  But other than that, I didn't know what to expect.  Would trust alone be enough?  
	A sudden fear gripped me.  I'd taken it for granted that I'd be able to handle this. That I'd conquered my fears from the past.  But what if I couldn't go through with this, at the critical moment?  Or what if I panicked?  Gods, the last thing I wanted to do was mortify a man with his own demons by sharing mine.  And he hadn't been with anyone in nearly five years, and this was his first time opening up in this way since his wife had died, and I could ruin a lot more than my own time with him if-
	“Relax,” the man murmured against the nape of my neck, where he'd bent to rest his muzzle.  And for some reason, I did.  The Otherwolf had so much authority in his voice, even when it was subdued and gentle like this, it was hard to disobey.
	“I'm sorry,” I said, swallowing as I felt the heat of his breath on my collarbone.  “I don't want to make you nervous-”
	“You're not,” the man stated, again in that firm, yet calm tone.  It set my nerves at ease every time he spoke, like I was being taught something by a far more seasoned instructor.  We'd yet to remove even a single article of clothing, but I already felt exposed, heat prickling beneath my skin.  I unconsciously bent my head back, baring more of my throat to his muzzle.  He was mostly nuzzling me, but I could feel the flat of his teeth from time to time, and the first gentle nip made my tail go rigid with apprehension.  Something about being this close to a large canine's teeth felt like dancing with a Dyre.  It didn't help that they didn't purr, exactly. . . even their low, pleased groans sounded like growls.
	He'd been silent so far, though.  Save the deep, even breaths against my neck, there was little sound in the room, in fact.  My hands were still circled around his waist, just beneath his shirt but not in his fur yet.  I decided I wanted them to be.  Nuzzling was nice, and I was glad he wasn't kissing me. . . it felt somehow inappropriate for this encounter. . . but I was tired of feeling nothing but linen beneath my paw-pads.
	I slipped my fingers gingerly up over the boundary they'd been residing behind- the hem of his britches, and spanned them over his lower back.  He felt warm, and his fur was softer than I'd imagined it would be.  It looked so wiry, so coarse from a distance, I'd been afraid I'd find it unpleasant to touch.  But either he groomed himself well, or it was just deceptive in its appearance, because the length actually made it a little smoother to the touch than the choppy fur on a wolf's back. . . or Ransom's.
	Probably best not to think about the coyote right now.  But he had been the one to speak to me so openly about intimacy with a man, and crass or no, I'd learned a lot from him.  Like, for one. . . .
	The canine had already given a slight shiver when I'd first worked my hand up beneath his shirt, even in a place as chaste as his lower back. . . but when I ran my thumb gently beneath the buttoned edge of his britches at the base of his tail, he pulled his nose up from the crook of my neck to my ear.
	“Mnh. . . you know that spot, do you?”  he murmured, his tail sweeping audibly against the backs of his thighs as I circled the sensitive hollow between the base of his spine and the ridge of his tail.
	“I told you I knew canines,” I replied, somewhat emboldened.
	He gave something akin to a low hum at that, and I hid a smile against his collarbone, glad to have finally dragged a pleased noise from the stoic man.  I hoped there'd be more to come.  I got a small thrill at watching the wolfhound's composure drop, for some reason.  Maybe it wasn't exactly mature, but the Otherwolves from across the sea were just so. . . pent-up.  I liked seeing them come unbuttoned.
	I was busily nuzzling my own way into the thick fur along his neck ruff when he cleared his throat suddenly, and gave me a gentle push.  Surprised, I pulled away, wondering what I'd done wrong.
	“We should get undressed before this goes much further,” he stated, his eyes flicking down to where my own hands had already begun to work up beneath his shirt.   “I'm not certain how clothed your people prefer to be. . . any state is acceptable by me,” he said quickly, sounding to his credit only a little awkward as he said that, “but I don't get much thrill from soiling one of the only three pairs of britches I own.”
	When I caught his implication, I blanched, but also smiled a little.  Even if it had been politely-worded, he was admitting he was aroused, and that was the first indication I'd had of that.  I hadn't yet built up the courage to check his physical condition, either with a glance or a far bolder press of my hips.
