Page 44 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Two seconds later — Ariana

H e reached for me, thumb grazing the ring I hadn’t taken off. And I shattered.

This was it. This was the moment. The boundary. The line between before and now.

Before, I ran. Now? I wanted to be caught. I think I always had.

“Still married,” I said, breath shaky.

“Still yours,” he answered, stepping into me like gravity.

And then his mouth was on mine—hot, hungry, unapologetic.

I kissed him back like I needed to erase the space between us. Like I could climb inside him and finally feel whole again.

My hands slid under his shirt and T-shirt, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the tense stretch of muscle across his ribs. I tugged upward, and he stripped both off like they were in the way—because they were.

He pushed the dress off my shoulders and then unclasped my bra with reverence. Then he dropped to his knees in front of me. “Let me look at you.”

I stood there, bare to him from the waist up, breathing hard, nipples tight from anticipation and the cool air.

His gaze scorched me.

“You’re more beautiful now,” he said, voice hoarse.

“So are you,” I said with a laugh.

Before I could react, he pressed a kiss to the center of my sternum. Then lower. And lower.

His mouth found my breast, tongue flicking, teeth teasing. I gasped, hand flying into his hair, anchoring him to me as he lavished attention on me like I was something sacred.

“Christopher,” I whispered.

“I remember everything about you,” he said, kissing the curve of my waist. “How you arch. How you sound. What makes your legs shake.”

Somehow he managed to unzip the gown and it whooshed down my legs, pooling on the floor at my feet. He lowered himself farther and kissed the inside of my thigh, then looked up. “Can I?”

“Yes,” I said, already breathless. “God, yes.”

He slid my panties down my legs and pressed his mouth to me like a man possessed.

His tongue traced every inch of me, slow at first, then firmer, deeper, relentless. He licked, sucked, teased until my thighs were shaking and my voice was raw from moaning his name.

I came once on his mouth, and he didn’t stop. He kept going. Brought me to the edge again, and this time I pulled him up.

“I need you inside me,” I whispered.

He didn’t speak—just stripped off his pants and boxers, his eyes never leaving mine. His cock was hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

He grabbed my thighs and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to the bed and laid me down.

The second he pushed into me, I broke.

He filled me in one long, deep stroke, and I arched into him, breath caught on a cry.

“Jesus, Ari,” he groaned. “You feel so good.”

He moved slowly at first, hips grinding into mine, keeping eye contact like he needed to see every reaction. But then my heels dug into his back, and the pace shifted.

Faster. Harder. Deeper.

We were a tangle of limbs and sweat and noise. His mouth on my throat, my nails down his back. I kissed his shoulder, bit his lip, begged for more. And he gave it to me.

Over and over.

His thrusts got rougher, his rhythm frantic. I reached between us and rubbed my clit—once, twice—and we came together with matching cries. He held me close, his voice low and reverent, every word a promise against my ear.

He collapsed on top of me, breathing hard, his weight grounding me in a way I hadn’t known I missed.

I held him there.

Let him stay.

Because I didn’t want this moment to end.

And when he finally rolled onto his side, pulling me with him, he kissed my shoulder and whispered, “Still mine.”

And I didn’t deny it.

Because I was.