Moonspear blood [m]oon rising

Instead of a flash of teeth to urge him away as in days past, she seemed to regard him with the usual pomp and circumstance he knew her for best. Ever teasing, not unlike a cat with a mouse caught in its grasp, she had learned well how to hold his attention. He thought this no different than a time before—they would persist in the same little dance as always. So long as those minute touches lit sparks to smolder, he had little other to ponder than what it was to burn, and whether or not the next gust of wind would carry him away to leave this a distant memory.

"Far be it for me to be a bastion of interest," he remarked offhand; she drew close to him and then against, and he did not resist to touch her while she would let him. Nothing more than a gentle caress of teeth against the velvet of her dark ear. Nothing more than a tease on either end that there could have easily been more than mere platonic ministrations. But he would persist as he had, for he was stubborn as much as he were many other things.

"Is this your way of apologizing for an almost thrashing?" His lips quirked upwards, threatening to betray the humor he found in her fire-and-ice temperament. "I could have been of less interest had you really put those teeth to use earlier," and perhaps this too was only a ploy to draw him in to pay him back for all his persistence. He was no fool as to why, no, but it was still a game to play however dangerous.