Tig calls you darlin'.
Says it with a little bit of a drawl and a grin, looking you up and down with those pretty, pretty eyes of his. It was the first thing he'd ever said to you actually, on that sweltering hot summer night when you'd left the house party to get a little air, not knowing that you had company out on the back porch.
You're running a hand through your hair and regretting wearing those (admittedly very sexy) high heels, taking a low breath.
He's leaning against the railing, drinking a beer and drinking you in.
God, you're a sight to see, taking in every little inch of you.
"Oh, darlin'," Tig drawls, grinning as you turn around real quick, all shocked to see him. "You don't know what you're doing to me."
The shock disappears from your face, a sly smile replacing it.
"Maybe I know exactly what I'm doing..."
And from that moment on, Tig was wrapped around your pretty little fingers, devoted to you and addicted to your lovin'. Not that you seemed to mind so much, as equally devoted and addicted as he was. He was yours (tiger, you called him, or animal sometimes, he liked them both) and you were his.
His woman, his old lady, his...
"Darlin'!"
You're on his lap, kissing and and biting him. Some movie is playing on TV, now long forgotten as you mess around on the couch, hands moving across his bare chest, lower and lower and...oh, you know exactly what you're doing to him indeed! And he's loves every second of it.
He loves you.
