Sea Lion Shores our iron coffin

there was not a name for the sensation that feathered at the base of his spine, spreading into his limbs, and yes — lower still. 
half-formed instinct spoke; did he have intentions? his body certainly craved something unknowing, wordless; it drove him closer, until his muzzle was buried in her ruff and he could smell the water and earth and ferocity that comprised his devious little sprite.
she was his; he must not let her go. oh! but she belonged to herself, not to him. how then could he possess her silent mind and yielding body, to communicate that she was indeed his own? merrick was not sure; he let his lips rove where they would, trembling unabated.