Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

Although Wylla sought to place distance between them both to silence the hammering of her heart and to assure him that she didn't mean to toy with his emotions, Mahler didn't allow it. Her breathing grew shallow and quick as he closed the gap she'd made and began to pull the snow from her coat, and she didn't leap away. In fact, it felt nice. The last time she'd let a man touch her in any way, it had been wholly aggressive. Her daughter was conceived in the throes of hatred, and a part of her expected that was all she ever deserved, so to be treated gently was... intoxicating.

Wylla sighed, leaning so her shoulder and neck rested against the side of him. Perhaps her pulse would speak where her lips could not. Surely he could feel it thrumming beneath the thin skin of her throat where it rested on his fur, singing a song of budding reciprocation. There'd been something of a barrier between them until now; even when she lapped blood from his fur, she had felt tense and would have pulled away from any significant shows on his part. Dreams had done more than just agitate her, however; they made her think, and that thinking led to here. Not being ridiculed helped, of course, drawing her into his warmth with a willingness she hadn't felt before.

Wylla allowed Mahler to drape his muzzle over her shoulders, and despite a moment's hesitation, she reached—shyly, almost, like she didn't know how to navigate these tender waters and didn't know if she wanted to turn back or not—to nibble affectionately at the thicker fur lining the side of his neck.