He is not gentle with you.
He does not kiss you, his fingers leaving bruises, teeth poised to rip out your throat. You taste blood on his skin, your hands cupping the nape of his neck in a gesture so infinitely tender, even as he tears you open, nestles among your insides. Long, dark lashes brush your stomach, contrasting sharply with sun-kissed skin.
It's not hard to remember that he is a monster, when his teeth press marks into your flesh.