It's true, what he said about her getting off on violence, but that doesn't change the fact that what gets him off is her.
Everywhere they'd gone, she'd stood out. Even here in Miami, in a sea of women with bigger tits, plumper lips, blonder hair, she crackles with an energy that catches his gaze, won't let him shake loose of her.
Firecracker, the guy sitting next to them had muttered admiringly when she'd downed her drink, bracelets flashing at her thin wrists, and then climbed on his lap and opened her mouth over his. Her hips had made a rhythm that he couldn't help but follow, and she'd guided his hands under her dress; his knuckles were rubbed raw by the tight stretch of fabric across them but his fingertips skated along her skin, warm and sheened by sweat.
He got them into a taxi without moving her too far from him, then tumbled her into his bed with the same finesse. Her tongue was never still, gasping out his name or licking across his chest, and he got his hand inside her thong when she bit down on his nipple. No blades or scars on her, but the heat of her was a weapon in its own right, made him sick and dizzy and glad, made him marvel as parts of himself - tongue, fingers, dick - got lost inside her, voracious and inexorable. She screamed like a banshee at each intrusion, slid her hands viciously across him, marking as much of him as she could. He couldn't get enough of her like that, felt like he lived for that pain.
But the way she slept hurt him more, face calm and body unmoving. He thought of rosary beads as his hand drifted up and down the knobs of her spine, and remembered all of his sins.