The words that leave the winged mare's lips imply that Volterra is not chasing a lost cause here, and that knowledge lends power to a resolve that had otherwise been rather watery. Arrogant he may be, but not so much so that he expects every woman he meets to want to fall into bed with him. He judges his audience, gauges his chances, and delegates his resources accordingly. The giant would not waste valuable time chasing a broad who quite clearly had no interest in his sort of interaction. He will never claim to be the most intelligent of beasts, but when there's a sweet release on the horizon he can be remarkably intuitive.

"Happily." His voice is a growl, lowered to visceral levels by the desire that grows hot and heavy in his veins. It hasn't exactly been a while since the last set of thighs he conquered, yet he is hardpressed to contain the all-too-familiar sensation of carnal desire bubbling up beneath his flesh, seizing him like a vice. One day, he vows, one day he will own these emotions and dominate them, instead of being a simple tool in their thrall. He's been saying that for months, yet his determination is still absolute that he'll simply have his fun when he's young, then mature into a worthy king when he finally takes a herd. He likes that little timescale he's set himself - it means his conscience doesn't object to him hunting for women like a starving man searches for a warm meal, as long as he bears the responsibilities of what his fruity loins create and as long as he's aware that this will need to stop once he has a crown upon his head.

But he's getting rather ahead of himself here, isn't he? This particular conquest isn't even a certainty yet. It looks promising, yes, but the young stallion knows better than to count his chickens before they've hatched.

"Oh, wait - you missed a bit." The water ripples around his powerful limbs as he strides boldly forwards - if she isn't keen, he'll no doubt receive a kick for his troubles, but there's no such thing as pleasure without a little pain on the way to it. A hedonist like Volterra can't worry about something like that. The rump that she dangles just out of his reach is his target, and he seeks to plant a sharp bite directly upon it; his tongue darts from between his teeth to try and tickle across the flesh in front of it, as though removing a stain in the most tantalising way possible.