Lyre watched, sort of amused, as she backed herself against the base of the trees. Syron slowly moved to her again, his muzzle going by her head, and he gave a deep and dangerous growl, then drew back slowly, locking eyes with her again for a moment, before lowering his head, and pushing her skirt up against, his nose pressing to her womanhood, his wet nose sliding up her slit, drawing in her scent.