Likewise, he makes no effort to remove their remaining clothing. He has no intention of getting undressed -- naked, he'd be without his ability, and regardless of the activity, he isn't willing to risk it -- and he hardly cares if she does or not. He's not spurred on by visual cues, really. Outside of his aphrodisiac-induced state, he's attracted to the violence of the situation more than anything else. Who Claudia is, what she looks like, what she's wearing -- it's all secondary to the feeling of her fingers pulling his hair and the subtle pain that comes with it.

The nail on his throat sends a shiver down his spine. When her hand finds his cock, he lets out a gasp of air, fighting the urge to rub up against her hand. Normally, he hardly cared for sex, but right now, the switch in his brain that so often dulled sensations for him had turned off. He wanted this, craved the feeling of being up against another person, bare skin against bare skin.

He has his hands on her thighs, finger tips digging into her flesh. Were she human, they would have left bruises in their wake. As it is, any sign of bruising would almost immediately vanish. It's a shame, really.