Totoka River baby, when I whisper, can you hear?

Falling asleep while I write this, I hope it does not suck. ♥

“Yours,” he says, and she leans forward with reverent solemnity until the sweet warmth of her breath stirs the tufts of fur that demarcate his close-cropped ears. It sends electrifying shivers down her spine when he nibbles or licks at her caracal-like pinnae — will her own ministrations whelm him in turn? She traces the shorn edges of his ears with her lips, draws her tongue tantalizingly from bulb to tip, and becomes abruptly distracted by the dashing cicatrices that sunder the clean symmetry of his face. Soft as a promise, her nose traces the jagged diagonal scar that speaks of a violence before her time — and her lips curl in retroactive anger and possessiveness that anyone thought they could conquer this man. Her man. “Mine,” she whispers, baring her fangs at the ghosts of Stockholm’s past, her feathered tail sweeping like a scythe over the gamine slope of her hips.

The tiniest of possessive growls ticks kittenishly in her throat as her nose meanders down into the hollow of his throat. She does not fear the thorncollar — it is her ally, protecting the Gampr’s lifeblood — and allows it to comb pleasurably through the silken tresses at her cheeks and ears.

Standing over him this way, the differences between their breeds can be clearly appreciated: she is short-backed in comparison to the Armenian, narrower all the way through, and when she moves down his body it is with a shimmying, hopping motion to accommodate the breadth of his broad chest. When her fox-fine muzzle reaches the crest of his sternum she pays especial homage to his heart’s ivory-barred home, combing through the thick fur at his breastbone with her teeth. The spice of the season makes her bolder — but so does Aditya’s confession beneath the willows. So does Komodo’s accusation in the Labyrinth. She hurts, and she wants, and she fears, and she needs.

The atramentous sheepdog follows the subtle slope of Stockholm’s undercarriage to his inguinal region, nose pressing briefly to the femoral artery where she swears she can feel his pulse quicken against her mouth. She traces its path with her tongue and inhales deeply, finding his scent uniquely alluring — lets her lungs empty on an undulating sigh. His desire for her is ambrosial, and her half-lidded Neptune eyes peek coquettishly up the expanse of his body to tangle tantalizingly with brilliant gold. “Can do whatever you want,” he said, and just in case it wasn’t clear:

“I want.”