Mary was up on her tiptoes, leaning over the top of the bureau, trying to put a pearl stud into her earlobe and missing the hole. With her head titled to the side, her deep brown hair flowed over her shoulder, and man, he just wanted to stroke the stuff. And what do you know that wasn't the only thing he wanted to get his hands on. The clean cut of her jaw caught and held the light from the crystal sconce on the wall and her cream silk blouse draped over her breasts and her slacks fell to her flats. No make up on her. No perfume.
But that would be like touching up the Mona Lisa or hitting a rose bush with some Febreeze.
There were a hundred thousand ways to detail his mate's physical attributes and not one single sentence, or indeed an entire book, that could come close to describing her presence.
She was the watch on his wrist, the roast beef when he was starving, and the pitcher of lemonade when he was thirsty. She was his chapel and his choir, the mountain range to his wanderlust, the library for his curiosity and every sunrise and sunset that ever was or would ever be. With one look or the mere syllable of a word, she had the power to transform his mood, giving him flight even as his feet stayed on the ground. With a single touch, she could chain his inner dragon, or make him come before he was even hard. She was all the power in the universe coalesced into a living, breathing thing, the miracle that he had been granted in spite of the fact that he had long been undeserving.
Quite simply, Mary was his life.
Yeah... even after all this time, he was still feelin' her.
-The Beast, pg. 8 of the manuscript