He responds to her as any man with half a wit ought to-- chasing, teasing, goading, coaxing, wooing. He body comes alive for her and he is all to glad to spend the evening bathing in the dance of Man and Woman with someone so flavored to suit him. She is no shy dove that cows at the first lashed tail and rumbling come-hither. She is no wild beast no better than the teeth and hooves they fling about themselves in defiance of their bodies own call. She is spices hot in the nostrils, stinging and yet making the mouth water for their taste. He likes that he is no aggressor, no matter that he’d play the part just fine if he must. He likes to be considered desirable.
Her glances only serve to bring the riff-raff grin to a gleaming cockeyed charm that rang straight through his every movement. His gait changes, his neck arches splendidly, his tail lashes in staccato to the new gait. She nips at him, and sometimes he lets her make purchase, feeling the pinch and the thrill of the washing prickles that extend down his legs and his spine, setting a squeal of intrigue and challenge into the air in reply. He will not wait forever to make his move, however.
He lands a solid grip on her withers with his teeth at last, when he felt the knot of his body tightened too much to ignore any longer. She pulls up, stopping so that he stops with her, his chest pressing into the barrel behind her shoulder - the pressure of his teeth only pinched slightly moreso in the moment that he releases her to demand of her his prize. Her posture corrects, her legs dancing into a proper stance, her mane falling like a black waterfall over her neck. She sets his mouth to watering and it is enough that he has half a mind to add his weight across that sloping back and find purchase again for his teeth in her withers.
"Pilar," she says, obedient, and his eyes ignite for the ease of her acceptance. He pushes his right to touch her only further and she does not curb him in the path it takes up the arc of her crest. He hides the stretch of his upper lip against her mane, too engrossed in his touching of her to care to display such a thing to it’s fullest. She knew what she was - and that she danced with a Man and not a Eunuch. She was not likely to find surprise in his displays and had no reason to mistake the purpose of his lipping at her mane.
He wanted her and would not broadcast her state to any other.
Her tail snaps, lashed at her hocks in a rhythm that seemed almost a further cloying invitation. He does not mind it if the light warning pinch of his teeth over the place where he’d bitten her did earn him a bit of a kick. "Tandava," Dance of a Man, called it appropriately even before his first season of ripeness. Always vital, always ferocious, always overflowing with the joy of simply being. "Will you satisfy our dance, Pilar? I have not found another who dances the Lasya so perfectly as you."
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