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He was disgusted with himself. Fascinated with her. Drawn to the way her pretty face fit perfectly in his hands, five fingers wrapping around her skull as his thumbs absently stroked her cheek. Quaritch has always prided himself in his loyalty for humanity. Never would he have thought to find himself obsessed with the way she moved, how her hips swayed when she danced by the fire. The female. A Na’vi.
God, he could feel his old self raging at the fact. But Miles Quaritch was a dead man, after all. With the same hands that once crushed his old skull, this pair of new hands were carefully caressing her features. Somewhere in hell, he can’t do shit but watch as he traced the trail of red paint from the parting of her hair, down to her nose. Stopping at her mouth, his thumb tugging at her bottom lip. Varang didn’t hiss, didn’t bite. Instead she watches silently, taking him deeper into her mouth, tongue instinctively rolling at his thumb.
For a split second she had the look of a domesticated animal.