Torque wasn't fool enough to believe either of them were perfect from an objective point of view, particularly not himself, but there was no denying that she, with every bit of her mischief and humor and love of having his teeth at her throat and his hand tucked between her thighs, was the perfect fit for him. Where he was prone to leaping into battle both literal and figurative with more fervor than he perhaps should, she was there to patch him up and see him whole again. Where there were days he wanted to swing astride his bike and hit the road for tight turns taken at the edge of reasonable speed even for were reflexes, she could (and had) climb on after him and hold onto him for the ride.
She had stepped into the role of his mate with eyes wide open for all it meant and when she had promised to meet him step for step in it, there had been not an ounce of doubt in him that she meant it.
His hands skimmed over her sides, thumbs pausing to rest just beneath the bottom curves of her breasts as she peppered him with kisses and reminded him that for all that reasonable weighing of the pros and cons of a relationship he was far easier swayed by the weight of her on his lap and her smooth, cool skin pressed against his own.
"You're not going to hear me complain," he replied, tilting his chin up to better catch her mouth with his own and not giving a damn about a thing in the world in that moment beyond the feel of her lips against his and the taste of her tongue when she invited him in.