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

When she stood beside him, Wylla never felt like Mahler was a large man, but when he coaxed her into the curve of his body and grasped her tightly against him, she was struck—and impressed, on a more primitive level—with the size and heft of him. Her heart slammed frantically against her rib cage at the feel of strong forelimbs encircling her thin waist, the warmth of Mahler eclipsing her, and the sensation of him pressing closer and steadying himself.

The last time she'd been held in this embrace had been the product of violence, a quick and selfish tryst that left her worse for wear. Wylla was afraid it would feel the same way and would taint her impression of Mahler. Indeed, when he pressed forward and brought them together, the invasion of her body brought a hissed growl and she nearly bucked, but there was also a wash of warmth up from her belly to the point where he connected them that kept her still.

That was where the similarities with last season ended. Already there was a brilliant sensation growing, helped greatly by her affection and respect for Mahler, arguments aside. Eager for more and desperate to touch her body to every inch of him, Wylla arched her back into the curve of his belly, pressed against him with a soft gasp of pleasure, and threw back her head to try to press her face to any part of him she could reach.