Looking back, the smugness should have been a clue. That gleaming self-satisfied smile that strained his cheeks, his way of sitting back, fixing his gaze on her and grinning until his lips dried and he had to swash them with his tongue.
She didn’t like the tongue either, long and thin like a strip of bacon, too salty.
He bundled her into bed the first night, every night, pawed her nightdress up and away. He was hairy, sure, but it still came as a shock when she fumbled the light on that seventh night and there lay a panting hyena.