The Books Won't Tell
"So, uh, I'm looking for a book on 'squirrel physiology'."
"Whatever." A smile, looking up. Eyes darting, with just a hint of gentle mischief. Her bushy, rich-brown tail flagging behind her, gently whooshing the slightly-stagnant air. "Where's your library card, then?"
Denali smiled slyly, leaning closer. "Library card?" he went, giving her a healthy look-over.
Ketchy was behind the main desk in the Sheridan Public Library, on the ground floor (there were two floors: the basement, which had all the children's books and such, and the ground floor, where all the rest of the books were located, as well as current newspapers and three computers for public use). But the squirrel leaned forward. Her husband, the otter, here to pick her up (from this, her work). But teasing her, as he often did. Not that she really minded. She was, after all, playing along. And otters did have a tendency for that. For playfulness.
"I tell you, young miss, I'm researching squirrels ... "
"Young miss," Ketchy echoed, giggle-squeaking, her whiskers twitching.
" ... femme squirrels, particularly. I'm interested in ... "
" ... presenting your library card. You can't check out a book without a library card." A soft, little grin. "May I see your card, sir?" She held out an open paw. And she gestured with her fingers. "Please?"
"Card?" he repeated. "I'm afraid I've, uh ... misplaced it," he said, eyes shining, nose 'perilously' close to hers. He breathed deep. His whiskers giving a singular twitch.
"Have you?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"Well, that IS unfortunate." The squirrel's voice, in the space under this roof, got muffled in the rows and shelves of mostly-old books. Just another month. That's how long this eighty year-old building had. And then the brand new library (too expensive for farm-furs on lower incomes to honestly pay for; but the 'Board' was delusional, ever one to demand the town keep up appearances that were, in reality, far above its actual situation) ... but the new library would open further down the Main Street, with nice, plush confines, no doubt.
And as a library worker, Ketchy, despite knowing there was no NEED for a new library (honestly, how many furs used libraries anymore), wasn't going to complain about working in a warm, comfortable building. Especially with winter coming.
"Yes," Denali concurred, responding to her statement. "Unfortunate."
"Hmm." Ketchy, still playing with her husband, drummed her fingers on the wooden desk-top. She was the only one here. Well, her and Denali. The library closed at five. And that was in, like, seven minutes. No one ever came into the library in the last half hour. Not in this town, anyway.
And it was Ketchy's turn to 'close down' tonight, so she'd told Adelaide she could go home a bit early. (Not that Ketchy was Adelaide's boss or anything.) 'Fly away home, bat! Fly away home!' she'd teased, squeaking in a thespian tone, flapping her furry arms like they were wings.
Adelaide had giggle-chittered at this, proceeding to grin, then flaring, spreading her pink, winged arms and giving a toothy look of mock-menace. And then bounding to the door, pausing deliberately. 'Forgot my purse.' And she'd walked casually back.
'You ... you and your dramatics,' Ketchy had said, giggle-squeaking.
'You started it,' was Adelaide's friendly, winking response.
"Can't you just ... bend the rules?" Denali asked, back in the present. Still irreverently, verbally 'nosing' Ketchy. "My research is very important ... "
"Your research ... "
" ... on the anatomy ... "
" ... of femme squirrels. Yes, I can see why you'd think it would be." Flashing him a grin. Breathing inward through her twitching, sniffing nose. Her tail still flagging behind her. "You have that 'hungry, unfulfilled' look about you. My mother always used to warn me about otters, you know."
"Did she?" Denali allowed his rudder-like tail, sturdy and covered with soft, deep-brown fur, to steer behind him. To the left. To the right. Like a balance for his body.
"Oh, yes. 'Stay away from otters,' she'd say. 'They're full of cheek'."
"Cheek. I can't say I know," he said smartly, "to what she was referring." A polite head-tilt. "No disrespect to your mother, of course."
"She'll be glad to hear that." A whisker-waggling wink.
"Now, about this BOOK, young miss." Denali straightened, clearly enjoying this. He lightly slapped the desk-top with the blunted claws of his paws. And he cleared his throat. "It's vital that I check it out."
"Check it out ... "
"The book ... "
"Of course. The book ... you aren't holding a book." She looked him over. "How do you know we have the book you need?"
"Because any self-respecting library would have a book on the beauty," he whispered eloquently, "that is the female squirrel." He gazed down at her (being taller), back at her. "Surely."
