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

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The sharp gasp that wretched itself from betwixt his beloved’s lips in response to his ministrations was without a doubt a pleasing sound to the gangster. In these moments with Lotte, Arturo was stripped bare of rank, of power. Ceannasach held no place here: for Lotte he was just Arturo. Though he undoubtedly saw Lotte as his equal in all things he wanted her to see him even if he though he was certainly more of a devil than he was an angel. If she minded she held her peace. The gangster continued with his ministrations, with the coy draw of his tongue and heated love bites upon her flesh: enough pressure so that she felt them through her plush fur but never hard enough to cause harm. Her reaction to the nip at the junction of where her tail met her spine was, perhaps, her most animated yet. She whipped around, quite abruptly, and Arturo became a living statue, muscles taunt as he waited for her fight or flight. Neither came. What followed was indefinitely much more pleasing as she turned his own ministrations against him. That was a first. Though Arturo was not opposed to doing all the work her actions only affirmed what he’d already seen as concrete fact: that Lotte was truly his equal (and perhaps not to be outdone). There was a flutter of uneven breath as it involuntarily left Arturo’s lips as her tongue moved down his spine. The slow burning fire in his belly and loins blazed hotly when he felt her nip at the junction of his flank and hip, the slight shift of his weight accompanied by a low smoky rumble of pleasure in his chest to let her know that he enjoyed her ministrations even if it caused his ache for her to move from slow burn to nearly tormenting (which it undoubtedly did).

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