Lace, garters, silk

Rust had seen it all before.

Bodies used up and discarded, all transaction, no choice.

He'd learned to dissect the human form—to analyze, not feel. It was safer that way.

You stood before him in lace that hugged your curves, stockings that climbed your thighs, and garters that bit into your soft skin. The little corset was done up like a gift you'd chosen to present to him—one he felt unworthy to unwrap. Not for money or survival. Not a transaction. A choice.

His life had stripped him of choices, forcing acts that left him untethered. His eyes locked on where those garters marked your skin. You wanted him, and damn if that didn't hit different.

He knew how to maim and kill. Tenderness remained foreign territory. Tonight differed from every other night. Your first time together—his chance to learn a new language with his hands.

He pulls you close, your body colliding with his—not calculation but raw instinct from a man who knew no other way.

Then realization struck him.

His grip—bruising and desperate—slackened. His fingers eased on your waist, smoothing over silk in silent apology.

Not retreat. Adjustment. Effort.

His thumb traced your neck carefully. He craved you, but he didn't know how to hold without breaking.

He kissed you—consuming you. Fierce and hungry but attempting softness. His hands flexed against lace, reminding himself that you weren't running, that he didn't need to grip so fucking tight.

Even as he tried for gentle, to keep you from being sore after—he faltered.

He couldn't stop pulling you closer or pressing harder. He couldn't resist putting his teeth against your skin, his grip tightening before he forced himself to release.

His forehead met yours as his breath came ragged.

"Been too long since I had somethin' worth being careful with," he confessed against your skin. His hand cradled your face, callused yet cautious. He was afraid to mark you.

That was it, wasn't it?

Rust didn't know gentle.

But for you, he'd fucking try.