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

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The appreciative murmur Lotte made was fuel to the low fire that burned in his belly, spreading down his abdomen where it settled insistent in his loins. It was a slow burning fire — the kind that he knew would consume him achingly, sweetly, with heightened senses to better appreciate the intimacy they would share — as opposed to the burning rush of an inferno that dulled his senses and brought with a heady need to rush. He did not strive to rush this. Not with Lotte. He wanted to savor it, savor her and make it perfect for her. Especially because he was her first. That added to his desire to make it special for her, to make a lasting impression of the kind of lover that he was. The gangster’s burning gaze was upon her as he watched her watch him nip at her hip, drinking in her reaction with both a curiosity and a hidden eagerness and when his nightingale’s hips moved away from him he did not deign to follow allowing her to decide what she liked and what she did not. For once in his life Arturo played the willing subjugate allowing her to make the calls. A few moments passed before Arturo watched her offer herself to him again, the sashay of her hips his invitation. Once more the gangster moved nearer to her, this time placing a soft love bite to her opposite hip, with the intent (if she did not squirm from him) to draw his nose along it’s curve, placing smaller bites where he would place a coy one at the junction of where her spine met her tail.

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