"Jon—"
"I've got you." I work my way lower, tasting salt and skin. "Let go."
She does.
When I finally slide into her again, it's slow. Measured. I watch her face as I fill her, watch the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part on a sigh. She's beautiful like this—unguarded, unhurried, letting herself feel without bracing for impact.
"Okay?" I ask.
"More than okay." Her hands find my shoulders, grip but don't scratch. "This is… different."
"Good different?"
"Good different."
I move in long, slow strokes. Building instead of chasing. Every thrust deliberate, every pause intentional. The adrenaline from the mountain run and the firefight is still humming in my marrow, begging for a harder impact and a faster pace, but I refuse to give in to it. I'm not trying to make her shatter this time—I'm trying to show her what it feels like to be worshipped.
She deserves to be worshipped. After everything that asshole did to her, she deserves someone who takes their time. Who pays attention. Who makes her feel like the most important thing in the world.
"You're thinking too hard." Her voice is soft, amused.
"Sorry." I kiss her, slow and deep. "I'm trying to be?—"
"A gentleman. I know." Her fingers thread through my hair. "It's very sweet."
Sweet. Not the word most people use to describe me. Not the word anyone would use for the man who just left two bodies in a kitchen and two more in the woods. Reconciling the person whojust touched her like she’s made of glass with the person who can snap a neck in three seconds is a headache I don't want to have right now.
I keep the pace steady. Feel her building beneath me—slower this time, the tension coiling gradually instead of exploding. Her breath comes faster. Her nails dig into my shoulders. And when she finally crests, it's a wave instead of a crash—rolling through her in long, shuddering pulses that pull me over the edge with her.
We come down together. Breathing hard, tangled up, her heartbeat hammering against my chest.
"That was—" She stops. Tries again. "That was?—"
"Different."
"Very different." She shifts, settles more firmly against me. The cold is biting now—we've been exposed for too long—but neither of us moves to get dressed. "Is that what you meant? When you said you wanted to show me something different?"
"Part of it." I press a kiss to her hair. "I wanted you to know it doesn't have to be desperate. It can be slow. Careful. It can be?—"
"Nice?"
I laugh. "That's a very boring word for what we just did."
"I'm a kindergarten teacher. I use a lot of boring words." But she's smiling. I can feel it against my chest. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being gentle."
The words hit somewhere unexpected. Somewhere soft.
"You deserve gentle," I say. "You deserve someone who takes their time with you. Who pays attention to what you need."
She's quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Hesitant. Like she's about to say something she's not sure she should.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
