Forty

Surrender

 

March 14, 2011

 

He’d been awake long enough to know he wasn’t going back to sleep. Not with her like this. 

 

She was on her back, one arm tossed above her head, tangled in sheets she’d half-kicked loose before dawn. Her curls spread wild—across her face, over the pillow, trailing down her bare shoulder. Claiming the whole damn bed once again. 

 

He couldn’t help but smile. Over the years, he’d become an expert in her sleep habits. The way she always ended up diagonally, somehow managing to steal every inch of sheet, and the uneven snore that started up when she was truly out. 

 

He shifted, noticing how most of the covers had migrated to her side again. He had a single corner left, and a growing certainty he’d lost a fight he could never win. He reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek. The first stripes of morning crept through the curtains and settled in her curls, warming the dark.

 

But this, right here, was his favorite part.

 

The way her nose crinkled slightly, just enough to make him smirk. He waited for it, knowing what came next: that quiet rhythm he knew better than any song he’d ever played. One breath. Two. Three.

 

Then the sigh—soft, content, no edge to it. 

 

She mumbled into the pillow, words lost in sleep, but the tone was unmistakable—bossy, even now. She’d deny the mumbling if he told her, but he knew better. 

 

His gaze traced the familiar line of her body beneath the sheet, settling on the gentle curve of her belly. Another piece of them, right there under his hand. His hand moved before he thought, calloused fingertips brushing lightly over her skin.

 

As if his touch had summoned it, her expression softened into that unguarded smile. It hit him the same way it always did—low and deep in his chest.

 

His thumb lingered, then stilled. Lately, she didn’t do slow.

 

Always quick. Urgent. Like it switched on in her before she even realized. Didn’t matter where they were or what she’d come in for—when it hit, everything else fell away, fast, immediate. Clothing stayed on more often than not.

 

The tempo was always hers to set—what she called control. 

 

A faint grin tugged at his mouth as he looked at her, still soft with sleep, completely unaware.

 

“Today, we do it my way, Crash,” he whispered.

 

His hand drifted closer, fingertips barely brushing her skin—testing, not waking. Not yet.  

Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear, breathing her in—a faint trace of apple lingering in her hair. His tongue flicked lightly against her lobe, easing just enough to make her shift without waking.

 

Another soft, quiet sigh slipped from her lips. She had others— he knew what each one meant. And he’d never get tired of hearing them.

 

Her eyelids fluttered, sleep loosening its hold. A tiny, unguarded murmur slipped out, and he smiled at the sound.

 

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her skin.

 

“Mmm…” She shifted, caught somewhere between sleeping and waking. “What time is it?”

 

He didn’t answer. Not this time.

 

Instead, his mouth ghosted down her neck to her collarbone, trailing lingering kisses. He paused at the hollow, savoring her warmth, feeling her breathing beneath his lips—purposeful, patient, deliberate.

 

Yeah. That one—he’d never tire of.

 

His hand slid along her side, steadying her as his lips continued their unhurried path downward, disappearing beneath the sheet. No rush—he let time stretch the moment, drawing it out until he felt her start to ache for more.

 

When he reached her hip, he paused. His thumb traced the faded ink there, muscle memory marking a thousand mornings like this.

 

A lazy grin curved against her skin, and he pressed a playful bite to it—then another, more measured this time, just to tease out her response.

 

That was all it took.

 

Her fingers tightened in his hair, her need surfacing in an instant.

 

“Jon…” Her voice was thick with sleep, but the edge was there.

 

He hummed, refusing to be rushed.

 

His mouth retraced over her hip, then lower, following familiar paths, but this time he traveled them with laziness.  The intimate French kiss was a seductive one —denying her the rush she’d come to expect. A muted release left her, sharper now, betraying how much anticipation he’d coaxed from her with patience.

 

“Jon,” she tried again, her fingers tightening as she tugged at him, threading through his hair, reaching for the reins she couldn’t quite reclaim.

 

She tried to take over. He wouldn’t let her.

 

He didn’t speed up; if anything, he slowed even further. Every touch designed to make her feel it—to linger, to draw it out until it was his and hers alone.

