Chapter 10 Soft Edges
TEN
Soft Edges
RIOT
The second time is nothing like the first.
The first time was fire—all urgency and need, bodies crashing together like we might die if we didn't touch. That was the man I am every other hour of the day: the operator who lives on high-alert, acts on instinct, and moves with a brutal, single-minded focus.
But the second time with Evie is something else entirely. Slower. Deliberate. I’m fighting those instincts now, forcing the lethal part of me—the part that only knows how to break and conquer—to stay locked behind a wall of sheer will. Each touch a question, each response an answer.
I learn her body with intent and purpose.
The spot beneath her ear that makes her breath catch.
The curve of her ribs that makes her squirm.
The inside of her wrist, where the skin is thin and her pulse flutters against my lips.
My hands are calloused, scarred from triggers and cold steel, and it feels like a goddamn miracle—or a lie—to use them this softly.
I catalog every reaction, every gasp, every soft sound she tries to swallow.
"Let me hear you," I murmur against her collarbone. "Don't hold back."
"Jon—"
"I've got you." I work my way lower, tasting salt and skin. "Let go."
She does.
When I finally slide into her again, it's slow. Measured. I watch her face as I fill her, watch the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part on a sigh. She's beautiful like this—unguarded, unhurried, letting herself feel without bracing for impact.
"Okay?" I ask.
"More than okay." Her hands find my shoulders, grip but don't scratch. "This is… different."
"Good different?"
"Good different."
I move in long, slow strokes. Building instead of chasing.
Every thrust deliberate, every pause intentional.
The adrenaline from the mountain run and the firefight is still humming in my marrow, begging for a harder impact and a faster pace, but I refuse to give in to it.
I'm not trying to make her shatter this time—I'm trying to show her what it feels like to be worshipped.
She deserves to be worshipped. After everything that asshole did to her, she deserves someone who takes their time. Who pays attention. Who makes her feel like the most important thing in the world.
"You're thinking too hard." Her voice is soft, amused.
"Sorry." I kiss her, slow and deep. "I'm trying to be—"
"A gentleman. I know." Her fingers thread through my hair. "It's very sweet."
Sweet. Not the word most people use to describe me.
Not the word anyone would use for the man who just left two bodies in a kitchen and two more in the woods.
Reconciling the person who just touched her like she’s made of glass with the person who can snap a neck in three seconds is a headache I don't want to have right now.
I keep the pace steady. Feel her building beneath me—slower this time, the tension coiling gradually instead of exploding.
Her breath comes faster. Her nails dig into my shoulders.
And when she finally crests, it's a wave instead of a crash—rolling through her in long, shuddering pulses that pull me over the edge with her.
We come down together. Breathing hard, tangled up, her heartbeat hammering against my chest.
"That was—" She stops. Tries again. "That was—"
"Different."
"Very different." She shifts, settles more firmly against me. The cold is biting now—we've been exposed for too long—but neither of us moves to get dressed. "Is that what you meant? When you said you wanted to show me something different?"
"Part of it." I press a kiss to her hair. "I wanted you to know it doesn't have to be desperate. It can be slow. Careful. It can be—"
"Nice?"
I laugh. "That's a very boring word for what we just did."
"I'm a kindergarten teacher. I use a lot of boring words." But she's smiling. I can feel it against my chest. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being gentle."
The words hit somewhere unexpected. Somewhere soft.
"You deserve gentle," I say. "You deserve someone who takes their time with you. Who pays attention to what you need."
She's quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Hesitant. Like she's about to say something she's not sure she should.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"I liked this." She traces a pattern on my chest. "The slowness. The—gentleness. I did."
"But?"
She hesitates. "But I think I liked the first time better."
I go still.
"Not because this wasn't good," she adds quickly. "It was. It was really good. But the first time—" She stops. Starts again. "The first time felt like you wanted me so much you couldn't control yourself. Like you needed me. Like you'd die if you didn't have me right then."
"I did feel that way."
"I know. That's why it was—" She bites her lip. "That's why it was incredible."
I'm trying to process what she's telling me. Trying to reconcile the woman who was so hesitant to ask for what she wanted with the woman who's now telling me she preferred it rough.
"Evie—"
Her eyes find mine in the dark. Steady. Certain.
"I'm saying I don't want you to hold back.
I'm saying—" She takes a breath. "I've spent my whole life being treated like I'm fragile.
Like I'll break if someone pushes too hard.
Daniel treated me like I was made of glass, and I hated it.
I hated feeling like I couldn't take whatever he gave me. "
"You're not fragile."
"I know I'm not. But you're treating me like I am." Her hand comes up to cup my face. "You don't have to be gentle with me. I'm not going to break. I'm asking you—" She swallows. "I'm asking you to stop being a gentleman. Just for tonight. Just with me."
I stare at her.
"Sweetheart." The word comes out strangled. "I'm really trying here. I'm trying to keep the man who lives for the fight away from you. I’m trying to show you that sex doesn't have to be—"
"I know what you're trying to show me." She cuts me off, her voice firm. "And I appreciate it. I do. But the man I watched kill people today—the man who held off a small army so I could climb to safety—that man doesn't need to be gentle."
"That's different. That's the job."
"Is it?" She shifts, and suddenly she's straddling me, her thighs bracketing my hips, her hands on my chest. The cold air raises goosebumps on her skin, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"You've got rough edges, Jon. That's not a flaw—that's who you are.
And I'm telling you—" She leans down, her lips brushing my ear.
"I like the rough edges. I want them. I want you to stop treating me like I'll break and start treating me like I can take whatever you give me. "
"Evie—"
"Lose control." Her voice is barely a whisper. "For me."