Eleanora was not a virgin.
That is to say, she had had intimacy with other men before. She was familiar with the routine; she knew what to do.
Except in this case, that is.
It was incredibly strange. She had never had intimacy like this before. It was strange and powerful and pervasive—completely unlike the raucous nights she had had before. There was no rowdiness or anything really loud and obnoxious and painful—completely unlike what she had expected. She had always thought that demons were really into chains and whips and things.
Instead, it was deep and intense and passionate. There were no hidden acts in it, no feeling of a one-night stand, absolutely no strings attached; it is what it is.
Eleanora had heard that intimacy is the purest form of love, but she had never believed it until now. That was really the best way to describe it: pure.
She was, quite simply, being overrun and caressed with pure adoration.
About halfway through, he told her that he loved her.
She excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she was there, she threw up.