When he touches you you feel the blood in your veins rush, you hear your heart thudding loudly against your heaving chest where it's pressed against his unmoving one.
He licks inside your mouth harder and your moan reverberates across the dank chamber, filling every dark crevice with the sounds of the even darker act that you are committing.
His hands are stained with ink and blood, and they leave harsh smears on your flushed skin, dark blue like fingered bruises.
You know that this is dirty and wrong and so many other things.
But if touching him makes you dirty, then you never want to be clean.
He makes impure feel as heavenly as a shiny new crucifix, and you worship him as such.
He is danger and darkness and evil as concentrated as you've ever known, and it thrills you that he is yours, even for second.
His eyes glitter with amusement as he grasps your throat and you smile, you gasp his name and you beg for him to hurt you more.