Page 40 of Rescuing Aria

Even through the denim of my jeans, my skin burns where he touches me.

Because he touches me.

He watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every flicker of need I’m too proud to name aloud. His eyes have gone dark in the low light, pupils dilated, irises almost swallowed whole. There’s heat in them—yes—but something steadier, too. Something that makes me feel seen, not just wanted.

I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the night air.

“We can take this as slow as you want.” His voice is low and rough, scraped raw at the edges. Like, restraint costs him something.

I don’t want slow.

I want to drown in him.

I want to forget every version of myself that ever felt the need to be perfect, polite, or polished.

“I don’t want slow.” I reach for him, fingers finding the sharp line of his jaw, the faint rasp of stubble.

“Too bad.” His smile flickers—wolfish, wicked—and my stomach flips in response.

The words shouldn’t make me ache, but they do. They shouldn’t turn me inside out, but they’re a fuse in my bloodstream, lit and hissing.

Before I can argue, his mouth is on mine again—this time controlled. Purposeful. Not rushed or ravenous like before, but deliberate in a way that makes every nerve stand up and beg. His hands stay at my waist, not roaming. His thumbs keep circling those maddening, tender patterns.

It’s maddening. It’s everything.

I fumble at his belt, urgency clawing up my spine. I want him, now. Need the drag of skin on skin, the sharp gasp of connection, but he catches my wrists before I get anywhere.

Gently. Firmly.

My breath stutters. Not from fear, but from the way my body listens to him.

“No.” Just one word. Quiet. Certain.

My pulse trips. My hands go still.

He lifts them between us, pressing a kiss to one palm. Then the other. My chest squeezes.

“My way,” he murmurs. “Tonight is about you.”

The words splinter something open inside me. Not just arousal—though that pulses hot and thick in my core—but something more dangerous. Something terrifying.

Trust.

“What if I want it to be about us?” I tilt my chin up.

“It will be.” His calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair from my face with impossible gentleness. “But first, I want to learn you.”

No one has ever spoken to me like this—like I’m a landscape to be explored, a text to be studied. The men I’ve been with before treated sex like a transaction, a race to completion. Quick, efficient, focused on their pleasure. Even those who made token efforts to satisfy me approached it like a task to be checked off a list.

Jon holds himself back, every motion careful, restrained, like he’s walking a tightrope between control and surrender. His touch adjusts with each breath I take, as if my body’s reactions are commands he’s wired to obey. The air between us thickens, charged with something I don’t have words for, only instinct. He’s not just touching me. He’s studying me.

Memorizing me.

His words settle over me like velvet and steel.

My way.

It’s not a threat. He makes it a promise.