Dawnlark Plains don't call [m]e grimgram

Not that he was vain — okay, he was a little vain — but Grimalkin didn't really want Sunspot to take off his face.  He was rather proud of his face, after all.  He angled his chin out of reach, his own lips curling instinctively in a grimace, but when he discovered she was just nibbling and not actively trying to do a face extraction he settled down.  If face-chewing was her thing, he'd let it ride.  It was the least he could do, being that she was letting him ride.  If you know what I'm saying.

The grimace turned into a satisfied, easy grin as her voice and mannerisms smoothed out for him, lean, muscular hips arching up to afford him easy access.  "I know, Sunheart," he said through a mouthful of scruff, mixing up her name with the endearment and coming up with something that was neither and both.  "I've got you.  C'mere."  He'd meant to speak reassuringly, but the last little bit came out something like a command, the snap of a growl threading through.  She was in a weird position that he couldn't make heads or tails of, so he solved the problem for both of them by gathering her up and slinging his own hindquarters low.

He hooked his elbows into the hollows just in front of her hips and yanked backwards and upwards in tandem with the controlled grip of his teeth, being as gentle as possible with the latter.  Then he growled in earnest, putting his whole heart into it as he sheathed himself in her womanly warmth, his dark bourbon eyes going glassy and unfocused with lust and primal instinct.