	It also meant that even if he was painfully formal and protective of his dignity, he wasn't ashamed of some of the more. . . natural bodily reactions we'd be contending with.  Which was good.  The second-hand embarrassment of being intimate with someone whose own body made them awkward might have driven me a little crazy.
	Then again, he did have nine children.  Presumably he actually had a lot of experience with sex.
	“Uhm,” I paused, not sure what he was waiting for, “alright.  Do you. . . want me to help?”
	He gave me an odd look at that, and I again wondered what I'd done wrong, and if we were going to run into roadblocks like this every few minutes.  That could get old, fast.
	“Oh. . . I'm capable of removing my own clothes,” he said with dawning realization, although he'd come to the wrong one.  He was indicating his arm.  “I've dressed and undressed a few times since the injury.  I was just going to offer you the main room.  The back room is dark, I've no lantern there, but I know my way around well enough not to fall over something.”
	“. . . I am so confused,” I admitted, because it was the only thing I could think to say.  “There's some kind of miscommunication going on here, and I don't know if it's the language barrier or something about customs, but. . . .”
	The canine sighed.  “Where do you wish to undress?” he spoke plainly.  “I can step into the back room to disrobe, if you'd like to do so here.”
	“I. . .” I paused, finally catching on.  “You want to undress in separate rooms?  Why on earth?”  Before he could answer, I prattled on, “I mean, I understand. . . why you'd give me privacy. . . were it not. . . for what we're about to do-”
	“Why should that mean I show you any less decency now?” the wolfhound asked plainly.
	“Because I'm going to be naked and under you in a few minutes?”  I said, and it was more a statement than a question.  I wasn't offended, and I hoped I didn't sound that way, I was just painfully confused.  And wanting.
	And maybe a little impatient.
	For his part, the wolfhound only looked a little embarrassed at my outburst.  “That doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed your privacy for something so personal,” he said. 
	“This is just the way your people do things, isn't it?”  I queried, frustrated but honestly also a little fascinated.  This was strange.  His people were strange.  But I sort of felt like I was learning something, and it would be ignorant of me not to at least hear him out.
	When the man nodded, I pressed, “Even with your wife?  I mean. . .” I hesitated when I saw his eyes drop, “. . .I mean you. . . have seen a woman nude, right?  At some point?  Or do you. . . cover up while you. . . .”
	The way the man looked at me after that made me feel obscenely foolish.  “Good lord,” he said with a heavy sigh, “do I really come off as that much of a stick in the mud?”  When I only tipped an eyebrow at the expression, he actually cracked a slight smile.  “Yes, I. . . beheld my wife.  Many times.  In our marriage bed.  We had separate, adjoining rooms where we went about grooming and dressing, though.  As well as undressing.  It's considered decent, where I come from.  Not strictly enforced, just. . . decent.  Husbands and wives share the most intimate acts, but disrobing puts us at our  most vulnerable.  Some consider it obscene to watch.”
	“Do you?”  I asked, curiously.  Despite his formality, the man had never struck me as squeamish.  
	He shrugged.  “I always just assumed my wife enjoyed having that bit of privacy.  It removes some of the pressure, I think.  And provided a safe place for her to be on nights when she was not yearning for my presence. . . but. . . didn't strictly wish to say so, lest she offend.”
	I found myself nodding at his words, because in all honesty, even if it still sounded strange to me, the way he'd explained it actually made a lot of sense.  I'm not sure it's the way I'd have chosen to live, but I could see how for some women, having that separation between a place to sleep and a place to make love might ease some of the tension that came from an expectant mate.  Gods knew, even if my husband had been a better man who'd given me the option, I would have exercised that freedom from time to time.  There were just some nights you didn't want to be around a man.  Or even have one gawk at you.
	The thing was, tonight wasn't one of those nights for me.
	I stepped forward and put my hands back on his hips, slipping them up beneath the hem of his shirt again.  He was still as I did so, not pulling away again, but also not responding.  He looked poised, not uncertain exactly, just waiting for me to say something to explain my actions.
