Wheeling Gull Isle my fondest memory is getting stabbed with a variety of knives. (mtr.)

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Taut as his face had gone, it eased with a simper at that singular insult the corsair could cant at him. His marred lips parted just a touch, breath ragged, “You would like that, wouldn’t you, amor?” He had been more that willing to be the one pressed into sand for this encounter — and for every aftermath, if ever — but it seemed Vonn would be the one to reign once more.

As it’d been with the smoldering Severin, the crow winged forward, and began at the corner of Firefly’s jaw and soon journeyed down his throat; parried between nips, sucklings, and wanton, pressing laves of his tongue and teeth. When he’d given one last, fond gnaw to the shoulder, he moved on with a tender scrape of fangs along the scarred ribs.

Crescenting about him, nose featherlight on those scarred, trembling hocks. Vonn drew himself up, and cast the line of his shoulder and neck along the wiry length of Firefly’s hip and spine. “I am many things,” he rasped, preening at the cocoa fur there, “but I am no defiler. Do you want this? Do you want to feel me?”