Sleepy Fox Hollow Gave up on it, but honey, you got my hopes up

he was consumed; step dogged as broad charcoal muzzle with its peppered flush hung low to gather the breadth of wylla's endearing scent
any other moment in time, mahler would have found his own behavior outright scandalous, worthy of great reproach.
but now dark nostrils flared and he fell into his most bestial self; he surged forward to touch her, only to be rebuffed by her darting step, the flash of her proud gaze.
mahler was patient, low curling sounds of something akin to mirth audible from the depths of his chest. 
this was the dance; he followed its rounds with a persistent ache that dried his tongue.
all at once wylla had stopped. he drew to a halt, tailtip flickering as the woman approached with a suddenness that was affirming, and mahler swept close to her small frame, catching her sigh upon the edge of his jaw as lips sought a downward sweep to her clavicle.
the words that had come so easily before were cut away; season or no, this was wylla — she could never be one of legion.
and though mahler knew such sentiments were terribly unbelievable, they beat many in his chest as he sought to begin a slow burn of mouthings and nudges along her proud neck, her cheekbone.
he could not be enough; she could not fill the cloying hungry recesses of his budding self-destruction. but for a while they might both be blinded, and he longed for the emptiness to sweep over them both.