He liked it, well and truly liked it this way. No pretense. No tender caresses (not anymore, anyway). No soft hands. No soft gasps and whispers. It was so much better to fight with or against.

He didn't moan, didn't groan, so much as growl and nearly roar through gritted teeth. Blood and sex and violence. Best combination ever.

She could hate him later for ignoring what the advice columns and the women's magazines called her "needs" (because he had considered those "needs" at first, though it wasn't fair to call it any kind of conscientiousness and certainly nothing like kindness or generousness--it was more at something that could be done to a woman that would make her hate him and hate herself all the more after). Sure. Let her hate him for that.

He was too wrapped up in her teeth and her skin and her nails and all the sharp points of stinging pain on his back and shoulders to really think about too much else. He was too close to the edge to think clearly. He was crazy enough to begin with. Muddle that mind with more magic and blood and sex and violence and just try, just try, to get something sensible and progressive out of it.

Just try.