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

There was something of the femme fatale in Lotte as she rose, her stockinged legs straightening with deliberate grace as she shook the crushed foliage from her matte colorpoint pelt. Tipping her dark muzzle over one Chartreux shoulder, she fixed the Ceannasach with an unblinking stare — in a very Lotte-like way, she was prepared to fight the sensations of her body, and the agitation sparked by her uncertainty found release in a catlike lashing of her coal-colored tail. It wasn’t that she regretted her demand — she was too plain-speaking to play coy unless she was working — but she disliked the idea of being a weak, spineless woman. “Arturo?” she said, finding comfort and security in his equally straightforward nature and his frank declaration of his plans for their joined future. The upward inflection was not a question as much as a request for reassurance — Lotte had always been able to depend on the swiftness of her paws and the strength of her jaws, but now her body seemed a traitor, filled to the brim with a brewing restlessness that she did not know how to assuage. She tossed her head like a wild filly, awaiting his command.