He's a methodical man.
Runs a tight ship, you might say.
No matter what storm he's weathering, his motto will always be that there is a place for everything and everything in its place.
When it comes to his Swan, though, his resolve can be sorely tested.
Night after night, she proves that she can lure him into her bedchamber with little more than the flash of a smile, a certain gleam in her green eyes, the crook of her bloody little finger.
Once inside, though, he likes to make her wait.
He likes to uncover every inch of her creamy flesh slowly, the whisper of fabric as it slides down to reveal her like a spark to the tinder of his hunger for her. He likes to reacquaint himself with the taste of every inch of skin, from the delicate curve of her throat to the softest of skin just beneath her pink-tinged nipples and the salty-sweet tang of the secret heat between her thighs.
It's only when she is bare and her hands are urgently tugging at his own garments that he lets himself give into the chaos, lets his body answer the call of hers in a fierce joining that has her clutching at him with a gasp of pleasure, her fingernails scoring his skin in a welcome tattoo, random bedclothes and pillows tossed overboard without a second glance during the resulting storm.
He's a methodical man, but only to a certain point.