He'll let her, one hand clutching at her hip, the other digging into the mattress next to him. "I won't lie to you, the rest of me isn't nearly as good looking."
He can count his ribs. Hell, he could play xylophone on them if he wanted to, from a combination of forgetting to eat and a naturally high metabolism. His arms are flecked with trackmarks from his experimentation with drugs, and long healed over slashes from particularly low periods in his life.
"Sometimes when I'm feeling especially masochistic, I strip down and stare at myself in the mirror. You don't seem the type of girl to be easily shocked, but I thought it would be polite to let you know what you were about to see."