"Oh. Well ... you do make a good point. But, then, if it is as you say ... perhaps we have MANY books on the topic." She was flushing beneath her fur. One couldn't see it, of course. Squirrel ears weren't like, say, mouse ears, where they very visible could blush ... but the heat her body was giving off was very evident to the otter's nose. He FELT her flush, from this close. And it only encouraged him. "Anyway, you can only check out five books at a time."
"Perhaps. BOOKS, then," he corrected. "Five books. What about my books?"
"Our books."
"Let me correct myself," Denali posed, "again. Okay. 'Your' books that, for a certain, 'loaned' amount of time, will be 'my' books."
"Our books," was all Ketchy said. Again. Smiling. Challenging.
"Yes, but are they on loan? Is this not a library?"
"It is," she said.
He nodded. Nodded.
"A library," she finished, "where you need to show your card. May I see you card?" she said again, biting down her giggle-squeaks. Her whiskers waggling all over (as they often did when her pulse increased).
"By the time I go home and fetch my card, you'll be closed," Denali said.
"Well ... "
" ... you're a squirrel," Denali stated.
"Am I?"
"Mm." The otter surveying his wife, nodded. Narrowed his eyes. Drinking her in. "Mm ... hmm. Yes. Yes, you most definitely are."
"Kind sir, your 'gaze' ... are you okay?" She put on a tone of waif-like innocence.
"I think it's the dust," he fabricated. "All the book-dust in this library. It's wreaking havoc on my senses. On my heartbeat."
"Is it?"
"Yes. I can feel it rising ... "
"Rising ... "
"I think I shall go mad." Eyes meeting hers. So deep.
"Well ... well, I AM going mad," was Ketchy's response, as she giggle-chittered, sinking into her swivel-chair. "I ... I can't keep a straight face anymore. Mm ... sorry." Giggles! "I can't ... mm ... "
"Aw ... I was really getting into it."
"I know." A breath. "I know." A pause. And she lightly licked her lips. "You, uh, really worked me up." She inhaled. Exhaled. And swallowed. Leaning back in her chair.
"That was the intention," he whispered warmly, softly. Simply.
"Mm." A deep breath. Her nose and whiskers twitching. And her angular ears swiveling atop her head.
Their gazes met.
The squirrel swallowed. "But, uh," she continued, trying to keep her composure. "I told Adelaide we'd get new advent candles. For the, uh, church. The ones we have are waning down, and it's almost time," she said, "to light them."
"We can go to Westfield tomorrow, or something."
A nod. Ketchy looked to him, still 'worked up,' and her concentration slipping further. The otter was a true testament to his species. Strong, tall. Looking like he was built for swimming. For moving and lifting things, for kicking through the water. His fur, so soft, so rich. He had such a lovely pelt. Oh, to bury her nose in it, and to run her fingers through it, and ... " ... and we still gotta decide whose family we're having Thanksgiving with, and whose we're having Christmas with, and, uh, all that."
"I'd rather do Christmas with your family. They're closer. And less rowdy." Denali's family lived over an hour away, really, to the north. On the banks of the Wabash and Eel Rivers, up in the corner of Cass County. Nearer Logansport. "I don't mind traveling for ... "
" ... Thanksgiving." A nod. "Okay. Well, I think that's good. A good idea, I mean. Thanksgiving there, and Christmas here." A pause. A breath. "My family will be glad to hear that, too, cause ... I've never not been with them," she whispered, "for Christmas."
The otter picked up her paw. And gave it a warm squeeze. Rodents tended to take all religious holidays very seriously. Close-to-the-heart. Being that rodents, in general, were more inclined to faith. Though every species had believers. Denali and his family were Christians. Other otters were, too. Every group of furs, of course, but ... it was the general view (of any observer) that rodents tended to be the most devout.
The squirrel smiled up at him, still sitting. Him still standing. And she squeezed back, and then had to pull her paw away (so she could shut down the desktop computer; the computers on the other side of the room were already shut down). And, after a moment, she took a breath, and then asked, her whiskers twitching, "Your family ... they're gonna have fish, though, aren't they?" She bit her lip.
"For Thanksgiving?" A nod. "Of course. But you don't have to eat it," he added.
"Well, I can't." Being a rodent, her stomach couldn't digest it (not without queasy side-effects). "And it smells."
"Fish?" The otter made a face.
A quiet nod.
