Good ol’ fashioned bourbon, cigarette smoke embedded into his clothes, the smell of leather from his gloves, a touch of gunpowder that always lingered. You splayed yourself over his lap, the thick muscles of his thighs were pillows beneath you. His large, solid hands slid up the slope of your back, your shirt riding up.

Fabric rustling, Impatience buzzing, a hand hesitating.

“What?” You breathe when he stops mid make out. His hands now stuck hovering over your waist. “What? Nothin.” He dismisses your concern with a heavy huff, distracting you from his faltering with a firm squeeze on the plush of your ass.

Your hand is hovering over the edge of his mask. It was pushed back just enough to show you his lips. They were rough like sandpaper, scarred subtly at the seams of his lips. Yet they maneuvered in perfect harmony with yours. It wasn’t like you’d never seen him without the mask before, you still remembered the titillating excitement you had felt the first time watching him peel back his mask inch by inch.

But now, even sitting here with you utterly enraptured by him and on his lap—he was still hesitant.

One of your hands began to trace the tattoo peering out over his collarbone. You slipped the mask off, watching his arms flex with resistance. There he was. Big brown eyes boring into yours. He had a couple burn scars on his cheekbone, a scar that split through his brow.

You seemed to stare a little too long—because now Simon has tucked his head into your neck, his light scruff scratching along your skin, his chapped lips leaving lazy open mouthed kisses to your throat. “You’ve got a staring problem.” He mumbled into your shoulder, as if he wasn’t built and crafted like a man straight out of your fantasies.

You couldn’t wait to see how he would act once you stripped him of all his task force gear. You’d break down his hesitance one way or another.