Romancing The Jewel
A Nick Wilde and Judy Hopps Romance

Chapter One

Inside the mountain cabin Minerva stirred a measly pot of beef stew. She brushed a wayward lock of golden blonde hair away from a furry white cheek and jerked away again to swat at an annoying fly. Tanned hides hung from the beams above and a warm fire crackled in the old stone hearth. The walls were made of rough-hewn timbers fused together with a mixture of mud, sand, and grass, which kept the coldest winter blasts at bay. One small window had been fitted with glass panes and because they were a luxury, she kept them sparkling clean.

The primitive abode was a drastic change from the enormous ranch house she had grown up in. There were no more parties or barbecues to excuse the purchase of a new silk dress.

Gone were the days when she and her sister, Ophelia, would spend hours bathing in copper tubs filled with luxurious, hot, rose-scented water, and Carmencita, the housemaid, would curl their hair with irons. How they used to tease each other and pretend to fight over hair ribbons and petticoats.

How proud Papa had been that both his daughters were not only the prettiest minks in Texas but the best shots, and next to Rex, the foreman, the best horseback riders in the county. Papa had taught them everything he knew about breeding and raising cattle, and given them the managerial skills to do so successfully.

He often joked about the kind of man it would take to tame one of his daughters. Not only were they smart and pretty, but they were every inch—a woman.

How well Minerva knew that! As her body had blossomed into the soft, rounded curves of a woman, her desires had grown with them. Many times she had been forced to walk in the cool evening air to chill the fires that burned within her.

Now it seemed that everything inside her was dead, and it was useless to dwell on the past and the way things used to be—the way she used to be.

She liked this time of afternoon when only the sound of the tumbling waters from the nearby stream broke the stillness. She took care not to splash her deerskin skirt or the tatty lace camisole she wore, for they were all she had.

Suddenly the bolted door was ripped from its hinges as a gigantic boot kicked through the wooden planks. Minerva whirled from the old stove and gaped at the dark hulk of a wolverine filling the doorway. A lit cigarette dangled from his parched black lips as he cocked one of the twin hammers of his double-barrel shotgun and aimed it at her half-exposed breasts.

"What's it gonna be, Minerva?" his guttural voice boomed like breaking granite.

Minerva stood frozen, thinking it impossible that Creego had found her. She had been so naïvely certain that she had lost him at the Missouri River during the winter of 1877. Would his pursuit of her never end?

From the shadow of a broad-brimmed Wasey, baleful yellow eyes glowed demonically as they prowled over Minerva's soft, shapely form with feral savagery. When his gaze captured hers again did the dread and hatred he saw brewing within her sea green eyes stoke the malevolent fires that burned in his decayed soul.

"You can die two ways, angel. Quick like the tongue of a snake, or slower than the molasses in January." He then thumbed back the other iron hammer of his shotgun with a deathly click.

Minerva found her bravery and her voice at this. "It's October," she spat at him.

"I'd kill ya, goddammit, if it was the Fourth of July!" Creego lashed at her in a spittle-flinging rage, like the rabid predator that he was. "Where is it?"

Minerva watched as his insidious amber eyes scoured the squalor of the cabin, then zeroed in on the saddlebags that hung over the post on the bunk. A side of his basilisk mouth crooked upward in an ugly half-grin as a growl rumbled dangerously in his craw. With a commanding jerk of his weapon, Creego ordered her away from his quarry. "Git over thar."

Minerva shuffled aside as the towering sable-furred beast stalked past her, the fetid reek of him watering her eyes and making bile rise in her throat. The lethal end of his shotgun never lost its sight of her as Creego made his way across the tiny dwelling, his spurs jangling a foreboding tune to his heavy footfalls. He collected the saddlebags and with great ease lifted the swollen leather satchels by the sash, testing their heft in his meaty fist. Gold coinage chimed melodiously from within the bloated pouches. A low, satisfied growl thrummed deep inside Creego's barreled chest as he slung the saddlebags over his massive shoulder.

"You got what you came for, now get out!" Minerva hissed at him, fire branding her words.

Slowly Creego turned, his grisly bearlike face splitting into a fearsome grin that made an icy fist clench in the pit of Minerva's stomach. "Not quite, angel." He canted his great shaggy head and spat out his cigarette; his long, gray tongue slithering lecherously between his gnarled black lips. "Take off them rags."

