Margo had the wild in her, that much I knew. But I also knew her stories were just that — she blamed the scar below her left eye on a wolf even though a rogue Alsatian had bitten her when she was small.

I poured us each a dram of whiskey and sat down. As Margo’s curly hair brushed against my cheek I took in her scent, all wolf. A friend who was famous for being able to supply the goods had gifted her the bottle. Margo knew the best people.

Rain thrummed hard against the window. Margo stood and discarded her top and skirt on the floor. I trembled as she slid her underwear down to her ankles and stepped out of them. The curve of her rear and slender tummy did something to me.

I stood and undressed. Margo gave me a complex when her eyes settled on my privates, her lips curling into a grin, so seductive. I followed Margo over to the window which she unlatched and opened so we could hear the rain. I live on the second floor and the rain whipped into the room with the wind and we climbed outside and danced reels on the flat roof, splashing the puddles with our feet. The neighbours would talk, but we had no worries, no concerns. Two minds blown. A right pair.

The cold became too much, so we climbed back inside and hopped in the shower. I could barely see Margo for all the steam, and she stroked me while her tongue did things in my mouth.

After the shower we lay on the bed, Margo in my arms and my fingers running through her damp hair. Two weeks later Margo left me to rove around Argentina, but not before convincing me of her return. I trusted in this. I’m a sucker. This story is not about Margo.

Extract from I Heard the Croak of a Raven, the Caw of a Crow, a novelette. Available now as a PDF eBook, compatible with all digital devices.