Lion Head Mesa tearstain

The mercenary devoured every breath she offered him, breathing in the fragrances that flitted about her autumn pelt. His eyelids were heavy, bewitched by her beauty, and Arsenio could scarcely control the urges that he felt stirring in his belly.

The man pressed his chest to her. His muzzle worked at the plush of her ears, down her neck, to her shoulders where he grazed between the fine furs with his teeth, pulling at her nape when he felt his hips buck – the pressure within his stomach was like the stone of the mountain.

It can only be you, Arsenio…

The Greek man groaned against her. His jaw felt slack as he pushed his weight upon her frame. Pleasure the likes of which he had never felt drowned him. Arsenio could scarcely keep his head above the waves before her scent would fill him, and the touch of her muzzle would kickstart his heart into a thousand war drums.

I… want you so, the man moaned into her throat.