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

A strange, tingling awareness darted hotly through Lotte’s bloodstream; even when her moonbright eyes drifted blissfully closed in a prolonged blink, she was keenly attuned to Arturo’s every movement. If she focused on it hard enough, she felt she could become his very breath — dancing upon his lips in coy tendrils, sinking deep into his lungs, emerging from him in a richly accented murmur of affection. The Ceannasach nipped lovingly at her opposite hip, eliciting a sharp gasp and a widening of starsilver eyes, and when he laid a nibbling trail that led toward the base of her spine, she issued a low, undulating whine that was prelude to a moan. She whipped around abruptly at the risqué close of his fangs over the flesh at the junction of her tail and spine but did not curl her lips in aversion or flee, instead snaking her body boldly along his and gauging his reactions to her. Her own muzzle traced brazenly down Arturo’s spine, her lips and tongue slicking the fur along the grain before she paused and nipped at the hollow of his flank where it met his hip.