Duskfire Glacier [m] Oomemē

She might have called it love, once.
This was not that.
This was need; desperate; driving. Ayovi’s body savage with pining even as Skorpa’s  barbarity cuffs her senses. There is no pause— no moment of discovery. The northman reaches and she gasps at the sensation of his lips on her shoulder, a place where no man had touched. Clumsily she turns her head to watch his lathing, shy yet to touch him, though hazed eyes wander and explore, and her throat tightens when she looks too long upon these erogenous places: the jaw that opens to reveal a wide tongue. The broad chest that edges close, and tapers into strong legs.
At last in these imaginings her mouth parts, this time to lean forward and land her lips beside Skorpa's maw. She can taste blood— mature, metallic, strong, from old kills. Her belly shivers and a hot drop of pleasure spreads between hind legs. Teeth find him next; a dark ridge of nose taking the brunt of silent urging. Then she's turning, that hoarse whine leaking from a restless muzzle.
Her tail slips up and away, exposing all of herself to Skorpa.