327 POOR VESPER SHE JUST WANTS TO GIVE NOT GET D8
Myrika is by me!
The hybrid smiled, her expression equal parts embarrassment and elation, but the former disappeared entirely as Vesper kissed her. Myri's body followed her face, naturally, and she leaned almost entirely over Vesper now, her hips between the smaller coyote's. The writhing and arching body beneath her and underneath fingertips and lips was wonderfully lithe, and seeing and feeling this, accompanied with the still-shaky voice in which Vesper responded, left Myrika struck dumb.
She did not know what to do -- there was no experience on which to call. There were only jumbled memories of the gray pixie, half-remembered snatches of delight, and the far more awkward, far less instinctive tousling with Thamur. She had even wanted to love his body as she'd loved his mind, but found herself incapable. His flesh contained no marvels for her, only a strange and alien feeling she could not shake. Even looking at him thereafter had produced that same feeling -- perhaps owing to their awkwardness the final few months of his life.
Although her own desire was palpable, still in the tight-curled feeling in her stomach and the fluttering in her chest, she wanted to provoke gasps and trembles from Vesper more than she wanted her own sated. Almost as badly, the tawny coyote wanted perfection of herself. She did not know what she was doing any more than she had five minutes ago, but to her surprise and delight, instinct provided its own answer.
Her kiss was fierce, nose pushing perhaps a little too much into Vesper's muzzle. Lifting herself with one hand, Myrika brushed her opposing hand's fingers against the side of Vesper's muzzle, tracing the rough bumps of scar tissue. She glided her fingertips down Vesper's jaw and throat, along the soft fur of her collarbone and chest, between her breasts, over the lovely tautness of her abdomen, and further southward to the fiery heat between athletically-muscled legs.
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