The Floodlands like a dog with a bird at your door

Oh, well, aren't you generous? Wren all but purrs, a coy twist of her tongue paired with a grin that leaves dimples at the corners of her mouth. Her kisses trail up to his chin, now, soft and gentle against the prickly hairs that cover his jaw. Y'know, Colt, she pauses briefly, cheek pressed against the harsh cut of his jawline. A whisper of a touch, although noticeable. I don't think you and I are all that different. Maybe that's why I came back here for yah, eh? 
A few days. She was content with that. Enough for the songbird to perch on his shoulder, drink from his palm, sink her talons in; but not enough time for either to grow restless. 
Oh, what, you mean you don't wanna get muddy water all over yah while we're rollin' around? She nearly cackles at that, laughing at her own joke with a high, breathy chortle. I don't know, pretty boy, you tell me, and I'll follow.