A/N: I'd like to apologize for making y'all wait for so long. Between chapter one and now, I went on a giant family vacation, and I definitely didn't want to be writing smutty fanfiction with my family around. So I'm sorry that this has taken so long, I hope it meets your expectations, and as always, please review!

He stands up and pushes his jeans off of his hips, feeling exposed in nothing but his boxers. A good kind of exposed, though - shy but reckless. A dangerous kind of exposed, he thinks, staring at Gwen's hips, just barely covered by her ridden-up skirt. He touches the skirt, meaning to push it down her legs gently.

The fabric sticks to his fingers.

It rips off.

She looks up at him with a shocked expression, her mouth suspended open and her eyebrows raised in mock-offense.

"I am so sorry," he says, stumbling backwards. His feet are still tangled in his jeans, and he trips over them as he kicks them off and lands awkwardly on her bed.

"Not exactly in control, are we?" she says. Her eyes are crinkled in amusement. She thinks it's funny.

"Sorry," he repeats, ducking his head.

"Shh," she says. He looks back up, and she's right there, her fingers tracing his waistband, her eyes searching his. "It's okay, all right?"

He nods. And then she's pushing him backwards, making room on the bed for her own body, for her knees to plant on either side of his body as she straddles him. It's astounding, how fast this has moved, and Peter hasn't spoken to Gwen in months prior to this. But now, does it matter? And if it did, it would be too late anyway. She's assured him that she's sure, she's stripped him of his clothing, she's stripped him of his defenses. Tonight is happening.

He just doesn't know what tomorrow will bring.

Nor does he care. Not now, anyway. Not while she's undulating against him, trying to find the right amount of friction that will take her there. She's pointed it out - that he's not in control - but from what he can tell, she's hardly got a grasp on it either.

He wants to be inside her. He wants to watch her come undone, lose control completely, eat her own words abouthis control. But he thinks the two events - being inside her and watching her come - might not coincide perfectly. He's never done this before, and he's so hard, and she's so hot and wet that he can just feel it through the layers of his boxers and her thin cotton panties, and he knows that a full combination of all these sensations would send him over the edge too fast. He needs to send her there first, or bring her close.

He slips his fingers under her waistband. "Can you -?"

She lifts herself off of him and shoves her underwear the rest of the way down and off her legs. He doesn't know where they land; he's too busy looking and feeling as her legs find their way back around his body and his hands find their way between her legs.

He hears her hiss, watches her eyes close and her mouth fall open. He moves his hand, dips a finger inside of her, receives a whimper in response. Two fingers; a moan. He curls them and grasps her hip with his other hand, holding her steady to him as her hips slowly begin to rock. Her hands find his shoulders as she braces herself against him.

He's fantasized about this, but he's never realized before this moment how much he would enjoy not just how she'd feel, but how she'd look and sound. She looks like she is in a blissful kind of pain, and she emits moans interspersed with sighs. His thumb finds her clitoris, finds a rhythm and a pattern that has her moans crescendoing and her nails digging into his shoulders and her muscles flexing and moving around his fingers. Her eyebrows furrowing and her mouth opening, she throws her head backwards as she comes and then comes down.

Yes. Watching her lose control is definitely his new favorite thing.

"You -" she says, breathing heavily and moving off of his lap and to the side. "Oh, god." She laughs breathily. "That was - good." He watches her swallow, his senses so attuned to her every movement.

"Yeah," he says, biting his lip. He wants to kiss her again, but doesn't know if she's finished with him now that she's finished herself.

God, he hopes not.

His question is answered when she reaches behind him to the shelf at the head of her bed and pulls out a foil package. She holds it up for him to see.

"Okay?" she asks. This is her way of asking if he's sure. It strikes him again how reversible their roles are, how equal they are on all levels - at least, for tonight. He won't think about the inequality he has been imposing on her by keeping her away. Not tonight - that would be the opposite of reckless. This isn't the time for rationalization or epiphany. This is the time for Gwen's hands removing Peter's boxers and opening the condom wrapper. He watches her hands, so precise - and from what he knows of her, she's as inexperienced in the bedroom as he is, but her hands make a show of being so sure of themselves, pinching the tip of the condom and rolling it onto his head, down his cock, slowly, making sure there are no air bubbles. He barely conceals a groan as her hands work their way down him, and he didn't think something like latex protection would feel so amazing, but he thinks maybe it's her hands that are making this so good for him.

God, he is not going to last very long.

She pushes him down, climbs back on top, whispers, "I've never done this before." For the first time he catches a glimpse of a less-than-confident Gwen. Under her, under her vulnerability, he feels equally as vulnerable. And for the first time he lets himself wonder what will happen after tonight.