"I never noticed," the otter admitted weakly. "I wanted to have fish tonight. I ... "
" ... no, no, it's okay. I'm just saying ... " The squirrel smiled, and sighed. "It's like you and acorns. You spit them out every time I make you try 'em."
A slight chuckle. "To each his own. Or her," he added, "own," giving her a nod.
A whisker-twitching smile. "I love you," she said plainly, no hesitation. And for no particular reason ... other than she did.
"Love you, too, darling." A grin. "Though how one goes from acorns being an acquired taste to blurting out statements of love ... "
"Well, I never claimed to be rational."
Another chuckle.
And a pause. And Ketchy continuing, "No, but with your family, it's ... I just don't wanna be the odd-fur-out, is all. I don't want them to shut me out or anything. I mean, they haven't, I know that. And they've been so kind. I'm just afraid ... that the novelty of having a squirrel in the family will wear off. You know? And then they'll ... "
"Darling, you're not gonna be an outsider. Ever. Not with me. Not with my family. You're loved, okay?" A reassuring smile.
"I know. I know." A breath. "Your brothers married otters." Denali had two brothers, no sisters. "You married me ... "
"And you're lovely. They don't look down on you. How many times do I have to tell you ... "
"I know. I just ... I don't know." A breath. "Just my rodent anxiety. I worry too much," she stated obviously. And she sighed through the nose. And she looked him over, and a smile dawned on her muzzle (again). "I can just imagine," Ketchy said, almost dreamily, "when you were growing up. Swimming in the rivers. Going after fish with your bare paws. Water dripping from your whiskers, fur all matted, rich, and bold-brown, and your rudder tail so powerful ... mm ... "
"When I was young? I'm only twenty-two. I'm still young," he defended, with a healthy grin.
A giggle-squeak. "You know what I mean."
"Mm. Yeah." And he playfully puffed out his chest. "Anyway, what are you talking about. I still do that stuff NOW."
More giggles, and a nod. "Mm. True."
"Though Little Eagle Creek is hardly built like a proper river. Hardly meant for otters."
"No," Ketchy agreed. She and Denali, like Field and Adelaide, lived a few miles outside of Sheridan, this small, rural town. Lived out in the fields and the patches of woods, and the few creeks that snaked through it all.
Denali glanced at the battery-powered, lazily-ticking clock that was hung on the end of one of the bookshelves. "Five-o'clock."
"Mm?" Ketchy blinked, and turned to look. "Oh. Yeah." A breath, and she opened one of the desk-drawers, pulling out her set of library keys. And she slowly stood, straightening her tail, moving around the desk and to the front door.
Denali watched her walk. Watched the movement, the cadence of her hips. Her tail held high, arched, bushy. Something to stroke and hug. Her fur, like his, was brown, but hers was a lighter shade of brown. Almost a nutty-brown. "You're gonna lock us in ... shouldn't we be on the other side of the door when you lock it?" the otter said to her, watching her. Blinking.
No immediate, verbal response. Just the sound of the key in the lock. The key turning. Clicker-click. "Mm. Not necessarily," Ketchy breathed.
"Oh."
"Yeah," was her continued breathing. Glad that Denali had caught on so quickly. She swallowed. "But, uh, don't worry. The books won't tell," she assured. A breath, her paws literally shaking in anticipation. Damn. What a feeling. That nerve-tingling, breath-baiting, shaking kind of thing. Your heart starting to get away from you, and you tried to slow your breathing, but you couldn't, and you just ached with needy, emotional love, and no amount of closeness could ever be enough, because you were always drawn back to the need, the want of it, and ...
" ... darling?"
"Mm?" Ketchy blinked, swallowing.
"Are, we, uh ... just gonna stand here?" the otter asked.
"No," his wife whispered. "Uh ... " She took a breath. Nodding toward the back. "The, uh, extra room ... the one they converted into a kitchen. There's no windows in there," she whispered.
"Okay," he whispered back, and then ... pausing. Asking her, "Ketchy ... "
"Yeah?" She took his paw, leading him to the room in question.
"Why are we whispering?"
She didn't miss a beat. "Cause we're in a library, silly."
"Oh."
"Mm." The door to the 'extra room' pushed open, Ketchy pulled him in. Haphazardly flicked the light switch on. And then shut the door with a gentle push (not locking it once it was closed; no need to).
Denali fumbled with his belt, getting it loosened, undoing the button on his jeans ...
