Bearclaw Valley pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers

his posessive rumbling excited her.  she grinned, playfully meeting his gaze before she stood on her tiptoes and pressed the top of her crown to his throat, her eyes closing in bliss.

this was a place where THE DARK MAN could never touch her.  this was a place for herself and her friend mate, and their future progeny.

mine, she asserted, her nose grazing his dirty fur.  it was a simple word to many but it meant the world to her — it meant that he was hers and hers alone, and that she committed herself to only alexander.  behind her were her days of promiscuity (and she hoped this meant they would be for him as well).  behind her was running away.  every feeling for him she had forced away came back in full-force — he had given her everything, and now he had given her himself, too.

she ushered him to lay down by flopping on the ground, and so long as he followed she would begin to work down his body as she nestled into his limbs, clearing his pelt of the dirt and grime that had accumulated during their digging.

that was how they finished the evening — together, cleaning each other's pelts and soaking up whatever joy they could hold onto.