Minerva snatched in a mortified gasp, but before she could even begin to conjure a protest, Creego raised both shotgun barrels to point directly at her head. "Do it!" he bellowed in a fierce growl. "Or I'll blow yer pretty li'l head cleeeean off."

It was then that Minerva realized what else the vile bastard wanted. Perhaps that was what he had truly wanted all along.

"C'mon!" he barked testily at her defiance, and would brook no more.

Slowly, submissively, Minerva bent at the waist, her lithe fingers reaching for the threads that kept the doeskin skirt fitted around her slender hips. As she leaned, her sloven camisole hung downward on her chest, and her sumptuous bosoms billowed forth nearly spilling from the confines of their stays, looking ever so lush and ripe.

Creego watched with greedy, depraved, stalking eyes, his wet and heavy breaths bellowing grotesquely from his heaving chest as his monstrous body seethed with barely-restrained fury; saliva drooling from his slavering maw in thick, scalding globs.

She gradually peeled apart the long slit of her skirt, baring to the wolverine one long, beautifully sculpted leg. Through tendrils of unkempt blonde hair, Minerva's eyes covertly angled upward to spy him. When she saw how wholly consumed Creego was in his own wicked lust did her paw creep surreptitiously for the dagger that was strapped high on her thigh by a garter, out of his view.

In one graceful movement, Minerva grabbed the dagger's hilt and flipped it underhand. A silver flash streaked through the air and sank deep into Creego's gut. The shotgun fell from his razor-clawed paw with a clatter and the giant predator quickly followed as he dropped thunderously to his knees. Minerva approached, bore deep into Creego's bewildered eyes, watching with damnable relish as the luminescence of life dulled within their horrid golden glow. His last dying breath Creego spent on a swear before toppling to the dusty wooden floorboards like a freshly cut pine. With trembling paws Minerva threw on a deerskin poncho and retrieved the precious saddlebags from under the outlaw's corpse.

That was the end of Creego, she thought, the wolverine who had killed her father, raped and murdered her sister, burned down her ranch, shot her dog...and stole her Bible.

She didn't feel the first pang of guilt over the murder she had just committed or the shotgun she pilfered off his sorry carcass. Carefully she stepped out into the blazing afternoon sun. She cocked the gun and scanned the area, on guard for any inexplicable movements. She bolted for her horse, which was tethered near Creego's mount. She held the reins steady and gripped the sides of the horse with her firm white thighs. Creego had come alone, she knew, but if there was one law in the west...bastards had brothers.

Who seemed to ride forever...

Galloping over the badlands, Minerva suddenly reined in her horse as she approached the end of the gulch. There in front of her were four matching stallions thundering down the gorge. The riders wore identical ankle length dusters, dark hats, and bandannas to shield them from the blowing winds and dirt. Simultaneously they pulled up short and squinted into the sun behind her.

Minerva glanced over her shoulder, focusing on the high ridge. The silhouette of a tall man cast a menacing shadow on those below him. From the erect manner he sat the horse and the particular tilt of the brim of his hat, Minerva knew in a flash it was her beloved Wilford.

Wilford Wolfe was her man, for she had claimed him two years ago when she had willingly given herself to him. It had been on the night of one of her father's infamous barbecues at the end of roundup season.

All day long the cooks had roasted and basted two whole steers over open pits. There were mountains of corn-on-the-cob, fresh green beans, and cooked okra; pots of beans and chili, and baskets of sweet cornbread. Homemade pecan pies, peach cobbler and strawberry ice cream were made especially for the festivities.

The Mexican tiled patio with its huge oak in the center was decorated with colorful lanterns and round clay pots filled with red geraniums, Minerva's favorite. A five-piece band played music while the guests danced beneath the wisteria arbor overhead.

Minerva had spent over a month with Carmencita making her dress, which was a copy of a Worth original from Paris. Minerva had ordered the scarlet silk satin from San Francisco along with the wide lace she used for the sleeves. The dress was cut square across the breasts, with a tight-fitting waist. The skirt gathered in folds over the bustle in back, which gracefully fell into a train. The short puff sleeves she lined in the lace as well as the back of the train, using two layers of lace along the hem in front. When the dress was finished, she stood in front of the cheval mirror appraising herself.

Something was not quite right, though Carmencita, proud of her needlework, disagreed with her. It didn't take Minerva long to realize what was wrong with the dress. Two nights before the party, Minerva secreted herself away in her room and did not emerge until morning, when she successfully lowered the neck by a full three inches. Now when she wore the dress, everyone would know that Minerva had indeed grown up.

