Page 42 of Rescuing Aria

When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine for a moment, eyes closed, and I realize he’s fighting for control. The knowledge that I affect him this strongly is intoxicating.

“May I?” His fingers trace the edge of my bra, where lace meets skin.

“Please.” The request, so formal and courteous, makes me smile despite the tension humming between us.

Rather than removing the bra immediately, he slides the straps down my shoulders slowly, maintaining eye contact as he peels the lace away.

The cool air on my exposed skin makes me shiver, or maybe it’s the heat in his gaze as he looks at me. I resist the impulse to cover myself. Instead, I arch my back slightly, offering myself to his view.

A muscle ticks in his jaw—sharp, barely restrained. Heat pools low in my belly.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Show me.” My fingertip traces the taut line of his jaw, drawn to the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“Patience.” His hands curve around my waist, thumbs brushing just under the swell of my breasts.

That word again. Patience. I’ve never had much use for it—always sprinting toward the next thing, the next high, the next win. But with him, everything slows. Every second stretches like it matters.

He lowers his mouth to the center of my chest, lips brushing the frantic rhythm beneath my skin. Then he shifts, trailing kisses to the side—closer, closer—until the heat of his mouth closes over my nipple.

The shock of it pulls a gasp from deep inside me. My spine bows off the bed before I realize I’m moving.

“Stay still.” His palm presses flat to my stomach, a grounding weight that stills everything but the pounding of my pulse.

The command slices through me like lightning—clean and hot and electric. I should bristle at it. Should rebel. But instead, something in me stills. Anchors me. There’s power in surrender.

In choosing it.

His mouth returns with slow, agonizing intent—lips, tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth making my skin hypersensitive, my breath stutter. His hands move with purpose, skimming every inch of me, coaxing sounds I’ve never made, and never thought I would make.

Not from sex.

Not from this aching tenderness that feels like worship.

I reach for him, instinct over thought, desperate to feel the muscles that make up his torso, to ground myself in him.

But he catches my wrists, easing them above my head and holding them there with a gentle, unyielding grip.

“Not yet.” His breath ghosts across my breast, and I nearly come apart at the contrast. “Let me take care of you.”

And God help me, I will.

ELEVEN

Aria

Jon’s handtrails down my stomach, fingers skimming just beneath the hem of my panties before shifting to the button of my jeans. He flicks it open with maddening ease, then slowly drags the zipper down. The sound—slow, metallic—cracks through the quiet like a promise. My pulse stutters.

He doesn’t blink. Just watches me as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and starts to slide the denim down my legs, inch by torturous inch. I lift my hips without being asked, hungry for more of his hands, more of that delicious friction. The moment his grip loosens to tug the jeans free, my skin prickles with the absence of his touch.

He drops them over the edge of the bed without looking away. The air feels cooler against my bare legs, my panties suddenly the only barrier between his gaze and everything I ache to give him.

He just—looks. And God, the way he looks at me—like he’s savoring every inch, every curve, every breath I take. His jeans still cling to his hips, low enough to hint at the lines that disappear beneath the waistband. I’m the one stripped down, but it doesn’t feel unequal. It feels electric. Exhilarating. As ifhe’s unwrapped me and is now deciding which part of me to taste first.

He kneels at the foot of the bed, his large hands circling my ankles. His thumbs stroke once—slow, possessive—before his mouth joins in. A kiss to the arch of my foot. Another, warmer, to my ankle. Then his tongue, hot and unhurried, slides up the length of my calf.

I grip the sheets.