	“I don't like to skip this part,” I said softly.  “It's. . . actually sort of important to me. . . to strip down barriers, before I. . . do anything like this.  I want to see you vulnerable.  Is that alright?”
	The man was silent for a heartbeat, then he nodded.  “I understand,” he said, and the two simple words were spoken with such empathy, I really believed that he did.  “Do you want me to dim the lantern?”  he continued, uncertainly.
	“No,” I shook my head.  Then smiled.  “I can see better than you can in the dark, anyway, so it actually wouldn't make much difference for me.”
	“Right,” the wolfhound said with a mildly amused snuff.  “I nearly forgot.  You'll have to forgive me if. . . a few things aren't quite the same,” he eased into those last few words, carefully, as he began to unbutton his shirt.  “I've never been with a feline before.”
	“I hope it doesn't bother you.”
	“Not on the surface,” he assured me, still radiating calm, although I wasn't certain how much of that was for show and how much of it was genuine any more.  I liked that he was trying, though.  “And from what little I know, we'll overlap in the most important aspects.  I'm actually more concerned for my own. . . differences.”  
	There was that careful wording again, and it occurred to me at once what he was probably, with great difficulty, trying to find a less obscene way to indicate.
	I suppressed a smile, if barely.  He had his shirt nearly entirely unbuttoned by now, and I was enjoying watching his chest reveal itself.  Even though I'd seen it when I'd treated his wounds, I'd been good enough not to really stare, since it seemed to bother him so much..  His fur was slightly lighter there, a dusting of white and silver down the trim line of his torso to his belly.
	I decided I'd just say it.
	“I know about the. . . knot,” I said, and almost laughed when his hands fumbled at and nearly tore off the last button.  “Grant was canine, remember?”  I reminded him.  “And I mean, I can only assume all canines. . . .”
	“Yes,” he said, presumably cutting me off so we could get through the awkwardness of this moment faster.  “Well, I'm. . . glad. . . that won't be a surprise, then.  You're also a far smaller person than I, though, so. . . I'll take care.”
	“I never doubted you would,” I assured him.  But something occurred to me.  “You know,” I said, “if it concerns you that much, though, you could just just refrain from. . .um. . . .”
	“Not an option,” he stated, and I was a bit surprised by the finality in the statement.  It had sounded less like personal preference, and more resolute, like-
	I sighed.  “This is something religious, isn't it?”
	“ 'It is a sin to spill seed anywhere but where it can create life',” the wolfhound recited, with a sigh.  “One of the holy edicts.”
	I arched an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest.  “That sounds to me,” I muttered dryly, “like the sort of 'edict' a man came up with.”
	The canine actually chuckled.  “You might be right there.”
	I timidly slipped my fingers up through the thick, soft fur along the canine's chest, as he carefully shouldered out of his shirt, peeling the sleeve down his braced arm.  To his credit, he only stilled momentarily when my hands went into his fur.  “Isn't this already sinful then?”  I asked, looking up at him.  “I mean. . . we can't. . . I'm feline.  We can't 'make life'.”
	“The wording's a bit vague there,” the wolfhound said, clearing his throat quietly.  “And I'm afraid to offend you, if we discuss this much further. . . .”
	“Oh well now I have to know,” I said with a flick of my tail, smirking.
	The wolfhound shouldered off his shirt entirely, and began to fold it, far too neatly considering what we were building up to.  Meticulous to a fault, apparently.  “Strictly speaking,” the man said, “you and your kin aren't. . . the same sort of people as we are.”
	“Well that goes without saying,” I said, arching an eyebrow.
	The man sighed.  “I mean, by the standards of my peoples' faith, your people are. . . lessers.  Which means nothing we do is even. . . considered on the same level as lying with another canine.”
	“Which means none of your rules apply?”  I asked, whiskers twitching.
	“Essentially.”  He flicked his eyes down to mine, “You don't look offended,” he noted.
	I shrugged.  “I guess not?  I think I already kind of suspected your people were. . . arrogant.  A bit specist.  Maybe more than a bit.”
