Lion Head Mesa the [m]arble hall

I just wanna be yours.

Hours waiting. Just her, alone, pacing through the day after a dismissal that commanded stay. There came that spinning. where he left her guessing, thinking, and running through every word he used to cut through her scalp. She had smiled to herself, running through the sudden ember that had sparked long before she noticed. Long before she knew how easy it would grow, and sit, and burn. She liked that. Nor was he easy. She liked that more. It had been on top of the mesa in turning, thin wrists that she was touched by the voice of a Fellahin, and it had certainly not been them she came for.

Immediate, mindless following that took her through corridors, halls and corners. Polished, perfected steps that her pads perfectly curved into and walls that danced with stories.

And there the entrance.

If it was her presence she wanted, then that was he got. There was no hesitation, no dithering, no wait as her entire frontal dipped in bow. There was nothing but her body slipping through the opening at a steady pace that did not stop. His scent sank into her throat, touched her tongue, burned her mind, and soon she was by his side. His fur. His eyes. His figure. His body. She caught all of it as she came in. She saw him, smelled him, and was so close to touching him as she captured him in her now circling steps. A gentle smile and soft eyes rested on her features. Eyes down, head down, her flank always to him and her tail limp when it was not curling to the side. Her skin was lit afire. She liked this game. She liked him. "Is this where you wanted me?" her muzzle quirked gently below his head level towards him, her eyes finding themselves sitting upon his, and they ate her alive.