 

His hand pressed more firmly against her side, anchoring her, his pace steady and unyielding. Not ignoring her—just not surrendering to her, not today.

 

“Ugh…” Her breath hitched, giving way into something wordless and wild.

 

He smiled against her skin. That was it—the slow unraveling she pretended not to crave.

 

“You okay up there, Crash?” 

 

“Yeah—,” she managed, voice shaky, not fooling anyone.

 

“Uh-huh. Coulda fooled me.”

 

Her hand tightened again, but now it was pure reaction, instinct taking over.

 

And he had her—right where he wanted, caught between wanting and waiting.

 

Still, she tried one last time.

 

“Jon…” Sharper now, her palm pressing hard at the back of his head. “Up. Now!”

 

A command, clear as day. One he usually answered without hesitation.

 

He stilled, just long enough for her to think she’d won.

 

Her breath lifted, expectation already settling in, that familiar shift—the moment everything snapped back to her lead. 

 

Instead—

 

His grip tightened on her thigh, guiding it over his shoulder, opening her further, anchoring her in place. And then he went right back to what he was doing. Slower. Even more deliberate.

 

A quiet, disbelieving laugh shook through her before fracturing completely. “You—"

 

He didn’t let her finish. “Up?” he echoed, almost amused. “Now?”

 

His hand traced a steady path along her leg, fingertips pressing just enough to leave a promise behind—a reminder of who was calling the shots.

 

“Pretty sure what I’m doing is working just fine.”

 

Her response fell apart in a breath, no words now, just a helpless sound as her grip on the moment slipped. One hand slid into the sheets, searching for anything to hold but him.

 

Didn’t work. 

 

“Jon...” His name now wasn’t a warning. Not even close.

 

He felt it happen. The surrender she couldn’t stop. Tension melting from her body, her hold in his hair loosening, then tightening again, but no longer to steer him, just to hold on.

 

Her leg, still draped over his shoulder, rested there now unguarded, yielding.

 

A soft, broken exhale slipped from her, followed by another, each one quieter, less controlled.  A tiny, helpless sound escaped her lips, and he grinned against her skin.

 

There it was. The slow, inevitable unraveling.

 

His hand stayed firm on her thigh, steadying her as the last of that carefully held tension finally unraveled. Her breath caught… then collapsed completely.

 

He didn’t rush it. Didn’t take anything from her. He let it crest, linger, let the moment pull her under until every trace of that sharp, self-possessed edge she wore dissolved.

 

Until there was nothing left. Only her—soft, spent, satisfied. Right where he wanted her.

 

For a moment, he stayed, smoothing his hand lightly along her leg, anchoring her as she found her way back. A quiet grin tugged at his lips—his victory, small, sure, but undeniable.

 

Finally, he moved.

 

Slowly, he made his way back up her body, pressing a trail of kisses along her skin. Her chest rose unevenly, her eyes heavy and unfocused, barely open. Every flutter of her breath, every lazy blink, reminded him just how completely he had her.

 

His lips hovered mere inches above when murmuring, “Up.”  The single word carried all the triumph he needed.   

 

A flicker—recognition, maybe even the start of a protest—but it didn’t last. 

 

He closed his distance.

 

The kiss was unhurried. Deep, but not forceful. Intentional, a lingering reminder—not an ending, but a confident claim of what had just passed between them. Every brush of his lips against hers, every flick of his tongue, sealed it. He made sure of that.

 

Her fingers curled weakly against him, no resistance left. 

 

He pulled back slightly, eyes locking with hers, a satisfied curve to his mouth.

 

“Enjoy that?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

 

The corner of her mouth lifted, slow and deliberate, as she traced her lips with her tongue, meeting his gaze with that hint of challenge he loved.

 

“I did,” she said, that playful bite in her voice that always left him grinning.

 

“Should hold you over till I’m back.”

 

Her brow arched, a smirk flickering. “You think one slow morning’s gonna tame me?”

 

His grin deepened. “Never said I wanted you tame.”