As the delicate redhead rose, her robe slid away from her body, and it was like seeing a butterfly emerge from a chrysalis, bright and beautiful and elegant – for all of two seconds before she fell onto him, her grace fouled by her clothing. Atticus grunted softly as Fiona bumped into him, his arms bracing against hers, holding her in place.<br/><br/>She was so close her breath coiled with his, her eyes large and coy. There was no malice in her, no poison she looked to drip into him, no pain that waited to be poured out. She wasn’t the wolf here, but the doe. Open and vulnerable to him. And it made his heart race to know it. He could hurt her. He could make her like it. He was confident of that. Yet the desire not to was stronger. He use to catch butterflies for his sisters as a child, holding them in the cage of his fingers until they stilled, resting on his palms. He hadn’t crushed a single one, though he could have.<br/><br/>Her hand was soft and gentle on his face. She moved, easing closer, and let her lips ghost over his own. Her cheeks flushed, virginal almost in her coyness, though that was impossible. And she gave herself to him, like it was simple, easy. He wondered at her naivety again.<br/><br/>He moved one hand from her arms, easing his hold now he was sure she wouldn’t fall any more, and slid fingertips through her red, soft locks. Anything he desired. He desired... not sex. Oh, he wanted it, the serpentine heat curling in his low belly, spider silk tendrils winding through his veins, but he desired something that he had less experience with.<br/><br/>He parted his lips, and softly he said, “Give this to me.” He closed the distance between them, catching her lips with his own, letting the kiss be simply that, a grazing of soft skin, the gentle sensation being the only element for the moment. He caught her lower lip and suckled on it, drawing it between his own and licking it with his tongue, savouring her taste.<br/>