Moonspear and breathe in time [m]

Her every move was made of grace; pure grace. He watched as she stripped the flesh from the fish - this tiny creature, now dead, which she attended to with such delicate precision. He wished to have such careful and considerate attention from her as well. Perhaps not so bloody, but he was not afraid of pain. He would endure all manner of things for her. She did not move to look at him as he, sifting closer through the dark, noticed the tiny hints that yes, yes - her attention was upon him, at last.

Every inch of movement he made, and every adjustment of her own body, made him thoroughly aware of her condition. At least, to a point. He knew there was a heat in the air, a great pull inside of his body - a burning in his blood - but was unaware to the cause. It didn't matter why her body called to him. It did, and the beast, driven by instinct and trusting himself wholly, believed that she wanted him all the same. Why else would she be calling to him? Why else would her body be pulling at every inch of him? His skin crawled.

He was behind her. Watching the darkness of her hips and the subtle beat of her lungs as they pulsed with her breath. Lazarus lingered out of her view and breathed - simply breathed - and then, in a moment of forthright desire, thrust his nose towards her limp tail with the urge to push it aside and bask in the allure of her scent. His physical reaction was immediate and impossible to hide; but he did not need to hide it. She wanted him, or so he believed. She was calling for him.