Page 39 of Rescuing Aria

I smile against her skin, taking my time, learning what makes her breath catch. My hands slide beneath her borrowed T-shirt, tracing the curve of her waist and the warm softness of her back. Her skin is like silk beneath my calloused palms.

“Take this off.” She tugs at my shirt, impatient.

I oblige, stepping back just long enough to pull the shirt over my head. Her eyes darken as she takes me in, her hands immediately reaching to explore newly exposed skin. The sensation of her touch—gentle yet possessive—sends electricity racing through my veins.

“Your turn,” I say, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt.

She lifts her arms in answer. I peel the shirt slowly upward, revealing smooth skin inch by inch, the lace edge of her bra, the gentle swell of her breasts. The sight of her half-undressed in my kitchen, looking at me with undisguised hunger, nearly brings me to my knees.

I drop the shirt to the floor and step back between her legs, my hands spanning her waist. Her skin is warm against mine as I bend to press my lips to the hollow of her throat, then lower, tracing the edge of her collarbone with my tongue. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in slightly when I brush my lips against the swell of her breast just above her bra.

A small, breathy sound escapes her. I look up—she’s watching me, lips parted, cheeks flushed. God, she’s beautiful like this. Unraveled. Wanting. I capture her mouth again, the kiss deeper, hungrier, claiming every soft gasp she gives me like I’ve earned it.

Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me in until there’s not a breath of space left between us. Heat radiates through the denim where we press—scorching, unrelenting. It short-circuits every rational thought in my head.

My hands slide down to cup her ass, dragging her tighter. I need her to feel it—that she’s driving me insane. That she owns me right now, in every way that counts.

No games. No flings. This isn’t about sex. It’s her. All of her. And she’s mine.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp, her forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing hard, like we’ve run miles just to get here. Her fingers drift over my chest—circling, teasing—each touch branding me. Her eyes meet mine, wide open, dark with certainty.

“Jon.” My name, wrecked and reverent, falls from her lips. “I want you.”

Three words. That’s all it takes. The rest of the world ceases to exist.

I lift her in one smooth motion, her thighs clinging tight to my waist, her breath catching as I hold her there, pressed against me like she belongs. She does. God, she does.

The hallway blurs as I carry her, the only light a soft spill from the kitchen behind us. My shoulder nudges the bedroom door open, and then we’re inside. My sanctuary. And now it’s ours.

I lower her to the bed, slow and reverent. Her hair fans across the pillow, a golden halo in the low light. And fuck, the way she looks at me—no fear, no hesitation. Just hunger. Trust.

It slams into me like a punch to the chest.

“You’re beautiful.” The words feel too small, too tame for what I feel. But I need her to hear them. I need her to know.

She reaches up, fingers curling into my hair, voice low and trembling with need. “Show me.”

God help me. I will.

I dip my head, catching her mouth with mine. This kiss—this one is slower, deeper. Not a question. A vow. My fingers trace the warm silk of her skin. She arches into me, breath shivering from her lungs as I skim higher, memorizing the curve of her waist, the lift of her ribs, the soft catch in her breath when I brush the underside of her breast.

She’s trembling. Or maybe it’s me.

I want to go slow, draw this out, worship every inch of her. But the need pulsing through my veins is savage. Primal.

Still, I force myself to pause, hovering above her, breathing her in. “Last chance to stop me,” I murmur, my voice raw with restraint.

Her eyes blaze. “Don’t you dare.”

And just like that, I’m gone.

TEN

Aria

Moonlight spillsacross the hardwood floor like silver ink, calm and luminous. Jon’s hands don’t leave me—not right away. They linger at my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs circling in a way that makes it hard to think.

Harder to breathe.