Rust was always careful.

Didn't rush impulsively. Spent a life mastering restraint—how to move without hesitation, act without doubt, shut out anything that made him weak.

But you tested him.

Your body responded just like his did—touch-starved, desperate.

And he quickly noticed. Knew what this meant. You didn't move like someone used to being touched like this.

And damn, he felt it.

Felt your touch—uncertain, not reluctant, but inexperienced. You'd never done this before. You didn't reach for him like others had, practiced and knowing. No expectation, no performance. Just quiet, careful want.

He needs to remind himself to slow down. Because you deserved that. You were untouched by the kind of life that ruined him. He didn't want to hurt you.

He had too much experience. Enough to know how to take his time with you. Make sure you felt everything he wanted you to feel.

You had no experience. He could tell. Not in ways that mattered. Not in ways that meant you understood what he was capable of.

You watched him. Lips parted between aching desperation and hunger.

He marked you with gentle kisses—throat to collarbone, following where lace met skin, where fabric gave way to warmth. His grip—firm, not rough. Enough to hold you where he wanted.

He pulled you in to make you feel how much he'd been holding back. A desperation that bordered on intense had he not been controlling himself.

A pause.

His breathing is rough, like he'd caught himself at the edge of something overwhelming.

His thumb gently caresses your lower lip when he lifts your chin to look at you. He makes a mental map of every curve and dip in your body. As if the very memory of it is his only salvation.

"Not yet," he says like it cost everything in him to stop.

His lips graze your temple—not a kiss, just a measured breath against skin.

"Not until you know what you're asking for."

Restraint.

"So when you're sure—"

His grip finally eased, but his hands didn't leave you. Didn't let go. Just stayed—holding, waiting.