The first time it happened, Hannah laughed it off.
She told herself it was nerves. First nights are messy, awkward, unpredictable. But three months later, nothing had changed — except her frustration.
Mark, thirty-eight, handsome, confident, the kind of guy who dominates a room without trying, was amazing at everything except slowing down. Every time things got heated, it was over almost as fast as it started. No apology. No explanation. Just a kiss on her shoulder and, “You’re incredible,” like that was supposed to be enough.
At first, she thought maybe he didn’t notice. But the more she watched him, the more she realized… he did.
One night, after too many glasses of cabernet and the soft hum of a playlist they’d both stopped listening to, she decided to test him.
They were on her couch, tangled under a thin gray throw. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, chest warm against her arm, heartbeat hard and uneven. Her silk robe had slipped open just enough to make his breathing change.
She leaned in, slow, deliberately slow, letting her lips brush the corner of his jaw before whispering, “Don’t rush tonight.”
Mark froze for half a beat, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. His hand, resting on her thigh, tightened slightly.
Then he smiled — crooked, cocky, like she’d just challenged him.
“Who says I’m rushing?” he murmured, voice low, breath warm against her cheek.
“You always do,” she whispered back, fingers tracing the edge of his collar, feeling the sharp line of muscle beneath.
That’s when she noticed it — his shoulders tensing, his jaw tightening, his gaze dropping for just a fraction of a second.
It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t indifference.
It was control. Or rather, the lack of it.
Mark kissed her then, slow, deep, calculated… but his body told a different story. His grip on her thigh was firm, his breathing shallow, his pulse pounding where her hand rested against his chest.
Hannah pulled back slightly, forcing his eyes to meet hers.
“You never say sorry,” she said softly.
His expression flickered — a flash of something vulnerable, gone before she could name it.
“Because I’m not sorry,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
She stared at him, confused, waiting for the rest.
Mark exhaled, leaning back into the couch, raking a hand through his messy dark hair. “You think I finish fast because I don’t care,” he said, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “But it’s the opposite.”
He paused, glancing at her with an honesty she’d never seen in his eyes before.
“You drive me insane, Hannah. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.
“I try to slow down,” he said, his thumb grazing her knee absentmindedly. “I tell myself, every damn time, ‘Take it easy. Breathe. Control it.’ And then you touch me…” — his voice dropped lower, rougher — “…and it’s over. You make me lose every ounce of control I have.”
The confession hit harder than she expected.
That night was different.
She shifted closer, straddling his lap, robe slipping just enough for his fingers to brush bare skin. She kissed him, softer this time, pulling back just far enough to breathe the same air.
“Then let me slow you down,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly.
Mark’s eyes locked on hers, dark and intense, like he wasn’t sure if he should let her — but he didn’t move away.
She took his hand, guiding it to her waist, pausing deliberately, letting him feel her heartbeat pounding under warm skin.
Everything slowed.
The music faded into the background, the lamplight softened, and for the first time, neither of them rushed. Every glance, every touch, every shift of breath was stretched thin, sharp, electric.
By the time they were tangled in her sheets, neither of them had to say anything.
The next morning, she woke up to sunlight spilling across the bed, his arm heavy around her waist, his face buried against her neck.
And for the first time, Mark whispered into her skin, “Last night… that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
He didn’t have to say sorry anymore.
