Duskfire Glacier [m] Oomemē

The heat of his palm presses to her belly.
Ayovi stiffens, lips open for a gasp, this touch somehow far more intimate than all they had done only moments before. No common words they share, and still he seems to know what moves through her now. Is that possible? To intuit one you lie with?
His paw undulates upon her crown. She grins and thinks of wind, and then rain. Face flushing, the eager eyes see Skorpa as their bodies are wedged and their limbs tangle together. What can she know from his eyes that his mouth cannot say?
He sings a little note and toys with her ear, like it’s natural to do so; the day’s last breath a hot caress.
Adoring man. So attentive that Ayovi is drunk again, emboldened by his voice to fondle along his throat, pinning nose to skin; learning scars and mars and crunching old blood between teeth. She had never explored a man so closely— not with her tongue and the freedom to touch where she chose. And she did, everywhere, if only to watch what expression each place might incite from the bearman.
She tongues his legs and paws and down over his ribs, adorning each filthy curve with a kiss. She hated his taste and she loved it, couldn’t get enough of it, wanted him all over again.
Heat made her a boundless body of water, upon which she poured over the man she’d chosen; content, for now, to learn him.