Never had she felt so womanly, so sensual. She spent hours in her toilette, creaming her white fur with rosewater and verbena. She wore ruby studs in her ears, a gift from her father last year on her seventeenth birthday. Around her neck she wore a scarlet satin ribbon with her mother's cameo. Her blonde curls glistened like finely spun gold. As Minerva stared at herself in the mirror, she wondered if it was the dress or had her eyes altered somehow in the last few days, for they had acquired a sparkle she'd never seen before.

Ophelia stood aghast in the doorway, the ivory mink a vision in pink and sable satin. "What have you done to your dress!? Papa will murder you flat on the spot!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Minerva's chest swelled with pride, and the strain nearly split the satin. "If I'm to die, then I shall live life to the fullest tonight! What do you say to that, little sister?"

Ophelia shook her head, her auburn curls dancing merrily over her bare young shoulders. "It's your life," she said, and giggled mischievously. "You want to live it as short as a snowflake in Hell, why you go right on ahead, Minerva Mink."

"Why thank you kindly, little sister. I just knew you'd approve." Minerva giggled cheekily at her sister from the mirror's reflection. "Now you go downstairs first. I want to make an entrance."

"Those will make an entrance before you do, Minerva," Ophelia retorted as she glared at her sister's overflowing décolletage. "Oh, I almost forgot what I came up here to tell you! You know that man Papa was talking about? Wilford Wolfe—who snatched up the old Thompson ranch when they went bankrupt last spring?"

"Yes, yes," Minerva said, exasperated with her sister's sense of the dramatic.

"Well, he's here! Right in our very own parlor! Can you imagine the nerve he has showing up here when he knows every rancher in the territory hates him for forcing the Thompsons out in the cold."

"Really, Ophelia, I hardly think he did that. Mr. Thompson lost his ranch all by himself. It wasn't Mr. Wolfe's fault at all. Still," she said pertly, "it sure takes a lot of guts to be here tonight."

"Minerva! Your language has got a lot to be desired, and it's not fitting of a young lady to talk the way you do. But don't you worry, I won't tell Papa. You're gonna have your paws full explaining that dress."

Minerva picked up her lacy fan, checked herself one last time in the mirror and started toward the door. "I can handle Papa. And as for some old geezer who bought the Thompson ranch—"

"That's just it! He isn't old at all. I'm not quite sure if he's even in his thirties yet. 'Course you're a better judge at that than I am." Ophelia said, deferring to the year in age between them.

"Well now, Ophelia, I'm surprised at you! You sound as if you were taken by this man, despite your view of his jaded character."

Ophelia flashed an amused smile at her sister. "You'll see," she said, and swished her skirts as she turned and went downstairs.

Minerva adored her little sister dearly but believed she had a great deal of maturing ahead of her. As Minerva reached the landing she marveled at the decorations Carmencita had made.

The banister of the curved staircase was draped with garlands of woven vines and wild flowers. Below her in the parqueted reception area were blue and white porcelain crockery filled with pink begonias, and baskets of pink geraniums hung from the beamed ceilings above. Black wrought-iron floor candelabra held fat white candles that cast a romantic glow about the spacious main rooms of the ranch house.

Minerva started down the stairs, noting the familiar faces of their neighbors and friends. At the base of the staircase, her father was talking to a man she had never seen before.

He was a northwestern timber wolf with sleek teal fur and long, flowing silver mane that gave him a wild and untamed Scandinavian appearance. He was tall and debonair, with broad shoulders and a torso that narrowed into muscular flanks. He wore a black suit, white ruffled shirt, and string tie. Never had she seen a man's trousers fit that snugly!

When her father glanced up the stairs and saw her, his jaw dropped in astonishment. The wolf, noting the elder Mink's reaction, followed his gaze. It was then that Minerva's eyes locked with the stranger's.

They were the color of bluebonnets in the spring, a blue so vivid they mesmerized her. His mustache was trimmed thin and beneath it his sensual black lips parted in an approving smile. She watched how his eyes seemed to access every inch of her, lingering a bit too long and too leeringly at her bosom. She felt her heart pound and her nipples harden against the thin silk of her gown. An unfamiliar excitement stirred within her and she found herself smiling back at him. Boldly, she continued to stare into his eyes.

