Wheeling Gull Isle keep a weather eye on the horizon

He does not speak, but no words are needed.
Maera too has fallen prey to silence, that and something else.
Something she doesn't have a name for or explanation for, but like the treasures she so passionately and desperately searches for, she wants to find, and wants to keep. She continues to breathe into his neck as he continues to move, tracing the nape of her neck and causing more of her fur to stand on end. A purr-like hum escapes her as he keeps advancing towards her shoulders.

As he nibbles gently at her fur and then smooths over the ruffled strands of it that he left behind, Maera's eyes close and her tail, a trembling plume, begins to swish wildly. Never in her life has she been filled with so many emotions. Positve emotions. 

Suddenly, the Sveijarn pulls away, her hazel eyes seeking his directly. For a second, given that she has never ever been in a situation even slightly similar, she doesn't know what to do but quickly instinct takes over and the Sveijarn decides what she wants. Maera, being the fire that she is, wants to consume him.
Or be consumed by him.

A soft whine slips from her lips and again she reaches for him, her nose finding quickly his muzzle and her tongue shyly but decisively peeking to plant gentle kisses on his nose and chin before instinct takes reign again and she dares to give his lips a risqué nip.