Fucking in the woods reminds her of Beltane every time. Indulging in the delight of some willing kinfolk, the ones who got off on the idea of fucking a Garou, hot and ready at the notion of being taken. There isn't the smell of the Beltane fire (mores the pity) and it's too warm for that time of year, but as she grabs a fistful of Joan's red hair and pulls her head back, it's easy to imagine her as kin.

"Good." Direct, but she could appreciate that. Better then coming over all tender and having her disappointed.

She lowers her mouth to the tips of her shoulders, neck and spine to scrape teeth and interposed kisses with bites. In the meantime her other hand rounds Joan's hip to roughly yank the opening of her trousers apart, groping for a moment and snorting against her skin at the lack of easy zipper. Fucking hell, what was this, a fucking LARP convention? "Spread y'legs." She rumbles.