Sleepy Fox Hollow Folk star

the small weight of her against his chest provoked a spate of something snarled, tangled, and altogether pure to spiral out inside mahler, to shudder and reframe; the man drew a shaking breath and lowered his muzzle to kis gently between her ears; oh, wylla, wylla, the lightning cloaked in thunder. she pierced him through and through, over and over.
"i still vould have vaited. foolish or not. i am stubborn. you are the same." it was a part of their mutual attraction, he believed, each seeking to stand against the other, each meeting the other upon a plane of firmness and intellect reached by few others. respect, then. and the ardor of it.
and her scent, pulsing with the existence of ihre kinder.
it called to him, beckoned past the spires of general and man and wolf to pluck upon the chord of father.
tears now, rainwet upon his cheeks; mahler made no move to end them or to stop them, a wordless sound rising in his throat as he swept wylla closer, closer.
"i do not regret it. i knew too vhat vould happen. but it vas you. it vas vhat i had vanted for so long."
desire now, not the conflagration of heat, but something soft and rose-hued, protective, gentle. he sought to kiss what features he might reach, then drew back slowly, seeking wylla's sunflower eyes. mahler wanted her then, ached with a sudden great hunger, but she was early now in her pregnancy, and though he did not think such subjection would harm her or they, he would prefer to be safe. content he must be, then, to merely look upon her, favor her with caresses.
"do you think i might ..." what was this new sensation? "speak vith them, also?"