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The sky outside is turning dark. Beautiful pinks, purples and oranges blend together, and the first hints of dark violetish blues are beginning to show. Kinda like your lips, you hope.
Your hands are tangled in his coarse hair, his tongue is down your throat. His spit burns your esophagus when you swallow and it makes you forget for a minute how it feels to actually burn, when it settles on your belly.
You're not in your right mind (somehow you know you'll never be again) but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. The sky is beautiful and his taste is rich and deep in your guts, and it all only leads you on.
He pulls away from your lips to kiss and nibble down your jaw, and you use the sudden breather to try his name for the first time (trying to keep him inside you).
"R-Ren…" it’s breathy and seductive, in part as a treat for him, of course, but for the most part it's because of the raw, pure and unmistakable need at your core. You're excited. Knowing his name excites you.
Both of you.
He growls; ears up and tail fully swinging, it feels every little bit like a predator ready to pounce. All of his muscles are tense, breath condensing on your neck, teeth lightly grazing the skin with a threat and a promise.
You, of course, are the prey. Helpless. At his mercy– because you want to, for the first time.
This is wrong.
You love it.
Your willing, clumsy arms reach for the collar of the fine robe you’re wearing and pull it open, baring the pounding of your heart under the (new, so new) scars on your chest. Offering your trembling self to him.
Ren feels his stomach twist pleasantly, and thinks about how your neck, pulsing heavy with blood beneath sweaty skin, would look lovely in a collar.
“Ren. Please.”
He doesn’t have to be told twice.