His touch was light, almost tentative, his palms sliding up her sides like he was afraid to press too hard. Gentle, he’d told himself. Slow. She deserved that, after everything. But when his lips brushed her neck, she made a sound—a low, rough thing, half sigh and half demand—and suddenly her hands were in his hair, yanking him closer, her body arching into his until there was no space left between them.
“Easy,” he breathed, but she shook her head, her fingers digging into his shoulders, a wordless plea that burned hotter than any “please.” He tried to slow down, to soften the kiss, but she responded by nipping at his lower lip, her tongue sliding against his, hungry, insistent. This wasn’t about tenderness. This was about need—raw, unvarnished, the kind that doesn’t care about being gentle.
He let go then, let her set the pace, her hands guiding his, her hips grinding against his, a rhythm that built and built until his own restraint frayed. She didn’t want soft. She wanted present—the weight of him, the urgency, the unspoken promise that he wasn’t holding back. When he finally stopped fighting it, when he kissed her like he meant it, hard and deep, she sighed into his mouth, a sound that felt like surrender.
Later, when they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, he traced the marks her nails had left on his back. “I thought—” he started, but she cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. “I know what you thought,” she said, her voice soft now, but her eyes still bright with that same fire. “Sometimes gentle’s not what I need. Sometimes… I need to feel it.” He kissed her forehead, slow and soft this time, and nodded. He’d remember that. For her, he’d learn to be whatever she needed—gentle, or not.