Her father walked up and took her paw, and, though he kept smiling, she knew he was none too pleased with her wanton display of her "charms." Minerva, still smiling at the stranger, thought it was the best decision she'd ever made in her life.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to our new guest?" she asked her father sweetly, ignoring his sideways glances.

"Of course," was all he could say. "Minerva, meet Wilford Wolfe."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mink." From the moment he took Minerva's paw and placed a gentle kiss upon it, she knew she would be his. He straightened and returned to gazing into her eyes. "Truly a pleasure."

Her smile couldn't have been more radiant, or her passions more inflamed. "Likewise, Mr. Wolfe."

At her suggestion they walked out to the patio. They conversed about his ranch, the weather, anything and everything, and she introduced him to several of her guests. When the band played a particularly romantic song, he asked her to dance.

Minerva was convinced there had to be something special about a man who could elicit such strong emotions in her. As he held her in his arms, one moment she felt as if she would break out in a sweat and the next moment goose bumps formed under her fur.

When supper was served, Wilford disappeared for seemingly endless moments and when she saw him again, he was seated at a round table near the edge of the patio conversing with Ophelia!

Minerva's temper raged.

Quickly she grabbed the arm of Oswald Welker, a young black-pelted hare whose family's spread bordered the Mink ranch to the south, and asked him to share barbecue with her. Oswald had long been infatuated with Minerva and his constant mooning over her usually bored her to tears; yet brought about very gratifying fits of jealousy from Ophelia, as she had always fancied the young rabbit. Tonight, though, she intended to put him to good use. All through supper, Minerva ignored her food, keeping one eye on Ophelia and the other on Wilford Wolfe. Not once did he look her way, so intense was his absorption with her little sister.

When the dancing resumed once again, Minerva found herself dancing with every young male at the party except Wilford Wolfe. By midnight, her father and some of the older ranchers were discussing local politics over brandy in the salon, and Minerva had decided that she hated Wilford Wolfe for spoiling her party.

She excused herself from her last dance partner and decided to go for a walk to cool her anger. As she walked through the cool pines and listened to the wind rustle through the trees, she chided herself for being foolish. Wilford Wolfe was just a man, after all, and she could have any man she wanted. Damn him! she thought furiously as she kicked a small rock with her foot. A sharp pain shot up her shin.

"Aaargh! Night of misery!" she seethed. "Forgot I was wearing dancing slippers and not my boots!" She leaned against a tree and massaged her stubbed toe.

When she looked up, she saw a tiny red glow coming toward her. A cloud passed over the full moon closing off its light so that she could not see what it was.

"Isn't it dangerous for you to be out here all alone, ma'am?" a deep voice mused from the darkness.

Just then a ray of moonlight illuminated his face and Minerva saw it was Wilford Wolfe smoking a cheroot.

"I don't think so. It's my property, Mr. Wolfe," she answered him with crisp authority.

The white-haired canine inclined his head and smiled. "Please, call me Wilford."

"As I was saying, Wilford," she sassed his Christian name while pointedly eyeing him up and down, arms folding under bountiful breasts. "It's my property. I reckon I can protect myself."

He chuckled and flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it out with the toe of his boot. "And who, do you reckon, will protect you from me, Minerva?" he said, his face drawing nearer to hers. He placed an outstretched arm on the tree trunk and leaned his body very close to hers.

Minerva's heart leapt into her throat at his intimate proximity. "I-I think I should see to m-my guests," she stammered, heat rising to her flustered face.

"I am one of your guests," Wilford said in low, breathy tones. He placed one paw on her waist and another on her cheek. Minerva nearly swooned as she almost lost herself in the fathomless depths of his dark blue eyes.

Suddenly she bristled, the remembrance of his earlier indiscretions with her little sister reigniting her scorn. "Take your filthy paws off me, you lech," she told him, struggling to get out of his grasp. "I said unpaw me, you hear!?"

Wilford chuckled again as he held her fast, for he believed her protest no more than he did her halfhearted struggles. "And would the lady send me away if I dared to kiss her?"

Minerva's heart froze and she stiffened at his scandalous proposal. He wouldn't! she thought in alarm as she timidly looked up at him and saw his desire, the smoldering flame that burned for her and her alone. She tugged once more, just briefly, but then gave up when he would not free her but instead pulled her closer, settling her paws upon his magnificent shoulders. She felt her mouth go dry, her body tremble, and heat pool at the juncture of her thighs as his large paw sank into her golden curls to cradle the back of her head with his long fingers. Her lips parted, if just ever so slightly, and a small, fluttery gasp escaped them when she was pulled to her toes toward his temptuous mouth. Minerva held her breath as she listened to the thundering of her heart in her little round ears.

