More expecting to be pushed forward and into the stable door he's held onto, Ankari is surprised to instead be dragged back from it. Elegant fingers cling as his arms stretched out long in front of him, almost comical to remain as such. He needs to balance they provide, occasionally being lifted to the tips of his toes, or outright off of his feet, when Khoriya thrusts forward.

Even more strange, the ticklish sensation granted by the worg lapping at him or brushing fangs across skin without biting down. If Khoriya's body did radiate such warmth then Ankari would blame all the shivering he's doing on the cold. He can't even justify it to himself, gasping softly when there's a nibble to his ear, throat bobbing beneath that wolfish tongue.

In equal shame to Khoriya, he realizes the strain of his shorts is not just from the rutting cock between his legs shifting upward and catching the fabric. No, it's from his own length hardening, the shape clear where he tucked it along his hip. Ankari looks down and quickly snaps his gaze up and away from the sight. Sordid, entirely too wrong of his body, enjoying something like this. He wants to protest with words, claim it is not what it looks like, but Khoriya knocks any eloquence out of him with thrust after thrust, lick after lick.