... Ketchy panting lightly, audibly, own pants pushing past her hips, her light-blue, silky panties still on.
The otter's sheathed erection bulged in his white, cotton briefs. But he left them on, reaching for his wife, paws to her hips. Paws sliding over her belly. Sliding under her shirt, around to her back.
Huff, huff ...
Her bra undone. The otter peeling it away, leaving her warm, furry breasts to hang. Leaving them open to fondling. Grope and knead her breasts. Keep your fingers in the supple, furred flesh, and wag your thumbs over the nipples.
"Ah ... ah," was the squirrel's soft, rising response.
He kept at it, feeling her breasts like a sculptor. Rubbing, shaping. And never forgetting those hardening, pink nipples. And leaning in to steal a little kiss.
She held her breath.
Lips locking. Heads tilting.
Kiss.
And broken. Breathe, breathe ... muzzles lingering close.
She, eyes hooded, arched, moving to her toes, the tips of her bare foot-paws (it hadn't been cold enough to warrant wearing shoes today; almost, but not quite; the furry foot-paw was fine unless it went below freezing, but it was five degrees above freezing today). She raised her arms, and Denali pulled her shirt up. Got it over her head, wadded it up, and flicked it aside. She was only in her panties now. Her pants around her ankles. She kicked them away ...
... while he let go of her, so that he could unbutton his button-up t-shirt, shrug it off, kick his jeans under the table ...
... and her breath baited, muzzle dry, she leaned up to him, against him, on him, sliding down his body, drawing in his strong, otter scent with her delicate, twitching nose. Sticking her fingers beneath the elastic band of his briefs. Pulling them down. Until her nose bumped into the shaft of his mostly-emerged otter-hood.
His fingers rested on her head. Scritching behind her ears.
She shivered. Sniffing. Shivering. Sex. Scent.
The otter couldn't help but become a bit harder. The blood notching him up a bit more, a bit more.
As the squirrel let herself rest there, on her haunches, taking it in. The scent of your lover's sex. Unmistakably familiar. Unmistakably strong. Unmistakably promising.
Simply unmistakable.
The otter barely had time to mew before her paw, slipping round his shaft, angled it toward her muzzle. Where she took it in. Hard, hot flesh, the essence of masculinity, the jewel of her husband's body. And it was hers. In her muzzle. For her to taste. For her to tongue. For her to suck.
Hers. He was hers.
And she was his.
Nothing to hide from one another. Nothing to keep. Fully in love with each other.
Denali sucked in air.
While she, through her twitching, wildly sniffing nose, huffed it out. Drawing her muzzle back, and then sliding it forward. Lips in a wet, loosened ring, sliding over the sensitive, peach-pink flesh of his penis. Pulling back, sliding, in a heated, eager muzzle-motion. Bob, bob ...
" ... uh ... uh," was his breath, as he stood there, starting to hunch over. Knees a bit wobbly. Mind swimming.
"Mm. Mm," she hummed.
Making him squirm. Making him clutch at her tail, which flagged this way, that way, and he could hardly catch it. His paws unable to stay still. He squirmed, lightly mewing in eyes-closed pleasure.
And Ketchy kept going. Softly, slowly. She never went fast. Never lost control. Never went manic on him. She always did this tenderly. Patiently. Letting the act of it smolder them both.
One paw behind him, on his rump, grabbing his rump-cheek, holding on. The other fiddling with his sac. Which was swelling. And also drawing up, up, closer to his body. Tightening like it did. She lamented the lack of loose orbs to roll about, settling on simply tugging the fur on his sac, and squeezing it, feeling it tense.
The otter was huffing now. His rudder-tail was making sharp batting movements. He was grunting in audible pleasure. "Uhnn. Uhhg."
Her muzzle, hot, wet, humid, slid, slid ... and settled. Suck.
"Hah!"
Suck.
He shivered.
Until, finally, her tongue tasted a streaming rivulet of salty pre. She closed her eyes. Gave a few slow, succulent sucks, and then slid backward, her lips sliding off the swollen, pink glans, the tip of his proud, glistening member. Which, free of her muzzle, bent back into a very upright position, a strand of saliva stringing from the underside of the shaft ... and to her lips. The squirrel severing the saliva string with a flick of her tongue.
Denali shivered with a hot, pounding sensation. His fur flushed. His throat dry. He swallowed, breathing heavily through his nose. His whiskers drooping from the heat.
