Page 33 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

One second later — Ariana

T he space between us vanished in a breath.

He didn’t say another word. Didn’t ask. Just bent down, slid his arms beneath my thighs and back, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. Like I was his.

My breath caught. My hands found his shoulders, anchoring me to him as the world tilted.

His grip was steady, strong. His chest brushed mine with every step as he carried me toward the bed. Every nerve in my body screamed alive.

I knew this body. Knew the curve of his shoulder, the heat of his skin, the low burn in his gaze.

But it felt different tonight.

More solid. Sharper. Hungrier.

When my back hit the mattress, the gasp that left me had nothing to do with surprise. His mouth was on me before I could think. Before I could doubt.

Firm lips. Rough stubble. That perfect scrape along my jaw, down my throat, making me arch into him. His hands pushed the straps of my dress aside, baring me inch by inch. No rush, no fumbling. Just reverence wrapped in possession.

He kissed my collarbone, my shoulder, each kiss claiming ground he’d never really lost.

The dress slipped down, pooling at my waist.

“Off,” I breathed.

He obliged. He peeled the fabric away, slow, like unwrapping something he wanted to savor. Next went my bra. When it was gone, his hands paused. His gaze roamed every inch of me, hot and worshipful, making me burn.

“You’re killing me, Ari,” he said, voice rough. “You always have.”

And then he was on me again. His mouth found my breast, tongue flicking, teeth grazing until my fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. My hips shifted, restless, needy, but he took his time. Drawing soft, maddening circles with his tongue. Leaving me trembling.

I was gasping by the time his mouth moved lower.

Lower.

He kissed down my stomach, each press of his lips stoking a deeper ache. When he reached the edge of my panties, he hooked his fingers into the lace and met my gaze.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t have to.

I lifted my hips, and he slid them down my legs, slow and deliberate.

The air hit me first—cool, teasing. Then his mouth replaced it.

One slow stroke of his tongue and my breath left me in a ragged exhale. He licked me with a patience that felt like torture, his hands gripping my thighs, keeping me exactly where he wanted me. I wasn’t in control anymore.

And I didn’t want to be.

My fingers fisted the sheets, trying to find purchase as he licked, sucked, worshipped.

It had never been like this with anyone else. No one else had ever taken me apart so completely. No one else had made me feel this much.

Pleasure built, sharp and unstoppable. I was right there, teetering, desperate.

“Chris—” His name fractured on my tongue.

He hummed against me, and that was it. I shattered.

My body arched off the bed, pleasure ripping through me in waves. I gasped his name again, a broken, helpless sound.

He didn’t stop. Not until my thighs were trembling and my breath was ragged.

Only then did he rise.

His mouth was glistening. His eyes—dark and feral.

He kissed me, slow and deliberate, letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“Still think it won’t be the same?” he whispered against my lips.

I dragged his jeans off in response.

His body was unfair. Broad shoulders. Cut abs. Muscles that flexed beneath my palms as I explored him like it was the first time. Like I had all the time in the world.

But I didn’t want slow anymore.

I wanted him .

Now.

“Briefs. Off,” I ordered.

His grin was sin incarnate.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He shucked them with zero finesse. And then he was there, above me, hard and ready. He stroked himself once, slow and shameless, and my breath caught.

He lined up at my entrance, his tip teasing me, and paused.

“Ariana.”

The way he said my name—hoarse, reverent—made my heart twist.

I reached for him, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Don’t make me beg.”

That was all it took.

He thrust into me in one smooth, claiming stroke. Filling me completely. Stretching me until the breath left my lungs.

My fingers dug into his back as he set a rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, relentless.

We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to.

Every movement was a conversation. Every grind of his hips was an apology. Every brush of his lips against my skin was a plea.

His pace quickened, our bodies slick with sweat, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. I clung to him, nails raking his shoulders, hips meeting his thrusts with equal urgency.

I couldn’t get close enough.

He couldn’t get deep enough.

He rolled, pulling me on top of him, his hands gripping my hips as I took over, riding him with a desperation I couldn’t hide.

I watched his face as I moved. Watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands flexed, the way his gaze devoured me.

“You feel so fucking good,” he ground out.

“So do you.” The words were a breath, a confession, a surrender.

His thumb found my clit, circling just right, and I fell apart again.

This one was different.

Sharper.

Deeper.

It left me gasping, trembling, collapsing against his chest.

But he wasn’t done.

He flipped us again, driving into me harder, his rhythm brutal, his control unraveling.

I wanted to crawl inside his skin.

To lose myself in him.

When he came, it was with a groan that sounded like my name was the only word he knew.

He buried himself to the hilt, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.

But I didn’t want to breathe.

I wanted to feel.

We stayed tangled together, panting, hearts racing, bodies sated but minds spinning.

And that’s when it hit me.

If I’d been hoping this would be a pale imitation of the past—if I’d wanted proof that it was just nostalgia, that I could survive him again—I’d been wrong.

It wasn’t the same.

It was better.

Richer. Rougher. More.

Because I wasn’t a girl anymore.

And he wasn’t a boy.

We were adults with scars and regrets and unfinished stories.

And right now, in this bed, in this moment, we made something new.

The tears stung before I could stop them.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His thumb brushed my cheek, catching the first tear as it fell. He didn’t say a word. Just held me.

And for once, I didn’t pull away.

Because if loving him had always been the problem…

Maybe loving him was also the answer.