He let her set the pace, but he wasn't entirely passive.
One strong hand slid down the curve of her spine, settled on the small of her back, and pressed (just enough) to lift her hips a fraction higher. The movement dragged the soaked seam of her panties directly over the rigid line trapped beneath his jeans. A silent command: Go on, little storm. Take whatever you need. This is yours.
Aurilia broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes glazed, lips swollen. Without a word she seized his left wrist (small fingers surprisingly firm) and guided his hand exactly where she wanted it. Down the trembling plane of her stomach, under the ruined waistband of her panties, into the slick, molten heat waiting for him.
He obeyed instantly.
His palm cupped her fully first, savoring the soft, drenched swell of her, the way she pulsed against him. Then two thick fingers parted her folds and slid inside with one slow, deliberate stroke. She was tight, impossibly wet, clenching around the intrusion as though her body had been starving for exactly this.
Aurilia's head fell back, a broken cry spilling out. She rocked into his hand, riding his fingers in the same frantic rhythm she'd used to devour his mouth moments ago. Every roll of her hips ground her clit against the heel of his palm; every clench of her inner walls echoed in the way she kissed him (wild, open-mouthed, breathless).
His thumb found the swollen knot of nerves and circled, steady, merciless. Her thighs shook harder. The kiss turned messy (teeth, tongue, shared breath) until she had to tear away just to moan his name against his jaw.
She was dancing on his hand now, shameless, chasing the bright edge that kept rising higher and higher. The cabin, the hard bed, the dim lantern; everything narrowed to the slick heat where his fingers claimed her, to the pressure building low in her belly, to the man beneath her who watched her unravel with dark, reverent eyes.
Heaven wasn't a place tonight.
It was the way he let her burn, and burned with her.