She likes to think he's made of words.

Long, lanky legs. Pointed, golden claw. Vivid, red eyes. Silky, black hair.

He talks to her and tells her things, and when he uses that deep, rumbly voice, she discovers she's weak in the knees. She never knew firearm maintenance could be so naughty.

When she cries, he presses a large, warm hand on her back and whispers that everything will be all right. He wipes a tear with a thin, tapered finger and says that eventually he'll understand that she couldn't wait any longer.

She knows he's not dead like the ninja jokes too often, because when he clutches her with strong, sinewy arms to his pale, scarred chest, she can hear his thumping, beating heart.

The first time she thinks it's a meeting of two lonely souls. She focuses on the sensation of his wet, rough tongue and the feel of his smooth, sweat-soaked skin. The second time, she's tired and drained and thoroughly satisfied, except he's not and wakes her up with his greedy, insistent kisses. She can't explain the third time or the fourth or anytime after that.

He weighs her down with his beautiful, lean body and whispers, tells, begs her, "Please, once more," "Yes, again," and "No, never enough."

To her, he's made of words because he talks to her and tells her things like "I love you."