Thoughts did not exist in this state, merely sensation, merely need. It was exquisite. Never had he known such longing, such desperation, such burning satisfaction. The way her body molded to his, arching, pressing, trembling, it was all consuming. His little sprite. His glorious spitfire.

Releasing her scruff, he let out another snarl at the intensity of the sensations shooting through him. His breathing was ragged against her neck as he struggled to gather some semblance of sentience, but the best he could manage was a low, guttural growl of Braves Mädchen (Good girl) in her ear. There was so much more he wanted to say, but it was like fighting through quicksand: sticky, defiant, resistant.

Fuck... he managed to grind out, his pace turning erratic. Meins. Verdammt nochmal meins. (Mine. Fucking mine.)

His rhythm shifted from speed to intensity; each thrust pulled him clean out of her before he slammed back in to the hilt. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer before his teeth refound her scruff, steadying her under the barrage of his movements. The only thought left in his mind was to please her, to feel her explode around him, to coat him in her greatest reward, and to leave her womb heavy with his seed.