the only time he told you he loved you was when he pressed his mauve lips to yours and your tongue got twisted inside tasting the thick honey he sipped between your thighs;
when his claws dug deeper and deeper into your muffled skin making your body mottled with purple patches and scratches with rosy blood that hurt so lovely like thorns of roses;
when his hands crawled around your body and his fingertips touched the parts men should not touch;
when he finally entered inside you, penetrating the orifice every man dreams of getting in;
when he kissed parts other than your lips licking your neck tasting the sugar and caramel that was your sweat;
when he clenched your belly, squished it like what he did to your breast and to your horror it felt like a knot tightening the flesh.
it was when the wails from your throat were the words you could only speak. the groans and moans served as phrases when you couldn't spew well the correct formula to whisper the sensation you felt.
the only way you could tell him you loved him too was him to work rough but gentle, to go harder and deeper while his tongue kept searching yours, while your bodies clung chest to chest and skin to skin dipped above the soft foam inside that chamber, and he did.
finally, straining your legs apart- only wider this time- pushing strong forces against the nest between your thighs, collapsing his body, singing moans and triumphs as if he just held the haven, he whispered something drone you also tasted on his saliva, "it's done" he said and, in that moment when he stopped driving and he pulled his manhood stick back from your nest, you knew, it only was your body that he wanted.