Luneshale Pass [m] casado dicha

He’d taken a moderate hit.
Feels the energy go into his lungs, across his stomach, funneling into his head.
They produced the best coca.
Heightened everything else.
Made the senses more intense.

Sangre must have felt it too.
Likes the way her face halos as the high washes over and through her.
Her teases make his skin burn.
Doesn’t know what she’s saying, but hopes she keeps saying it in that same, poking tone of voice.
The hound grabs her scruff, a warning grimmace shuffling between yellowed fangs.
Punishment. 

But soon he’s running the side of his muzzle all down her spine, into cheeks, across her crown.
Coating with his scent.
Wouldn’t matter, though.
Soon as the jefes pulled up, they’d get their way.
(Where the fuck are they?)

So this time was for them.
And he didn’t know slow.
He drove her small shoulders into the grass, growling.