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

“Mm,” hummed Arturo’s nightingale in a low, throaty murmur, “so you do sing, rakas.” She drew the sibilant tail of her endearment out on a hiss of pleasure as she savored his reaction to her ministrations, a greedy glint in her mischievous moonbright eyes. Circling around his hindquarters, she moved up along his back, ruffling the fur of his spine and flank against the grain this time as she trailed a series of slow nibbles from his hip to his nape. There, she snaked her body under his chin with a saucy flick of her tail and swiveled to stand parallel to him, her shoulders in line with his as she buried her face against his neck. One small, triangular ear lay flush against the column of his throat as she bathed him in kisses, her sinuous musculature wriggling with unveiled excitement. The lightning was in his eyes — now she waited with bated breath for the thunder. “Talk to me, please,” the songbird begged, finding his husky, richly accented timbre as alluring as his touch. Her own voice was breathless with longing as she nipped insistently at his chin.