John didn't want to hurt Jibril. Not even a little bit.
On top of his own pride, the resolve to not hurt her as they made love boosted his willpower to resist the poison's nefarious thoughts.
Even as her fingers trailed along his cheek, even as she leaned into him with those gentle, knowing eyes, John's mind screamed beneath the surface.
"Pull her down. Take what's yours."
"She wants it anyway. Give in. Let go."
But he clung to the image of her smiling—not as a fantasy or an object of pleasure, but as Jibril, the woman who had decided to walk beside him through death, blood, and ruin.
The way her hand trembled slightly as it rested on his chest, yet she kept it there.
The way she leaned her forehead into his, steady, even as his body radiated a turbulent lust-tainted aura.
"Jibril…" his voice came out raw. "I… I'm still burning inside."
"I know," she whispered. "But I'm here. And I want to be here… even with the fire."
