"Love, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not sure how I feel about using you as a guinea pig."

That mischievous smile crossed your lips. "Well maybe I like the idea. Besides, you're always pestering me to get involved in your work. This is something I'm actually interested in."

"Thanks a lot," I grouse, helpless to answer your grin with one of my own. But that serious cast soon returns to my eyes, peering down at the little vial in my hand. The liquid is thin and red, too translucent to be blood, too dark to be a liquor. "But seriously. I'm years from human trials. The side effects -- "

"The government says you're years from human trials. Your notes say otherwise."

Now that mischief is almost salacious. This time I don't smile. "You've been reading my notes?"

You cross your arms, still smirking. Christ, I love that smirk. "My scientist husband has been sweating down in his lab for the last eight months to perfect, and I quote, 'the world's most powerful aphrodisiac; intended to replicate the heat experienced by the genus panthera.' Of course I've been reading your notes."

My smile feels sickly. The sensation deep in my belly is less ambiguous. "Curiosity killed the cat."

Your eyes flash almost dangerously. "Satisfaction brought her back."

Caution, good sense, fear -- they all wither away in the force of that smirk; of the desire burning behind your eyes. "All right. Smallest measurable dose. If you feel no effects, I'm not giving you more. Understand?"

"Understood." Still smirking, you sink to your knees in front of me, slyly opening your mouth as the smirk migrates smoothly to your eyes.

"Do you even need this?" My voice really isn't very steady.

"Need has nothing to do with it, love." I see you fingers curling against your thighs as I slowly trail the dropper over your lips, and I realize you're as fearful as you are curious.

But curiosity won, as I suppose we both knew it would. The experimental serum drips onto your tongue, down your throat, blossoming into a delicious fire in your belly and veins.

"Well?" I say uncertainly.

By the next morning we're both sprawled naked on the bed. I'm exhausted. The last time we fucked six times in one night was our honeymoon, and I feel like I just went ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. You, on the other hand, are still an undulating bundle of desire and need, writhing against me, sweat slick from head to toe, moaning against the side of my neck, clawing at my chest, grinding your soaked cunt against my thigh.

"Please," you mewl, "just one more. Just one more. I need it."

"I can't," I groan. "Christ's sake, just let me sleep for an hour."

I can feel your pout -- and your ceaseless grinding.

When I come to I'm alone in the bed. My heart plunges down to my ankles, and I don't even bother putting on underwear as I dart around the house looking for you. The relief I feel when I see you lounging fast asleep on the couch in a shaft of late morning sunlight almost knocks me to the floor.

Gingerly, not wanting to wake you, I sit on the ottoman beside you, admiring the sleek curve of your backside, the elegant shape of your spine --

-- the thin coat of white fur that's sprouted from the small of your back, the long stretches of your thighs, the tips of your ears.

That sinking feeling returns. But, scientist that I am, I can't resist running my fingers through it, marveling at its softness.

Your eyes open, a smile curling your lips. Sharp little fangs peek from behind your upper lip, and the eyes that hold my gaze are as golden as any you might see in an Amazonian jungle.

"How about another dose?" you purr.

Helplessly, I nod.

Inspiration: http://www.sfw.org.uk/96better.shtml