Her whiskers wildly twitching, as always. And she, rising from her squat, shakily stood. Feeling a bit light-headed at first. Regaining her balance, and giving him a coy, lingering look.
Their eyes getting lost in each other.
And she put her paws on the tabletop, pushing down. Jumping a tiny bit, so that her rump came up and rested smack-dab on the edge of the table. So that she could lean back, laying down. Back on the table. And legs and foot-paws trailing over the edge, held up. Raised. And her paws fumbling with her panties, trying to ...
... take them off. He helped her to take them off. Letting them dangle from one of her foot-paws for a moment. Before they fell. And before the otter got to his knees, a very easy position, and finding himself face-to-face with her spread-legged treasure.
Purest femininity.
He lovingly pressed his nose to it. To the lips of her vulva. Her labia. And he took a deep, animal whiff. Immediately sighing it out, mind blazing, body a bundle of sensitive, ramped-up nerves. She was wet. No lack of excitement or moisture here. Oh ... oh, his nose pried deeper, and then ...
... the tongue-lashings.
An otter's tongue wasn't as limited as a rodent's. An otter's tongue had more in common with a dog's tongue, or a fox's tongue. That is to say: it was built for lapping.
"Oh ... oh ... " The squirrel squeaked softly, eyes closing. Breasts heaving, rising and falling as she got a very warm, very wet go-over with his tongue.
Lap, lap, lap.
Sigh.
Lap, lap ... up and down the fleshy, fur-less lips, licking the slightly-salty taste. Licking to the little perimeter of fuzz that separated the pussy from the fur, and then the dense tufts of fur on her mons. He sniffed at, huffed on, licked at ...
... everything feminine. She was everything feminine. And he couldn't get enough, and he moved to her little nub. Her swollen, emerging clit, and gave that a lick, too. A lick, a lick.
A squeak!
Too sensitive, the sound told him. And he backed off. Slightly. Instead, using his lips. Nibbling. And nibbling.
And her airy, throaty chitters indicated that she could handle it.
So, he gave it. Lips brushing and nibbling delicately on her clitoris. While two fingers from his paw slipped into her vagina. Into the wet, muscular tunnel. Sliding slowly, slowly ... in and out. In and out.
The otter could feel her fur being dampened with sweat. Feel the searing, bodily heat of her. And the emotional heat as well. The need. And the trust. And the vulnerability. So hot and pulsing, pounding in the way her half-open eyes met his when he pulled back.
When they made lingering, quiet eye contact.
The otter licked his lips, somewhat slobbering. As his cock was doing, beading droplets and letting them drool down his shaft. Loins aching. He felt that great, indescribable urge to fill something. To be inside something. To hump. To buck. To grind his hips. He just had to. Nothing else made sense. Nothing but the desire to fill something and hump it. The need was so strong.
But, not entirely animal, still sentient, still civil, still spiritual, he didn't want her simply for the lust. He didn't want her just to please his body (but, oh, she did, she did, she did).
He wanted her for the love.
He loved her. He told her so, in his panting, huffing voice. "I ... oh ... oh ... I love you ... " His paws stroked her healthy, femme body. His eyes were still looking to hers. It was only proper (and right) that, while making love, you STATED your love. Even if she already knew. Even if you'd told her before. Tell her again.
"Oh, I love you ... too ... Denali ... " Her voice soft, simple. At a shaky whisper. The words never got old. And when spoken in such a fiery, physical condition, they seemed to quake you to the very soul.
And both naked, both yiffy, both in love ...
... there was nothing that could stop what had to happen next.
As he fingered her vagina, whispering softly to her.
As she nodded at something he'd said, whispering something back.
As he smiled at her words. Still fingering her (which she, sighing, seemed to enjoy). Waiting, and taking a breath.
Until she nodded. Swallowing. "R-ready ... g-go," she pleaded.
The otter needed no extra bidding. Paws moving to her hips, he positioned her rump so that it was right on the edge of the table. Her legs spread, wet, pulsing pussy-lips in clear view. She on her back on the table, her tail half-pinned beneath her, wavering as best it could (from the excitement). Whiskers non-stop, breasts loose, warm, lovely. And her soft, breathing belly. And ...
... Denali angled himself forward. His glans slipping between her labia, to her vagina, and penetrating. One of the single greatest thrills of the whole love-making act. That first second of penetration. It really hit you what you were doing. The connection. The giving. Or as the Christian furs thought of it: 'one fur, one soul, total union.' Imprinting yourself upon your partner. Something spiritual.
