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

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When the couple reached the apex of their love making Arturo took a few steps back to give her some space unsure if she enjoyed after sex cuddles or not, each breath he took deep and even of the weald around them, and of her scent mingled with his own. When she turned to him, her moonbeam gaze appealing and asking him to stay with her he responded by closing the distance with the intent to rub his muzzle against her’s, placing a loving kiss upon the corner of her mouth. Of course I’ll stay, he intended for his actions to say, unable to call upon his vast vocabulary to form coherent words. Not while the passion they shared still lingered, freshly imprinted in his mind and to the muscles of his body. When his nightingale whimpered and wiggled nearer he let her (like he was going to deny her closeness, haha), drawing her into an (wolfish) embrace. “Well my nightingale,” The gangster drew in his accented, smoky timbre, offering her a slow, lazy devilish sort of grin. “Was it as you thought it would be? Or not at all as you thought it would be?” It was not for his pride that he asked. He had wanted her first time to be perfect (or as close to it as it could get, at the very least) and though she did not seem scared off by the sacrosanct act of passion but he wanted to be sure, just in case.

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