Ravensblood Forest everybody’s gone in the cotton and the corn [m]

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His nightingale …his queen demanded his presence and Arturo’s course changed abruptly, long legs carried him towards her without fight from him. She called for him, a wordless gesture that Arturo took to mean she was ready. It came as no surprise to the gangster that he wanted her the second that her saccharine scent of her estrus cycle hit him, wanted her with an fire that burned like an inferno in his belly, his loins; yet he did not forget that she had expressed fear when they had spoken of it and Ceannasach offered his beloved patience. She wandered away from him and he resisted the strong impulses to follow her near irresistible scent as it led out of their home: a silent yet strong sign of his trust. He trusted that she would not allow any man but him to have her and yet despite his faith in her affection and loyalty to him as his wife the gangster did not deny the relief he felt when he finally came upon her and did not smell the musk of another’s seed. It should not have needed to relieve him but he’d worried if only because it was nature: to worry and to doubt.

Those things vanished quickly as he set his fiery gaze to her, taking her in a thousand sweet words burning to roll off his tongue to earn her favor but Arturo was no poet and for the sake of not wanting to sound cheesy he bid them back. Though he thought she was the most beautiful every day (estrus cycle or not) and that Lotte definitely deserved to hear it Arturo did not wish to come off as insincere as intoxicated as he was by the succulent scent her body produced. “My nightingale,” The deep, smoky timbre of his voice was almost desperate as it left his lips. For Lotte he burned, for her he was desperate. Vulnerable. Wanting. Needing. The gangster padded nearer, a low rumble of desire lingering in the strong column of his throat. “Lotte…” Breathlessly, he spoke, he pleaded.

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