You left the sliding glass door cracked just enough to let the breeze in. Then a single, brutal scrape of chain links snapping free, followed by the heavy thud of paws hitting soft earth, then concrete. He appeared at the edge of the patio like a piece of the night made flesh: a Cane Corso, black as spilled ink except for the faint brindle ghosts streaking his flanks, shoulders rolling under scarred hide like boulders under tar. One hundred and ten pounds of muscle and frustration, weeks locked in a concrete run with no relief. Your scent hit like a match to dry grass: warm skin still flushed from the shower, the faint musk of untouched arousal lingering between your thighs, the sweet-sharp bloom that no human nose would catch but that screamed ready to every intact male within a mile. His nostrils flared so wide the black leather of them wrinkled. Drool gathered at the corners of his heavy jowls and fell in slow, glistening strings to the patio tiles. Between his hind legs his sheath had already given up the fight; the thick pink length of him slid free in slick, urgent inches, heavy and veined, the tapered tip weeping steadily. Each bead struck the cool concrete with a soft pat… pat… pat, obscene in the quiet.