When his lips met hers it was a gentle touch, as if he were exploring the territory for gold and was unsure if he had found it. Then, more hungrily, his lips pressed against hers, deepening the kiss into one of ardent passion. Minerva's eyelids closed, and behind them she saw white and blue streaks of lightning. A sharp, sweet spear of sensation pierced through her body as Wilford's mouth continued to move desirously over hers, and soon all the silly transgressions she harbored against him were instantly forgiven and quickly forgotten. He kissed her for what felt like an eternity before his tongue traced the seam of her rosebud lips, taunting her to open up to him. Daring her to match him.

Kiss for kiss.

And she did, for suddenly he was all she craved. All that she'd been missing. She opened up to him and reveled in the heat and taste of his mouth, the texture of his tongue twirling with hers, their bodies twining together. The pleasure of touching him, of him touching her, made her shiver all over with dreadful yearning. "This must be lust," she sent to herself, for surely desires this exciting and wonderful could not be anything but evil.

He lowered his head and nuzzled her neck, inhaling deeply of her camellia perfume. He branded her throat and the heaving swells of her bosom with searing kisses. Minerva's breasts and nipples ached for the touch of his lips and the feel of his strong paws upon them. It was she who wantonly moved her paws to her bust and lowered her bodice. She heard the catch of his intaken breath when he gazed upon her naked breasts, coated in a down of snowy-white fur that shone like the finest cotton in the moonglow.

"My God, you're beautiful, and every inch a woman," Wilford breathed as he filled a paw with one voluptuous breast. He squeezed and kneaded her, plucked and pulled the tiny nipple peaking through the flawless white fur there until it swelled with need, and she thought she would scream aloud from the pleasure this brought.

Somehow he had unfastened the back of her gown and it fell into a heap on the ground. He took off his black jacket and, as if she were a fragile, newborn calf, laid her gently upon it. He rose over her, and Minerva watched as he removed his shirt and trousers. The light of the full moon cast heavenly highlights upon the hard muscles of his body as they rippled and flexed and bulged beneath his smooth teal fur...and she drank in his beauty. Her eyes trailed along his gloriously thewed frame to his jutting, unsheathed member; long and stout, standing at full attention against his rock-ribbed belly. She shrank back in fear but at the same time was intrigued. Wilford's blue eyes gleamed with the heat of passion as he lay down next to her soft, nude body.

With his tongue and lips he blazed a trail from the tips of her fingers, down her arm, and onto her breasts. He massaged and caressed her, memorizing every inch of his claim. Down across the valley of her abdomen, around the hills of her hips and thighs he traveled. His head came to rest at the oasis between her legs, where he tasted her sweet juices.

"Oh!" Minerva convulsed, crying out at the tumult of sensation that exploded within her. The jolt of pleasure was almost instantaneous and she felt her hips rise off the ground, squirming toward that deft and abie touch. She bucked and writhed, holding his head desperately against the swelter of her need and prayed to God he would not stop. She felt her chest flush pink with rising heat, and when Wilford hit on a most sensitve spot buried in her folds, she felt her legs twitch open a little more.

"Oh, God...!" Her chest heaved, she could barely catch her breath as the wolf lapped eagerly at her wetness. "Oh, please..." she felt her tongue form the words without consent. "Oh, please...please!"

That tongue, in response to her entreaty, moved with more focused precision, and this time, Minerva felt her legs turn to jelly. Her feet scrabbled in the dirt, her back arching on the blades of her shoulders as she thrust herself closer to the source of her pleasure, but Wilford only growled, pinning her resolutely in place as he hungrily feasted.

All her thoughts shattered, her mind wiped clean as every nerve focused on what his skillful mouth was doing to her. He wasn't slow, he wasn't quick—he somehow found the exact tempo that would have her melting, begging in his arms. He flicked his tongue across her aching nub once, twice, a hundred times, until she tried to raise her hips off the ground under the strong paws that held her down. Just as she reached the pinnacle of pleasure building inside her, he slipped away, laving the tender petals of her blossoming flower, his tongue dipping into her slick passage and adding to the moisture his ministrations had already made. And when her breathing grew a fraction less ragged, and her thoughts began to return, he restarted the process, returning to torment her until she was writhing helplessly beneath him again.

