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In her dreams, he kissed her.
In her dreams he was gentle. His terrible, cruel fangs slid over her skin with a grace only a demon could manage. He would lay her down on smooth sheets that smelled of blood and roses and those spindly fingers would work open her clothes, layer by layer, and as each new bit of skin was exposed, he would kiss her.
He would whisper, in a sweet tone she had only heard him use for his master, praises into her ear as he peeled away her clothing as if unwrapping a present. Her hands would tangle in his hair as he trailed kisses down her bare, painfully flat chest. He would kiss the scars on her hips, the carved curses and slurs that spiraled down her legs, and he would tell her that she deserved none of it; she deserved so much better.
He would kiss her where she hated herself most, but with his lips there, she began to love it. She would cry out in ecstasy rather than pain, writhing and clutching the sheets and begging for more.
And he would give her more. As he pressed into her she bit into his shoulder and clutched at his back, but even then she was too flustered, too overwhelmed by his attentions to admire the beautiful red that spilled forth.
And when she woke up from those wonderful, terrible dreams, she was always painfully frustrated, but could find no relief. Not without his voice, reminding her that she was beautiful, that she was a true woman and deserved the best a woman could have.
Instead, he would always have one more scar to kiss, the next time she dreamed.