Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

Grimalkin couldn't deny the hold Sunspot had over him, but he wasn't some stripling kid and this wasn't his first rodeo.  He laughed, a leonine rumbling low in his throat, at her impatience.  Maybe that wasn't the best thing to do in this situation, but he was utterly unrepentant as he shifted his stance to cage her more tightly between the pillars of his forelegs.  The growl she made was a fascinating thing that spurred him on, but he was hell bent on taking his time.  He noticed the little watermark-like speckles and the collision of gray with buttery tawny, and he got a good look at those pretty eyes as she flung him an insolent stare.

"You really gonna make me do all the work?" asked his answering stare.

Well, Ramskull wasn't afraid of much, and he certainly wasn't afraid of a little hard work -- especially when the promised payload was so sweet.  "What've I gotta do to make you love me?  What've I gotta do to make you care?" he crooned to her, boldly closing his teeth over her scruff as he pointedly worked his hips against her with two brisk thrusts.  He wasn't in yet, of course.  Nor was he trying to be.  He was just trying to demonstrate why it'd be prudent for her to get up and dance with him, that's all.

"Don't you like dancin', sweetheart?" he asked, shimmying back down her body to press his forearms in the hollows of her flanks just cranial of her hips.  He growled, lightly tugging at her scruff, and gave her another meaningful twitch of his hips.