She lay there, half-naked and trembling, the lantern's gold pooling over her skin like warm honey. Now it was his turn.
He rose to his knees on the narrow cot (the wooden cabin bed creaked beneath them, hard and unforgiving, built for hunters, not lovers, but neither of them cared tonight). Slowly, deliberately, he reached behind his head and pulled his shirt off in one smooth motion. The faint light slid across the lines of a body earned by years, not hours in a gym: broad shoulders, thick arms, the solid weight of a man who knew his own strength and kept it leashed. A scattering of silver in the dark hair across his chest caught the lantern flame like frost.
Aurilia watched him, eyes wide, lips parted. She had wanted this, exactly this: not some eager boy who would fumble and rush, but a man who understood that her surrender was a gift, not a conquest.
He lowered himself beside her again, the small couch forcing their bodies to fit together like puzzle pieces. Skin to skin now. Heat to heat.
He didn't crush her. He didn't take.
Instead, he cradled the back of her head with one large hand and kissed her forehead, soft as a blessing. Then the delicate skin of each closed eyelid, lingering, breathing her in. Not her mouth yet. Never her mouth yet. He was telling her, without words: You are rare. You are not for hurried hands or careless mouths. You deserve worship.
Her trembling began to quiet under the steady warmth of him. The frantic drum of her pulse slowed, eased by the reverence in every touch. She felt it settle over her like a blanket: she was not simply desired; she was cherished. A pure, blissful energy he intended to honor, not devour.
Only when the last tremor left her body did his gaze drop to her lips, patient, promising, asking.