Hoshor Plains [M] On the wind

He sees only what suits him, filtered through the prism of a rising, visceral desire. A single sentence, a handful of words suffice to convince him that she is opening herself to him. Her shyness, to his eyes, is nothing but a coquettish game; the slightest gesture becomes an invitation. When she recoils, it is only to draw him nearer. In her condition, he is certain she knows what men expect of her—the rest, he tells himself, is a dance.

But of course I would worry... he murmurs, lifting his snout from her chest to the hollow of her neck, pressing his shoulder more firmly against hers, letting his tongue slowly trace the skin behind her ear. I am a samurai. I follow the principles of bushido...—and more truthfully, the call of instincts far older than any code. What man would leave a woman alone in such a state? Not the samurai, and even less the man who hides behind that name.

This closeness clouds any possibility of clearer thought. The man in black lets his paw wander along the woman’s back, his muzzle seeking the soft curves of her neck and shoulders, gliding slowly to the middle of her spine. He expects no resistance. In his mind, she is a courtesan, and he is certain she will fulfill his desires—as her role demands.