I could eat you alive. My claws would drip burgundy as I dug into your stomach, and the salted copper of your blood would lash, heated, across my face.
I will lick it all up, tongue curling around my fangs for the last drops, before I am through.
If I cannot have the comforts of sex, I will have the gratifications of violence.
For now, I stretch, toes pointed, hips coiled with intent, purring between my sharpened teeth, kneading the bedspread with unsullied gilded talons.
