Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

how would they surmount not only the longing of the flesh but the promises mahler had made? he refused to think of it now; he would exist only in the moment with wylla alongside him and about him, her scent gently dispelling his awareness of all else save for herself.
was the season that beckoned, or wylla; did it matter? mahler decided it did not, decided that such things could only be decided with time.
she felt his spring plots selfish, futile — would she soften, open to him all the same? and could he allow such things, when she might be bitter and full of regret when it was all ended?
confident his own love for her would not waver, sure in his claim that what he bore in his soul for wylla had already been weathered and found whole, mahler's charcoal ears swept forward with curiosity.
if she wished to speak of the dream he would listen: twice she had mentioned it now. but for a slumbering picture to have left her so bedraggled and unlike herself, he could only guess at the hint of its content.
he brought his crown low, low,  pressed it into the feathered spread of her own chest, against birdbeating heart. there he resided an eon of time, tilting jawline to kiss along a collarbone.
"perhaps you vould allow me to make it a reality, vylla," mahler murmured softly, reluctantly lifting his head to seek her sunlit eyes with a hunger rising sharp and lovely in his bones.