"I haven't either," he says.

"Slow at first, okay?" she asks. She bites her lip, and Peter realizes why she seems so nervous - this might hurt for her. He nods, promises to go slow, hopes that he'll be able to control himself that much.

He'll find out soon - she is lowering herself onto him now, grasping his cock in her hands and slowly sliding herself onto him fully, and oh.

His face contorts into pleasure at the exact same time hers contorts into pain. He holds onto her hips, stays still, lets her adjust to him. "Okay?" he asks.

After a minute, she nods and tentatively rocks her hips, still grimacing in pain. He sucks in air through his teeth, barely able to think coherent thoughts; she's so tight around him, surrounding him on all sides, moving so slowly, and god, this feels amazing. He meets her torturously slow rocking, thrusting up, watching her begin to relax as the minutes go by.

It's probably better that she's on top right now, he thinks. She's the one in pain, so how right it is that she's also the one in control of their movements. He tries to be sensitive to her discomfort, but it's hard to empathize when the sensations he's feeling are so completely on the other end of that spectrum. He wants to go faster, wants to be the one on top of her, thrusting into her - but he'll wait.

The moment he hears her let out what sounds like a sigh of pleasure, he tests her out, thrusting a little harder. The pain on her face gives way to pleasure, and she rocks harder into him, raises and lowers herself onto him, her hands coming down to brace themselves on his shoulders once more.

"Can we - flip over?" he asks, wanting to communicate that he needs better leverage - needs to bury himself deeper inside of her, needs to be in control now - but not knowing how.

"Yes," she breathes. She understands. Or at least, she pretends to, allows him his turn in the movement they create together. She slides off of him and lies back on her bed. He crawls on top, positions himself between her legs, slides himself back in. A new angle, new sensations - or maybe he'd just forgotten, in the few seconds it's taken to change positions, just how good she feels. He remembers now, no longer holding back in his thrusting. Faster, faster and harder and deeper if it's even possible, and she's practically assaulting his senses with the way she's letting out little breathy moans and closing her eyes and moving with and against him and running her hands down his chest, up his arms, through his hair.

There are so many things he's never expected to like: watching her face, for example, or having his hair pulled the way she's pulling at it now. There are also things he knew he'd love: the way her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, and how the slick sound of fucking can be heard amidst their moaning.

He's not going to last much longer, and he knows it - can feel it coiling in him, starting somewhere between his legs and spreading through his chest and into his head. Tight warmth like how she feels around his cock, spread out through his whole body. He's so close, and it's so good, how fast she's taking him there, how much better this feels than any pleasure he's experienced on his own before, how loud he becomes when he finally hits his climax, grunting and stiffening and relaxing and sighing.

She unwraps her legs from around him as he pulls out and collapses next to her, feeling slightly guilty for not making her come a second time. She pulls him closer to her, tangles her legs with his, smiles devilishly at him, and then kisses him.

"This isn't how I was expecting to spend my night," she says, pulling away and pressing their foreheads together.

Peter laughs. "Me either."

He knows both of them are ignoring the elephant in the room, too wrapped up in each other in this moment to care. He wants to know as much as she does - what now? Because he can hardly go back to ignoring her - not now, not after his memory's been refreshed about how wonderful she is, not after he's discovered so many new wonderful things about her. But can he really break the promise he made to her father?

He groans inwardly. No, no thinking about her father right now. Not when she's so naked and so close. It's dangerous, how much he wants to keep her now that he's had her.

And he's got the feeling that he just might be that reckless.

Gwen wraps her arms around his neck and leans on him, letting him fall backwards. "I'm tired," she says. "We're gonna talk about this in the morning." She lifts her head and looks at him. "That okay?"

He nods and hugs her body closer to his. He's got plenty of time tonight to mull over what will happen from here, but he has a feeling he already knows. He's had enough with skirting around it - Gwen is an unstoppable force in his life. It's time for him to stop trying to be an immovable object.

If that's reckless, then maybe he's reckless. Maybe in this case, reckless is what he needs. Not just tonight, but all the time. He can be a teenager by day and Spider-Man by night - he can balance recklessness and responsibility. He does already.

They'll talk tomorrow. He'll tell her, somehow, that he wants her, wants to stop staying away from her. He won't tell her how terrified he is of having her back, letting her in, potentially putting her safety in jeopardy. (She probably knows already anyway.)

He kisses her forehead and smiles, closing his eyes and relaxing into the bed. There's no going back now, he thinks. He is Gwen's.

Is that reckless?

He hopes so.