Page 44 of Rescuing Aria

“Please.” I reach for him. No shame left.

He stands. Unbuttons. Unzips. The quiet rasp of denim fills the room.

No boxers. No briefs.

My breath catches.

He’s bare beneath the jeans, and his cock springs free—thick, hard, flushed dark with need. My mouth goes dry. Every inch of him is all lean muscle and raw power, but it’s the way he stands there, unashamed and utterly in control, that makes my thighs press together instinctively.

He doesn’t touch himself. Doesn’t smirk or show off. He just watches me watching him, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter.

Then he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and I rise on trembling elbows.

He’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous—like looking straight into a fire and wanting it anyway. Scars slice across his body—pale ridges, brutal memories carved into skin. They make him real.

Raw.

Human.

My palms meet the heat of his chest—solid muscle, the rough texture of hair, the raised line of a scar that curves under his ribs.

“IED in Kandahar,” he murmurs.

My fingertips glide over another, thin, silvery line, like a whisper across his shoulder.

“Training knife. Went too deep.”

Every scar tells a story. Not just of pain, but of survival. Of the man he is beneath all that strength and stillness. So different from the polished, pampered men I grew up around. Men who earned their muscles at boutique gyms, not warzones.

Jon lowers himself over me, weight supported on his forearms, his body pressing into mine—hot skin against skin, chest hair rasping over my breasts, thighs bracketed by his. His cock rests heavy and hard between us, a promise and a threat.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against my mouth. “First chance to surrender.”

That word—surrender—it crackles through me like lightning, short-circuiting all thought. Not a command. An invitation. And yet it hits deeper than any demand ever could.

Not just surrendering my body. Surrendering control. Letting someone else lead… Letting him lead.

The instinct to push back flares like muscle memory—I’ve spent years guarding my independence like armor. But his voice, the steady weight of him above me, the reverent way he looks atme like I’m something sacred, not something to conquer—God, it frees me.

A shiver rips through me, part fear, part need. My fingers dig into his shoulders.

“I’m exactly where I want to be.” My voice sounds foreign, wrecked, raw, and honest.

Something in his eyes changes. The restraint shatters. Control slips as his hunger takes over. He crashes his mouth to mine, all teeth and heat, the kiss bruising and wild and perfect. And when he finally pushes inside me—slow, deep, overwhelming—I shatter.

Eyes shut. Breath gone. Body his.

And for the first time in my life, I surrender and want everything that comes with it.

“Look at me.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. The connection is almost too much, too intimate, too real. I’ve never looked into someone’s eyes during sex before. It always seemed too vulnerable, too honest.

“Stay with me.” He holds still within me. “I want to see you.”

And I do. I stay present, entirely in the moment as we move together. No performance, no carefully constructed façade. Just me and him, finding our rhythm, learning each other’s bodies.

He sets a pace that’s deliberately slow at first, each movement deep and purposeful. One hand slides beneath me, changing the angle, making each thrust hit exactly right. The other tangles in my hair, holding me in place as he kisses me deeply.