Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

Maybe Sunspot thought she sounded inelegant, but Grimalkin knew there was nothing quite as pretty as a woman's cries of pleasure when she was in the throes.  It whipped him on, his hips moving expertly in low, sweeping arcs.  She was the mail slot on 4 Privet Drive and he was fifty thousand Hogwarts letters being shucked through by the handful.

"Mmm..." he fairly purred, honeyed growl turning the sound into a guttural murmur instead of a hum.  He wasn't shy about voicing his own excitement, and his little grunts of effort as he hiked himself up against her body grew in volume and frequency while they found their rhythm.  He was past the point of actual words (and it wasn't easy to talk with a mouthful of fur, anyway) so he had to satisfy himself with a long, undulating groan, cut into short, separate noises by the rhythm of their joined bodies and the uneven heave of his breath.