His head quaked while his eyes stayed trained on her. It made his features blur while the dark orbs were still. Perhaps if she was an angel, he was a demon. Perhaps all humans were equipt with bad things designed to be the bane of angels. There needed to be a signifcant difference between them, after all, and if men could not be holy, they'd be something else entirely. He was not resisting the bad impulses, and neighter was she, very well.<br/><br/>Her surprised mouth barely breathed and it was a gorgeous stress that lived in her before it was dispilled along with any other thought as he head beat itself against the door. He felt triumphant and glorious, and the parts of his morals that stung for her sake did so with satisfaction, like opening an itching scab. Her broken, loud sound had sent blood right into his limb, which was becoming aggitated not to be out, unfairly contained behind straining fabric.<br/><br/>She offered herself up, hands down from what he'd done, and his lips tensed when her perfect tit presented itself again. Really, Iris should always be dressed in rags like this. His shoulders inflated when she asked for mercy with her eyes, the kind of stare that would have turned him into a monster, even if he'd never had that strain in him. The answer he offered was simply admiration to her misery, which should be enough to let her know the exhale of his name wouldn't be nearly enough to save her from what her beauty was costing her.<br/><br/>The second harsh touch from his foot felt pointedly intimate, because he'd tasted the crack of her rib with his toe. She breathed with effort after that, and he was reminded how a maiden would also take her air with a bit of a struggle, when she was confronted with matters of entwined flesh. Why had Heaven made her so delectable if she was not meant to be eaten? Her awed expression to the side made him feel like a king, watching something low born shed upon being ordered. And to think she was better than him in every way, in reality.<br/><br/>"Tell me I'm vile, Iris." he said as the surfaces of his eyes drew hard when she was completely nude below him. He swallowed and dug his fingers deeper against the wood that supported his lean, and her back. On her perfect skin he'd already started writing a new story. The red over her ribs were maturing into a darker color. How well she wore it. He lifted one leg and put his knee to her chin, as though she wasn't worth the effort of his hands, and lifted it to make her look at him again. The same foot, since it was there, prodded her rib, moving something, and targeting her lung like it was some kind of intimacy. She was becoming a toy for him.<br/><br/>His hand finally moved, and he hated himself for having reduced her to this, but how could he not, when she looked as flawless like this, cowering and hurt, ready to obey or be made to obey, as she did when she was perfectly untouched, clean from the reset of death? The descending fingers touched where his knee had supported her, and then moved to unzip himself, finally. It was becoming too agonizing to wait. What a horrible lover he looked like, towering and dominant, with unburnt coals in his eyes.<br/><br/>His member was some kind of monster, too, in size and design. Really it was the opposite of her, his organ of sin. It was well fed with the blood that had convened in him, inflating that obese head at the end of the hulking limb. He held it almost like a microphone for her to say what he wanted, but unlike one, he was rubbing its base. What a villain he was, and how much he enjoyed it, darkly. Innocent things outside of Heaven absolutely corrupts, and Roan wasn't the saint to fight it.