I can’t do it. I just can’t imagine him as a heartless killing machine. I mean, he practically melts when I turn my “dark chocolate flirtin’ machines” his way.
He could never be an animal to me when he strokes my cheek, holds me close, calls me his mate.
“You’re my baby,” he whispers into the darkness.
“And you’re my man.” I reply.
To Jean, it’s Eros or Thanatos – either lust or some twisted death wish that brings us together. I can’t blame her for not understanding.
You see, she’s never looked through the beast to see the beauty inside.