The rest of the world seemed to fade and dull. A spaceship, blinking neon LEDs, massive spotlight and all might have landed ten yards in front of Guy, and he would not have taken any notice whatsoever. There was a strange elation all within him, an unprecedented feeling that coursed through him and provoked a happy, greedy grin across his muzzle, even as his hand slipped from her damp, cloaked shoulder and sank into the mud beside her head. Her jaws snapped and pain blazed along his forearm. She was struggling, along with biting -- shoving her weight against him.
Implacable, Guy snarled his frustration in a low growl and lifted his other hand to the back of her head, aiming to sink his fingers into her hair at the scalp and yank her jaws away. His fingers slid into the silk smoothness of her hair and he hissed a breath. The meat! The prey! His mind bleated the chant like an alarm, shrill and demanding his obedience. The unexpected jolt of pleasure sang through his blood and permeated the entirety of his mind. Guy had no memory in that moment -- his name and all he'd known were gone. In his oblivion and thereafter, he might have become her ready worshipper and true believer of her deification.
He let his full weight drop over her, pressing her smaller body into the mud. The stark whiteness of her coat was marred with wide swaths of it, but then, that was appropriate, wasn't it? He pulled and twisted his hand into her hair, tugging her head back until it was almost level with his own. He did not realize he was speaking -- whispering at first the same phrase again and again, perhaps some snatch of a half-remembered prayer or something the pale woman-god had spoken herself. Other words followed in a murmur, all the old filth and insults -- and then, the promises, what he would and should do, what was his right to do, what he must do. His voice, half-growl and monotone, deepened in volume with the thickening presence of his manhood.
Whore, he said. Dirty whore. His fury at having witnessed her defiling, unable to have his piece despite his devotions was far from conscious memory, but it burned in him almost as strong as the desire. Filthy fucking slut. He was almost shouting now, but the rain and the dull roar of thunder drowned half his words, garbled in French, only the occasional word of English here and there.
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