It was heaven.

It was hell.

She was going to come apart. Never had she felt such blinding pleasure! She wanted this molten torture to go on and on, and yet every stroke of that wicked lupine tongue made her groan in frustration for...for what she did not know.

She lost count how many times he did this, but she felt her whole body was flushed, her thighs quivering around him as he continued his voracious onslaught. Her feet struggled in vain, pushing up little piles of dirt in her passion as she kicked and shifted, dainty toes curling and straining tightly in the soil. Her breathing had harshened, her voice had grown shaky, dire and desperate as he stroked her tender folds harder and faster, softer and slower, and she felt all of her need coiling for him, spiraling upward, tighter and tighter to a point that almost felt like pain. Her own tongue had loosened, forming unintelligible words and arching high-pitched sounds with each scrape of that tongue against her intimate flesh. Before long she felt the pressure mounting, her belly churning with a great and terrible ache as Wilford's tongue lapped, and sucked, and his sharp teeth nibbled and chewed. Just as she'd reached the summit, his paw found her breast, and the unexpected caress was enough to throw her over the edge...

The earth stood still and in that instant she knew pure lust. "Oh, my God!" she screamed, crumbling as something like release, like falling, swept through her like a raging wildfire across the grasslands. Hot tears streamed from her eyes as her body shattered into a chain of uncontrollable spasms within and without, one ending, and the next beginning, and the next. Without his paw to stop her, she drove her Venus mound upward to him, almost violent in her passion—and he followed her movements, kept his mouth latched to her quivering femininity until he had wrung every last drop of sweet ambrosia from her.

Minerva lay panting on the ground, a numb, trembling thing, her ample breasts rising and falling heavily atop her chest, quivering slightly as she breathed. When she came back from the ether, she found Wilford laying atop her, his broad chest pinning her to the ground. She brought her paws up to his rakishly handsome face and with her fingertips tenderly traced about his broad muzzle, lethargic in their explorations as they stroked his cheeks, his nose, his lips that were still glossy with her essence, until her head stopped spinning. He turned and pressed his mouth to her palm, licking and nipping at her.

She smiled uncertainly, utterly amazed. "I had no idea..."

He glanced up, his half-lidded eyes heavy with intent. "Good?"

She curled her arms around his neck, a languid little smile fluttering across her lips. "Good doesn't even come close."

Wilford's grin grew sinfully wicked. "There's more."

"More!?" Unbelievably, a coil of desire tightened her womb to a tense spring of heated wanting. The wolf was a demon!

He moved and she felt the thick, steely length of him nestle against the opening he had made so wet with his kiss. "Wrap your legs around my waist," he ordered, nipping at her neck when she didn't obey fast enough. His arms slid around her and held her in a tight embrace. A tremulous breath hitched in her lungs as she felt the plum-shaped tip of him push into her slick passage, stopping when it met resistance.

Wilford paused and stared down at her. "I am your first," he said with wonder in his eyes.

Minerva dug her fingers into his shoulders and braced herself in his strength. "Yes," she whispered, her face burning anew.

With a feral growl, he grasped her hips and held her immobile. "Don't be scared, Minerva. A moment of discomfort for a lifetime of pleasure, I promise you."

He thrust into her, taking her maidenhood with one swift, forceful stroke. Minerva shrieked at the sharp pain of the breaching, grabbing clawfuls of wolf fur, but it was over as soon as it started. She felt him throb inside her, a huge, hard presence filling her where before there had been only emptiness. He felt so very big and...heavy inside her. And so exquisitely perfect.

Wilford's face contorted with restraint as he paused again to look into her eyes. "Are you all right?" he said in a low, husky groan.

Her green eyes twinkled like precious gemstones as they smiled up at him, and she nodded her head. "Yes, Wilford."

Minerva's body adjusted to him quickly, and when he began to move inside her, she met each thrust with an ecstatic sigh. She felt his paws slide under her buttocks, pressing, stroking, and kneading their softness as he bent to kiss first one white breast and then the other, lifting her to him as he pushed deep, retreated, pushed in again, causing the most soulsearing sensations. His muscular chest crushed against her plush breasts, the heavy mounds flattening into luscious disks between them, and she tried to rub them against him, tried to feel as much of him as she could. The sensation of him being inside her, her tender flesh stretched tight around his plundering phallus, was almost too much to bear.

