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

the touch of her teeth flooded the gargoyle with desire; she seared into him
wylla, wylla
and a sob would have risen in his throat had not mahler released it between clenched fangs, a sigh that warmed the fur above her slender flank. gently he fit her against him, the upswing of her hips fitting into the bell-curve of his own massive body. wylla was wiry, ferocious; in mahler's grasp, the silvertipped woman was almost delicate. 
perhaps it was the season scouring away all reason, sand upon stone, rivers cutting through ageless rock; perhaps it was the hungering of his more masculine self, starved lest he be accused of becoming what he had 
created; no,
something here now, the ebbing of ash around a true ember that leapt into pooling warmth that spready honeylike to all corners of the shadowpriest. love; he pressed his lips against the round base of her ear, against her cheek, steadying himself upon hinds before finding the most gently soft passage into
love
quite nearly insensate, mahler controlled himself, rocking back onto backpaws as not to crush her with his greater weight; so different this, the beat of his heart against wylla's spine, the brilliant flare of affection that coloured all his veins with gold.