Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

The alabaster of her fangs was bright against the blueblood moonlight.  In this moment she was sharp, with wild eyes (like his) and wild fur (like his) and wild, wild wayward desires (like his).  He felt the roll of her hips against the bony curve of his ribcage, and in slow motion the wiry fur on his back rippled and rose.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they toil not, neither do they spin: even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  He touches the angle of her hip with the cold tip of his nose, and pulls away in the same instant.

I am called many things.  Sometimes ugly things.  A short gust of wind interrupts him, frigid and biting.  You may call me Barracuda.