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mine, and her fur feels soft as cotton as I brush along her cheek. I want to touch those floppy ears, but if they’re anything like mine they’re delicate and ticklish something fierce. I wrap my wings tight against her back. She gives a quiet squeak. Though the thin fur of her cheeks, she’s blushing. We bump noses again. My lips touch hers. I kiss her.
    A sort of shudder runs through her. She hauls me to my feet and suddenly we’re kissing against the wall of my office. Soft quick kisses, long lingering ones; she can’t seem to make up her mind. I play with that little fluff of a tail, feeling the bowie knife she keeps beside it.
    Part of me, perhaps the wiser part, demands to know what I’m doing kissing a lady outlaw, one who dresses like a man no less. But the rest of me soon hogties that voice and from there on it’s all kisses and touches and her hips against mine. Our gun handles clatter together as she starts to grind up against me in a most immodest fashion. I shiver, poking out of my sheath a little, rubbing against the inside of my undergarments. She’s so hot against me. Her paws brush across my chest, pinning me against the wall. The rough wood tickles the backs of my ears. I kiss back at her, licking her lips, but she doesn’t open her mouth. Seems nobody ever taught her just what that means. She can’t be much past twenty— hardly an age for a virtuous young lady to be out in the world unescorted.
    The kisses fall upon my lips like Arizona rain: rare, precious and sweeping away like a flood all thoughts that came before. The leather of her vest runs smooth against my wings. I breathe harder, pausing in my attentions to recollect myself.
    My thief is not to be dissuaded. Her lips find my cheek, my neck, my chest. She starts unbuttoning my vest. Her own breath is hot and fragrant, sweet as cider under the ghost of all that tobacco. That peculiar scent serving to rile a fella, no matter the species. “You— you’re in heat?”
    She answers by pulling me toward the cell, out of sight of the small, barred window. I bump against the bars, then she pushes me back against the cot. One bunny paw reaches back around to touch my ears, while the other starts working along the front of my britches. That quick paw digs under my gunbelt, uncinching my regular belt.
    I struggle to regain my breath, forcing a cool breeze of sanity into my lungs. “Hold off, Six. That office door doesn’t lock— Those are my trousers!”
    “Possession ain’t nothin’ to a bunny in mah line a’ work.”
    Her paws slip against the tip of my member. It’s been years since a woman touched me there and even in wilder days they never took to it with such enthusiasm. She grips me like the pommel of a saddle, except I’m the one holding on for the ride. There’s power to her movements, muscle to her frame. Not some delicate debutante then, a farmhand perhaps?
    Desire burns in me. She pours kisses onto my lips, feeding the fire. I’m stiff as a railroad spike. Her paw is clumsily squeezing on my fully exposed shaft. I wonder if she’s ever done this before, wonder just how long she’s been playing the part of a man. Meanwhile, I’m squeaking like a prairie dog with each grope and, while I’m not quite jealous of her having paws, it does feel nicer even than rubbing it against my wings— all fuzzy and warm. Her lips plant little panting kisses all over my muzzle, leaving tiny traces of wetness in my thin fur. I’m working up the gumption to call this shindig off when she freezes. Her powerful thighs crush in against me and, were it not for the cot, I believe she could have given me a hell of a bruise.
    I brush her with my wing, one hind paw ready to go for my gun. “Six, what—?”
    And then she’s gone, springing off me and shutting the cell door behind her. It dawns on me after a heartbeat. She’s got my damn britches in her paw! Before I can get to the bars, she’s tried two keys on my belt and the third one clacks