	“I'd argue that, but I honestly can't in good faith,” the Otherwolf muttered.  “Just please keep in mind. . . we don't all feel that way.  I don't.  Like I said, there are certain aspects of my faith I've begun to question, the more I've seen of the world.  I've seen too many good non-canine men and women to believe there isn't a place for you all in the afterlife.  Even if it isn't the same place we go.”
	“Mnhh,” I murmured, too distracted at the moment, running my paws down his torso, to worry myself over his religious beliefs, or specism or. . . whatever it was he was going on about.  I'd long ago accepted his people were. . . well. . . like wolves.  Very fond of their own.  That's just how wolves were.  Even if they were 'other' wolves.  
	His hands went to his belt, and began to remove it.  It occurred to me then that I was still entirely unclothed, but I decided I'd wait until he was finished before I began.  It was an odd way to think about it, but it sort of gave me a leg up on him.  And that little boost of confidence was just the sort of thing I needed right now.
	When he'd stripped free of his britches, I realized he was wearing those odd underclothes the Otherwolves seemed to prefer.  'Smallclothes', I think Grant had called them.  They just looked like short cotton britches he wore beneath his outer clothing, and really only covered him from the waist to mid-thigh.  I was still perplexed by the extra layer, but I suppose I could see how it would be useful for riding and protection, especially for a male.
	His anatomy was more obvious now, of course, and I found myself swallowing somewhat as he went about folding his britches as neatly as he had his shirt.  I was glad he seemed so calm, because I was becoming increasingly not-so.  
	Now was probably long enough to have waited.  The room was a bit cold, and I didn't expect he'd strip entirely down until we were in bed, so I began doing so, myself.  I gripped the hem of my simple dress and began tugging it up my legs with a slight shimmy of my hips, only taking a moment to undo the tie over the slit in the back where my tail came out, before unceremoniously tugging the whole garment up over my head.  I felt no reason to draw this out. . . it was actually a vulnerable moment for me, I realized, reflecting on his earlier words.  I was only realizing that awkwardness now.  Grant and I had always undressed in the dark, or  near-dark, which even if it hadn't made much of a difference for me, had always given me some sense of false bravado, that he couldn't really see me all that well while I disrobed.  Even though his eyes weren't much worse in the dark than mine.
	It wasn't until I'd tugged the entire dress up over my head that I realized there haven't been any need for me to be concerned. . . because the wolfhound had been looking away the whole while.  And for some reason, even though I knew he was just trying to be a gentleman, that realization made me feel oddly cheated.
	“Hey,” I said softly, “it's alright.  I. . . I want you to see me.  I'm. . . I'm not ashamed,” I murmured as I undid the simple bindings over my breasts, not bothering to fold any of my clothes.  I let them all puddle on the floor.  I'd retrieve them later.  His floor was immaculate, anyway.
	I'm not certain what he'd been expecting, but when he turned to face me again, he briefly looked surprised, then with a twitch of his ears and a drop of his muzzle, he averted his eyes again.  That more than being nude made me feel self-conscious, so I asked, “what's wrong?”  My voice sounding less steady than I wanted it to.
	“I assumed you'd be wearing something. . . beneath. . . .”  he mumbled.
	“Oh,” I said, relieved.  “No.  No, I removed my one chest wrap, I only wrap myself more fully when I know I'll be using my bow, and. . . I-I don't wear the sort of undergarments your people do.”  I wasn't sure if I should have been apologizing.  It seemed an odd thing to apologize for.  And I was beginning to hate that he was leaving me feeling this way.  It was sort of rude to leave an exposed woman wondering. . . .
	Just as that thought was running through my head, I felt a warm set of paws  slip over my bare hips, and I looked up in time to be pulled into the softness of his chest fur, my cheek pressing against the hard planes of his body beneath.  His broad paws were encircling my waist, so I reciprocated, slipping them down low over his hips.  His muzzle was pressing down into my clavicle again, and he inhaled softly, burying his nose there.  I didn't argue.  I was taking in his scent as well, dragging my muzzle over his chest, feeling the thudding of his heartbeat beneath my nose.  It was somewhat hard to tell because he was canine, but it seemed faster to me than it should have been.
	And this time I did press my thighs into his waist, and there was definitely something there.  Something more unyielding than the rest of him.