She gives her name, and he files it away in a corner of his mind. Aithniel. He can't shake the nagging feeling he's heard it somewhere before, but he forces that strange sensation away into the back of his mind as well. There are other things more important here, other itches to scratch before he finds time to muse over where he's heard her name before.
Are we doing this or not? A wicked smile stretches the goliath's blackened jaws. He likes a woman who knows what she wants, and beautiful heat spreads through every inch of his body. "Your wish is my command, Aithniel." Her nips lands on sweating, delighted flesh, and he shudders with pleasure at the sensation. He aims to return it, too, his teeth hoping to bruise the crook of her wing and body, to claim that piece of pale, angelic flesh for his own. The wings intrigue him; he has taken only one pegasus beneath him before (don't think about her, not now, not now) and he often wonders what would happen if she got cold feet halfway through and flew away with him still clinging to her back. Not a thought he wishes to dwell upon for too long.
His dragons sense that his chase, his hunt, is nearing its conclusion, and they slowly draw their consciousnesses away from his own. They know what is coming, and they know that it turns his mind into a sea of things that they do not want to be part of. Even their current distance is not enough, and with a final heaven-splitting joint scream, they beat their leathery wings and fly further and further away until they are shapeless dots on the horizon.
His mind is his again, and his alone. It is full of simple instincts and raw needs. It is full of her.
In a mass of heaving black flesh and shuddering, thunderous desire he takes her, transforming their bodies into one great mass of carnality and open, burning fire.
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