Deepwood Weald you waiting at ho[m]e for me saying what time do you call this?

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A low chuckle spilled from betwixt Arturo’s lips melding with the ambiance that they created around them, when she mentioned that he did sing. He supposed, in a way, it could be considered a singing of sorts but he was not blessed with the voice of a bard, not as his nightingale was. He lacked the spill to piece together poetic words to a melody. The gangster didn’t know what her word: rakas meant but he knew that he liked the sound of it as it left her lips. It was almost as good as hearing her speak his name. Almost. A sharp inhale left the usually so composed gangster’s lips in a rattled breath as Lotte left a trail of nibbles from his hip to his nape, her tongue mussing his fur against it’s natural grain. Her ministrations were wonderful, a delicious and contained amount of heightened pleasure to the slow burning fire that flickered insistently in his belly and loins. Arturo Fearghal was no inexperienced lover but he felt like he was in this moment. “Lotte,” Her name formed on the accented, smoky timbre of his voice in a controlled groan laced with an archaic need at her request. If she expected him to say much more then she would be solely disappointed because her name was about all he could muster at the moment.

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