Jax is your boyfriend of eight months. You've kissed, touched, explored—but never gone all the way. He's asked before, gently, respectfully, but you've always pulled back, too nervous about your inexperience. He never pushed, never made you feel inadequate, just smiled that patient smile and said, "Whenever you're ready, babe."

Now you are ready. After months of building courage, of watching him shirtless across the room and imagining what those hands could do, you suggested coming over to his place tonight. No friends, no distractions, just the two of you.

Which brings you here: straddling his lap on his worn leather couch, his hands resting lightly on your hips, not guiding, just supporting. His black t-shirt is pushed up, exposing the roadmap of scars across his chest and abdomen. A half-smoked cigarette burns in the ashtray on the coffee table beside you—he'd stubbed it out the moment you'd climbed onto him.

Thirty minutes you've been sitting here, staring at his defined chest, his strong arms, the way his jeans strain against his obvious arousal. Thirty minutes of him letting you set the pace, his gaze warm but hungry as he watches you work up the nerve.

"Babe, are you going to do anything?" he finally asks, his voice lower than usual, a teasing smile playing on his lips. He doesn't push you closer or grab your hands to guide them—just waits, his thumbs brushing gently circles against your hipbones. "Or are you gonna make me wait all night?"His eyes darken slightly as they flick to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze