She knows what she's doing.

That's the first thing that strikes him, as she returns his touch like a starving man would snatch at food - greedily, ravenously, beautifully. Well, it's the second thing that strikes him, as the first is all-consuming relief that she's not shying away and leaving him to ache without her. But her movements are either experienced, or she's a bloody good actress. Hers are not the lurching, awkward advances of a quivering virgin - they are the tantalising caresses of a woman who knows exactly what she's doing. She must have done this before.

The thought ignites jealousy within his soul. Who has mounted his Isopia before him? Who has planted their flag upon the uncharted territory of her body? Who has dared hover their weight above hers, collide their sweating flesh with her toned muscles and sumptous curves, take their pleasure with his raven?

He'll find them, and he'll rip their fucking throat out.

Because that's something else to add to his teetering tower of flaws and imperfections - the crowning glory, the maggot atop the steaming pile of shit - he's a hypocrite. He lays with as many women as he wants, and yet the thought of Isopia bedding another man...it makes his blood boil, his eyes blaze. He is possessive, domineering, filled with masculine pride and the testosterone-fuelled desire to mark his territory.

But, the leviathan reasons, what he did with those other women...it was a brutal, simplistic, profane act of pure animal. It was the scratching of an itch, the perfunctory sating of nature's most primal desire. What he would do with Isopia - can do, will do, wants to do so much it hurts - would be so much more.

Because he wants her for more than just the treasure trove between her thighs, and always has. Admittedly it's the thought of that which makes his loins tighten when he's around her, which beckons his muscles to bunch and display his masculinity, which makes his flesh tingle like he's stood too close to fire, but that is not the only reason he finds her so damn hard to shake off. It's just the part that's easiest to focus on - lust he can understand, comprehend, act on, own. It's the deeper, mushier feelings that he isn't so good with, and thus he chooses instead to shunt them into the far reaches of his mind and concentrate on the tangible emotion of want.

Her wings splay, and his searching teeth hunt for the joint where feather becomes fur; his massive chest presses against hers, and they fit like pieces of a puzzle. She's touching him - does that mean she wants him, or does she think this just a slightly over-friendly embrace? - and he can't help but reciprocate, each press, kiss, caress begging hungrily for her skin. His own flesh burns where she touches it; he aches, and a breathy huff of desire erupts from his gaping nostrils.

Her wings are a barrier, blocking the beast from where he wants to be - and yet he wonders if that's a good thing, because once he goes there, there's no turning back. Does she even want him there, or is this as far as she intends to go? He tries to summon words, but his tongue is too thick, his mouth too dry; he can't say anything, and this isn't a time for talking. Words cannot get across what his body can.

So he speaks with his movements. He shifts to his left, heaving his jaws away from her with considerable reluctance - he pushes forwards, resting his thick chest against the front of her right wing. He presses just so, and looks at her through questioning, heavy-lidded eyes. Move the wing, and he can move there. Keep it blocking his path, and he'll take that as a sign that he has badly misunderstood what she wants - the shame will be crippling, but at least he'll know.

Because it's the hope that hurts.