The vixen’s soft feet slid to and fro across the wolf’s spent length, seed ejaculated glistening on her luxurious fur. The wolf, Amand, couldn’t let himself believe she managed to bring him to peak with such a crude feat.
He exhaled a cloud of steamy air. “No wolf would ever do that.” He paused to heave, asking, “Whose damn idea was this, anyway?”
The vixen giggled. “Oh, just one client. He seems to have a fixation on my feet”–she grinned, ear to ear, like a vile jester–“For a brutish tribal wolf, you certainly can be a prude.”
“I always prefer your lips. No need to clean the mess then.” Amand, in spite of his reserved words, brought his hand down to the vixen’s ankle and gave her an appreciative stroke.
That was something the vixen was happy to follow up on. “You know, lover mine, you can lick my toes clean if you mind the mess so much?”
“Marcella!” Amand’s voice trailed into an annoyed whine.