He's trying his best, really his best, to take it slow and he does hold back more when she asks him to. Snail's-pace slow, so that all the good bits of this are stacking up inside his muscles and nerves, with nowhere to go. He has no idea whether she's enjoying it or not, whether those few moans are from pleasure or pain, but her hand is in his hair and she's not telling him to stop.

Until she does. He can't argue with those thighs, rock-hard as they are from a lifetime of horseriding. If they say he's not going any further, then he's not going any further.

'...yeah. OK.'

He pulls back, out of her, hissing with the way she drags at him. Fight to get in, fight to get out. It's the story of her all over, really. But he's happy enough to sprawl on to his back, reaching for her at once, with his other hand reassuring Sergeant Rock that it's all going to be OK. (Got to keep his self-esteem up. Very important, that.)