Ravensblood Forest the one minute. the soldier's minute

The Fearghal’s attractively accented timbre fell with favor upon Lotte’s waiting ears, and an answering smile shaped her streamlined muzzle, broadening when the Ceannasach drew nearer still. She was disappointed in her inability to sing the verse she’d meant to sing, but she reasoned that her opinion of Arturo had changed considerably since their first meeting — so considerably, in fact, that even now her busy mind was writing and rewriting, flipping through dictionaries in every language she knew to select the truest, most perfect words for each line.

The smoke-and-shadow female felt her breath catch in her throat as she awaited Arturo’s touch, and when it did not come immediately — he was an odd mixture of gentleman and gangster that was as alluring as his accent — she boldly pressed forward, rubbing her shoulder, rib cage, flank, and hip against his chest in a slow curve, her coal-plumed tail teasing along his jawline as she made a complete circuit and stopped where she’d begun: facing him squarely with a saucy smile upon her black-masked visage. Then, without speaking, she stretched, hindquarters sloping down in an exaggerated tilde to her splayed forelimbs; she looked up obliquely at the coywolf, admittedly not recognizing the gravity of his earlier admission, and darted forward playfully, snapping harmlessly at air before spinning and bounding a pace or two away. Lotte had not yet reached her majority, and the tickly feeling her in her gut was an inexplicable, exhilarating thing. Her inexperience filed it away as a desire to play with the older male, and she indulged in her whims without shame. Chase me, begged the soot-stockinged rogue without words, argent eyes flashing.