Page 41 of Rescuing Aria

Something inside me softens—and tightens. My pulse thrums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, desperate and unsteady. I should protest. Push for control. That’s what I’ve always done—take the lead, set the terms, never surrender. But right now, with Jon standing before me, gaze steady, hands reverent… I don’t want control.

I want to be unraveled.

I fight the instinct to cover myself, to hide the way my breath hitches, the way my nipples harden under his gaze, but Jon doesn’t leer. Doesn’t smirk.

He looks at me like I’m art.

“Perfect,” he murmurs—not to flatter, not to seduce. Just truth. Plain and undoing.

He bends his head, lips brushing just beneath my collarbone. Every nerve in my body wires to that single point of contact. He maps me with his mouth, kissing me along my jaw, neck, and shoulder. Each kiss is slow. Intentional.

Claiming.

I arch into him, greedy for more, but his hands settle at my hips, holding me steady. Not pushing. Just anchoring.

“You’re shaking.” His voice, low and warm against my throat.

Of course I am. How do I explain this isn’t just lust? That no one’s ever touched me like this—seen me like this. I’ve been naked before, sure, but never stripped like this.

Never laid bare in the quiet between heartbeats.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, but it’s shaky. Real.

“Tell me if that changes.” He kisses the corner of my mouth like a reward.

Jon moves with a patience I didn’t know men like him possessed. Each kiss is a tether. Each touch peeling away another layer I’ve hidden behind for years. The silk-and-champagne heiress. The polished socialite. The perfect daughter.

None of that matters here.

Here, I’m just Aria.

And I’m his.

His lips brush the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and my thoughts scatter. His mouth trails upward, finding a spot behind my ear that makes me shudder. One strong arm wraps around my waist, supporting me, while his other hand slides into my hair, angling my head to give him better access.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs against my skin. “About all the ways I want to touch you. All the sounds I want to hear you make.”

Heat pools low in my belly at his words. I’ve never been one for talking during sex—it always felt forced, performative. But Jon’s low voice sends electricity racing along my nerves.

“Show me,” I whisper.

The hunger in his eyes makes my breath catch. He’s waiting for something. Waiting for me to yield, to acknowledge he’s in charge of this dance.

A lifetime of rebellion makes me hesitate, if only for a moment. I’ve spent years fighting against control, resisting the paths laid out for me. But this is different. This isn’t my father’s suffocating control or society’s rigid expectations. This is Jon asking me to trust him, to let go.

I sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back, my hair fanning across his sheets. A wordless surrender.

His smile is worth it—approving, appreciative, with a hint of something primal that makes my pulse quicken.

He stands over me, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, creating his own eclipse. The power in his stance should be intimidating, but instead, it feels like shelter. Protection.

“You are so beautiful.” His eyes travel slowly down my body.

I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. I’m used to being looked at—I’ve been on display my entire life—but never like this. Never with such focus, such intent.

He kneels on the bed, one knee between my legs, and leans down to kiss me again. This kiss consumes me completely. His tongue explores my mouth with the same deliberate attention I imagine he’ll give to the rest of my body. One large hand cups my face, tilting it for better access, while the other slides beneath me to cradle the back of my neck.

The position is subtly controlling—I can’t move my head, can’t escape the onslaught of sensation. Not that I want to. Theway he holds me, possesses me, sends heat spiraling through my core.