Moonspear champagne

And watch he did.

This abrupt change of pace left him mute, a raised brow curious as he calculated options before throwing figures out an imaginary window and sprang to life. The first few springs back into the path he had forced into the snow had the vigor of a less carnal beat, as if he intended to bowl her back over. Perhaps a year or more ago that would have been his direction, to harass and intice with no real intention other than being a pest. Those days had been fun, but his world had changed greatly since then.

Instead now he thought himself bold and in bloom, a royal flower high on a vine over a common weed in shade; he reached for her flank to give decisive nips in a one-two fashion. Low tones rumbled in his throat and then out as he matched her stride not more than a half-step behind—a tentative gesture to toss her sourness away, to stay, to revel in whatever affections could be passed. It seemed rather playful in essence but she had sparked in him this interest for something more, and he, well, he was ever the opportunist.