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“Of…course not,” she murmured quietly, a slight quiver in her voice, “I’d prefer you did, Penwright.”
His hoof brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek, which was now turning steadily pinker.
The fire roared in the fireplace, warming Ickle from head to hoof, as the carpet cushioned her where she sat. Plush, creamy carpet touched the book’s cover as she slowly lowered it, feeling Penwright’s lithe, warm frame press against her back, wings, and neck. She couldn’t dare hold onto the preciously preserved tome–she already felt her ankles going weak, a side effect of her companion’s heated breath on her ear and neck. She felt this effect heightened by his hooves softly tracing up her limbs, lightly brushing her shoulders and legs.
Voice shaking slightly, Ickle Muse pleaded “please, Penwright…kiss me…” When his lips met her heated visage she relaxed exponentially and felt a smile slowly warm her face. Her hoof met his arm and she settled into his chest. It was an intimate, gentle moment; one which felt like it would stretch on for days if they allowed it.
Slowly, like honey melting off the comb, and softly, like feathers brushing her cheek, she could feel his lips press against her skin over and over, as if he could feel something different every time.
A thought flickered into her mind, “this feels so much more intimate than I was expecting” but another part of her mind spoke up, an older voice, saying “affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our natural lives”. It was the voice of her first professor, aged and caring, reciting C.S. Lewis for her. A wave of nostalgic, solid happiness washed over her and, eyes shining with joy, she turned to face Penwright and looked up into those deep blue orbs. “Thank you” she whispered.
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