“It’s all a prelude to the horizontal tango,” Dante tells Keith, and drags him to the dance club, two left feet or no. Work has a way of chasing this doctor and vet couple down — the victims of a car crash need their help more than they need a night out. But a night in, tending an injured dog, can be filled with landmines… and music.
Includes bonus stories On Call: Family and On Call: Wildlife.
Excerpt: On Call: Dancing
“Let’s go dancing tonight, Keith.”
I looked up in surprise at my new boyfriend. Dante hadn’t shown any interest in nightlife in the six weeks we’d been seeing a lot of each other. He was throwing some things into a pan in the kitchen, letting me lounge on the couch to play with his sugar glider. The little animal was climbing my sleeve while I twisted around to put her upside down—she’d right herself almost faster than I could reposition my arm. It had seemed a good entertainment for the evening, at least until it was time to take Dante’s clothes off.
“Dancing?” The thought filled me with fear. “Not one of my favorite things.”
“We don’t have to go all the time, but once won’t hurt you.” He flipped the contents of the pan with the spatula—the smell of sautéing peppers was wonderful. “You aren’t on call tonight; I don’t have any animals that need tending. We never go anywhere.”
I sat up and the sugar glider raced off to see what was on top of the python’s aquarium. Dante’s apartment looked like furniture in a pet shop—his career as a veterinarian followed him home every night, which was a matter of climbing the stairs from his clinic. My big gray tabby, Harpo, hopped up into the vacated space, shaking the entire couch. That cat did the opposite of pussyfoot—at least he washed his face like a normal feline.
“We go to the gym, we go out to eat, we go to the movies,” I reeled off. “Why dancing?”
“Those are all places where we’re really alone, if you think about it.” Something else hit the pan and sizzled. “And I like to dance.”
This was not good news. If I distracted him, maybe he’d put dancing off to another night. Snuggling up behind him, rubbing my groin against his ass, nibbling his little flat ear, got me a full body rub. “I like this kind of dancing,” I purred. “The prelude to the horizontal tango.”
Twisting in my embrace, Dante put his arms over my shoulders, waving the spatula behind my head. “It’s all a prelude to the horizontal tango,” he murmured between kisses, “but the music is better at Shenanigans.” The pan required his attention again, which was fine with me. I liked to press against his back.
“What if the white boy can’t dance?” I rubbed my cheek against the black fuzz of his hair.
“Everybody can dance. Don’t pull a stereotype on me.” He sounded irritated and took it out on the peppers he stirred.
“I’m not,” though I had, and thought I’d better switch tactics. “I’m a physiological marvel; they said so at med school. The only true and documented case of being born with two left feet.”
Dante wasn’t listening. “White boys can’t dance. Blacks have rhythm and big cocks. Stereotypes. I thought we were doing without those, Keith—we both know you aren’t a klutz and I don’t have a giant cock.”
“It sure felt big enough jammed into my ass last night,” I suggested. His thick six inches felt damned good in my mouth, my ass, my hand… “Let’s stay home and investigate.” I’d bottom for the next two weeks if it kept me off the dance floor.
“We can investigate after.” He turned to face me again, treating me to an appraising look from those deep brown eyes at close range. “Are you embarrassed to be seen out with me?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t go to church with you.” Diagnosing was a doctor’s business and I’d just found a relationship killer that had to be treated, stat. “What do I wear to Shenanigans?”