Whitebark Stream put your ring back on honey-tits, you haven't had enough porridge this morning (mtr.)

Both responses elicited a hushed groan from her, of desire, restraint, of her own indecisiveness. As he’d risen to look at her, the she-wolf's throat had been rid of his shoulder, and she allowed her muzzle linger along the velvet of his own; stare into those wholly-uncharted eyes so like the realms beyond the Wilds. It occurred to the heiress still-whispering within her how she’d never bedded a lord of war before.

Aure was no apostle, followed the preachings of no gospel, no gods; no patron to anything but her heavens and all they held for her. She knew this was, in all actuality, sex at its most insolent and indulging; and the promise in his voice made her quiver, as if she hadn’t been so this whole time.

For once, she didn’t reprimand his epithet of her; not as her arousal flared again. The smoldering thrum that prowled through her did so with a vengeance—she was arcing into him once more, thighs stretching and straining luxuriously beneath her. ”Make me how you want me,” she breathed, letting herself be lulled right back into that simmering sensuality. It felt a bit different, though; more patient, more intentful—more decided. She still wanted him slow and and languid and deep and to make her writhe.

Without withdrawing, she curved about in place, so that as she reclined once more, tucking herself back into the black-blue of him, her ribs quivered along his forearms and her narrow hips practically arching her aching sex into his lap — if he had one. Vaguely, she wondered a bit depravedly if he wanted her the way he’d found her. Either way, the bones in her long, ivory neck flickered as she leaned back into him; rolling her shoulder for his mark once more, teeth, tongue. Before she lost her nerve. Before she remembered the rest of herself.