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

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The gangster rolled his weight to his back paws, finding his balance and distributing it on his hand legs and paws so that it would not burden her. He grasped her scruff between his jaws, a partial growl, partial moan left his lips, muffled by her scruff as she arched back against him — eliciting a throaty groan of pleasure from the coy wolf — minimizing what very little distance had existed between their hips. She spoke in her native tongue, a lovely sound. Though he could not be sure what she spoke as he found his rhythm, taking it slow for her benefit, he judged that it was not bad from the breathless gasps she spoke them on. Soft pants drew from his lips as she pleaded with him cutting herself off before she could tell him what it was she needed. In a way, he supposed she didn’t have too. His thrusts increased in their pace, another low, muffled rumble tore its way from his throat. “Lotte,” He managed to gasp around her scruff tightening his grip upon her hips.

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