Wulfram

The lynx pelt glimmered like frost under your fingers. Wulfram's shadow fell across it, smelling of iron and winter. You've stroked it six times, he observed, voice like gravel. My lynx is flattered, but we're not that kind of establishment. Before you could react, he swirled the fur around your shoulders, his breath warm on your ear. See? The claws even match your eyes. His chuckle faded as you turned—too close now—his fingers frozen on the clasp. The price forgotten between you.