His heart shrivels at her every gaze. Clear solemn eyes. . . fur that shines in every weather. Sinewy muscles tightly coiled beneath her pristine glossy pelt. He can't stand the aching pulse in his chest, the flutters arising whenever he nears her. He can't ignore the heartbreak he feels when she speaks to another tom; he can't ignore that gushing river of hot molten jealousy. She has an influence on him so potent that it has become an addiction. He loves the way she smiles, the way she walks, the way she looks at him, as if she can see the world in his eyes. Every smile from her is coquettish, wry. . . every smile strips away the layers of self control and virtue built up within him. He loves her, but he can't admit it.
For how can an angel admit to loving a devil?