Ketchy sighed heavily. Huffing.
Denali mewed as his shaft was swallowed up, completely wrapped up by her nature-perfect, God-designed sheath. Pink, raw, wet, hot. A perfect, puzzle-piecing fit.
Perfect pleasure.
He just hunched over her, panting, reveling in it. Reveling in her. If it were up to his mind, he'd just hunch here and admire all of this ... until nightfall (which, in the lateness of the year, was in about forty-five minutes). But his body knew that more friction equaled more pleasure. His body took over, and the pleasure became greater. With each slippery pull-back and each squelching hump.
The squirrel squeaked, needing, wanting, loving this. Being filled. A need. Clitoris so sensitive, tunnel so wet, body writhing, so hot.
Hump, hump ...
"... hmm. Mm."
The friction, for the otter, becoming too much. His plowing already becoming erratic. They were both so worked up.
The squirrel gurgling and fingering her clit, trying to keep pace, and ...
" ... ah! Ahh!" A bark. Loud and satisfying, almost like a declaration. His body slumping over hers, muzzle huffing above her breast and neck-fur. "Ohh ... ohh!" he moaned, penis buried, unloading spurts and spurts of fresh male's milk. Seed. To her womb, right at her swelling, lowering cervix. But, even if she'd been in heat, he couldn't get her pregnant. They weren't genetically compatible enough. But that in no way decreased the biological and emotional and physical satisfaction of sowing. Each ejaculatory spasm drawing a sound from his throat. As he endured it.
As she, with a rising, welling, almost there, almost there ... followed him into it. His release, and his sounds, and his looming, scented presence. It was too much. And the friction. Her walls squeezing around his organ, clamping on it, milking it. Drawing from it everything it was supposed to be giving. From pleasure on down. Her vagina in tremors, quivers. Spasms that shot out through her lower half. Feelings of such contentment. She could only chitter-squeak like a fool. Squeak, squeak ... " ... ohhh. Uhnnn ... "
Until it was over.
Until they were spent.
Until, panting hard, smelling of sweat, soaked in sex, their eyes met.
Both of them flushed beneath the fur, and the otter hesitating to pull out of her. But, after a moment, doing so. Shivering with post-sensitivity as he withdrew, leaving little trickles of semen to drip out of her. Leaving her to lower her legs, putting them together. So that she could sit up. Recover from the dizziness. And then slip off the table and to her foot-paws on the floor.
Where they leaned against each other, arm-wrapped, noses buried in each other's fur.
Breathing.
Breathing.
"Oh ... "
The otter hugged her tighter. "Mm." A breath. "That was, uh ... uh ... "
" ... good," she supplied, flushing. "Yeah." A hearty nod, as she slowly disentangled from his limbs. "Thank you," she whispered.
He whispered the same (back to her).
More recovering pants and huffs.
And she looked down. "Uh ... " A pause. "I'll go get a towel from the bathroom." She shyly went to the door, opening it, peeking about, and then padded, naked, to the library's bathroom, her hips swaying and her tail trailing.
Denali weakly went to the table and sat on the edge of it, closing his eyes. Trying to recover. Damn ... mm ... " ... oh," he sighed, breathing in deep. "Mm." A little smile crept onto his muzzle. And why not?
When Ketchy came back, they cleaned up any mess. She sprayed an air spray (of some citrus stuff in a can) to mask any lingering scent of what they'd done (but, to be honest, it wasn't like they were the first furs to make love in this library ... she knew for a fact that Adelaide had done the same with Field, at LEAST once).
And the otter stepped into his underwear and jeans.
She, too, dressing. And, when done, giving him a light, affectionate kiss on the cheek. And then another on the lips.
He smiled warmly and squeezed her paw.
"Ready?" she asked. "We should check ourselves out now, go home ... I'm really, really hungry," she admitted.
"I could do with some food," the otter agreed, nodding. "Mm. But, uh, Ketchy ... "
"Yeah?" she asked, as she gathered her purse, and the keys, and her cold-weather jacket, and her hat, too.
"Are you sure we can check ourselves out," the otter posed, starting to grin, "without a library card?"
A giggle-squeak and a playful shove. "Denali," she chittered, descending into helpless laughter.
And they were still giggling as they went outside, as they got into their old pick-up truck parked in the library's parking lot.
Going home for warm food and warm rest.