Firefly Glen The Witching Hour

He was always careful not to nick an artery, sure every now and then he was off by a little - no one was perfect after all, but damn was he good at it. Here and now, he believed his strike was true, naturally he held with his teeth and let his tongue lap up the syrup. It was at her own little love bit did he realize she had indeed lured him in, that she did not struggle or even try to evade the initial strike.

Abaddon was greedy and even Valour would agree that he didn't like giving as much as he loved taking. Slipping from his throat, muffled by her skin and fur, a sultry growl rolled out and the pressure he was placing on her neck increased slightly. But oh how she tasted good, smelled good too, she was a feast for all the senses and the bite on his ear wasn't nearly enough to have him try to break contact. 

In fact, he leaned into it. Into her. Muscular limbs pushing forward as his tail snaked behind him in a slow pattern. He'd want to take as much as he could without sacrificing her, such a willing soul to offer themselves like this was rare - at lest, those he didn't need to coax into it. For now, he was drunk on the taste. Pupils black and dilated in pleasure.