Gripping onto his biceps, little half-moon welts that fade as fast as they were given, he lifts her hips to his and changes the angle. A forgotten teddy bear falls off the bed, softy hitting the carpet.
He realizes how incredibly real and wrong and so very fucked up everything is when her maidenhood regenerates around his hard cock over and over. Claire Bennet, doomed to be (clinically speaking) forever saintly un-trodden ground, golden hair like an ethereal halo spread out on the pillowcase underneath him. In the wan moonlight of her bedroom, she looks demure, deceivably fragile. A pretty porcelain doll come to life.
Gasping a surprised oh, her green eyes flutter open, unguarded, pupils dilated and it finally registers in his brain: he did that. That what they are doing right now may be wrong, but it is also something she chose to give him freely once he came to her, kneeling in supplication for forgiveness in her eyes for his crimes.
"Sylar-" she begins, breathless, but he covers her mouth with his. Doesn't want to hear that name spill from her lips because each kiss and thrust feels a little bit more like getting closer to salvation.