A guttural sound ripped through Wilford's chest as his body ground into hers. He covered her mouth and plunged into her, sucking, biting, laving every surface he could with his fiendishly clever tongue. Minerva closed her eyes, drowning in the wonderfully lascivious sensations he wrought upon her, each one more delicious than the next. Working her mouth thoroughly, he seized the back of her knee in his powerful paw and lifted, stretching her wide. His tongue mimicked his sex, ravishing her mouth as he ravished her body. The strange erotic thrills she'd experienced under the tutelage of his tongue reemerged, unfolding now like ghostly fingers to strum a blissful tune along her taut nerves. His strong arms crushed her to his chest. She felt totally claimed, consumed, filled. Whole.

Yes, for the first time in her life, she felt whole.

Over and over he sank his potent male shaft into her, plunging in and out, in and out, until she thought she would ignite. Gasping and panting she clung to his corded body as he rode her, spurring her faster and faster to a beautiful, primitive ecstasy. With each meeting of their bodies, hard to soft, and soft to hard, her rapture intensified, and she knew then that there could be nothing evil about their lovemaking. Not ever. She felt herself being carried away into the heavens. She was certain stars and meteors were exploding around. Surely it was the end of the world!

"Come for me, Minerva," Wilford urged, his voice rough with passion. "Come for me..."

His back muscles rippled and strained under her paws, his hips crashed mercilessly against hers. He scythed into her, her soft, pliant body screaming in savage pleasure as the edges of her vision prismed into a million bright colors. His words had her shaking, quaking with excitement, her sex fluttering around his thick rutting length as her whole body strung tight as a bow, back arched and breasts bouncing. Her desire mounted, rippling waves of ecstasy washing over her until it finally burst upon her in an all-consuming flood of unbearable physical delight, and Wilford's name tore from her lips in an anguished cry.

As she went limp beneath him, Wilford gave one final violent thrust and with a carnal howl of conquest spent his lust in a spill of hot seed deep inside her silken walls. He collapsed atop her, and they both lay spent and exhausted, tangled in each other's arms, fighting for breath.

Wilford's hair and fur were matted with sweat as he gathered Minerva into his arms. He pressed his furry chest against her bare breasts and held her tighter still.

"You're mine now, Minerva. And no man will ever have you except me. Do you understand?"

Minerva said nothing. Somehow his words left her feeling empty, when only moments before she had been so full. "No! I don't understand!" she said, jerking away from him and sitting upright.

Wilford yanked her arm and pulled her down on top of him. His blue eyes were fiercely intent when she looked at him.

"I love you, Minerva. Is that what you wanted to hear? I promise you that from this day, nothing will keep us apart. I will always take care of you and be there when you need me. I always keep my promises."

Minerva smiled. "We shall see about that, Wilford Wolfe."

Theirs had been a tempest-tossed love affair over the years. Misunderstandings, distance, tragedy, and natural disasters had kept them apart. But Wilford had been right. When Creedo had laid waste to everything that was precious in life to Minerva, Wilford had promised to stop Creedo and his brothers.

As Minerva sat on her horse looking at him on the ridge above her, she knew in her heart that Wilford always kept his promises.

As his horse bolted down the slope, Minerva heard Creedo's brothers howl deathly and draw their guns. Galloping past her, he whipped out a lever-action Winchester and began firing with shots that were quick and sure. The first of his bullets spun a revolver high into the air and the second blew a hole into the hat of the wolverine at the end of the line. Wilford's third shot snapped a saddle cinch, which resulted in dumping the rider. Wilford fired at the wolverine in the middle and the bullet hit the barrel of his rifle, which exploded in the feral rodent's face. The wolverine's screams echoed hauntingly through the gulch.

Wilford gave chase after the remaining wolverine brothers, the fallen rider grabbing a fistful of mane and jumping his horse bareback. Minerva spurred her steed on with her long legs. She was a rider in the whirlwind, as she roared away into the twees...

This fanfic is based off one of my favorite adventure romance comedies, Romancing The Stone from Twentieth Century Fox, 1984.
All Disney, as well as all other properties trademark of their respective owners.
All famous persons mentioned herein have been anthropomorphicized.
Minerva Mink and Wilford Wolf are from Animaniacs, Warner Bros. Animation, 1993.
Slowpoke Rodriguez is from Looney Tunes, Warner Bros., 1953.