He has never been a man who appreciates soft things. His life is hard edges, sharp swords, and brutal battles. "Hard," he responses, hissing out with pleasure at the touch of her nails against his stomach, his lips parting in order to use his teeth slightly more. "Hard," he insists again, thinking of how Anne had never been kind in the bedroom, but oh, how he had loved it.

His locket dangles in the space between them as he cannot take that off, and he leans down to devour her lips in a fierce kiss that once again demands this to be hard, without saying the word.