I knew it the first time I saw you.
Or, rather, the wolf inside of me did.
He knew exactly how you would look on all fours, caught between the tension of my fingers buried in the back of your hair and my cock driving you into the edge of the bed.
Wolves speak a language that is eloquently savage.
I listen to my wolf, but know we must defer to human customs: I cannot simply drag you into the next room and sink my teeth into your skin to mark you as mine.
So I ask most kindly.
And you say yes. Because there is nothing that makes you feel quite so alive as giving yourself over to a hungry predator.
Don’t worry, I tell you. It will only hurt for a moment.
But it is the wolf speaking, and he lies. He’s going to make the ache last for a very long time. He likes to play with his meal, drawing it out until you are lost between taunt pleasure and sheer hunger.
Wolves prefer their feasts to be seasoned by anticipation and surrender.
Nails bite into your breasts, leaving red marks you will find yourself touching the next day with a shiver.
Warm breath tickles the insides of your thighs, seductively gentle and hiding the teeth that will find your most tender places.
I am listening to your heartbeat now.
_We_, the wolf and I, are listening to your heartbeat now.
It moves to outpace my hunger, but it cannot. It is not possible. My hunger, our hunger, is faster than thought. It is need incarnate.
You are bruised by my touch, but not because I am ungentle. You cannot help but struggle against yourself, arching your hips to find that which I keep from you, twisting your wrists to escape and pull me closer.
But a wolf knows. It knows you are not ready yet.
Not till you have offered up everything. Not until there is nothing you are holding back. Until your very breath begs for release.
Now.
Promise me you’ll be a good girl.
And I’ll let you meet my wolf.