"Would you give me your heart?" she asks, voice high and breathy. She's pressed against his side, lithe body naked and glistening, still warm from the heat of their lovemaking. Her fingers trace the shape of a heart on his left chest and he turns his head, looking at her through sleep-laden eyes.
"You already have it," he says. He's groggy, not processing well, and the dark gleam of her eyes is somewhat lost on him. "What are you talking about?"
She hums low in her throat and digs her nails into his skin. He grunts a little, shifting to get away from the pressure. Instead of letting up, she digs harder, and when he looks down there are little wells of blood around the sharp crescent moons of her manicure.
"Stop," he mutters.
"I'd like to have it," she breathes. Her breath washes hot across his neck and he shivers, arching his back a little. His chest is smarting, almost searing. "Will you give it to me?"
With a force of strength he swore he'd never use, he shoves her off and away, then rolls to the opposite side of the bed and stands next to it, panting. Small trickles of blood trail down his chest, matting the thin hair peppering the skin. She sticks out her bottom lip in a dramatic pout and rolls over, falling asleep almost immediately. He continues to stand there, watching her, until the blood dries and his heart rate slows.
"You already have it," he repeats, so quietly that his lips barely even move. He wonders how long it will take to convince her of that, and when she'll stop hurting in her attempt to claim.