Page 52 of Rescuing Aria

She catches on fast. Learns me faster. Every shift, every stroke perfectly synced to the sounds dragging out of me like confessions I never meant to give voice to.

“Squeeze harder at the base,” I pant. “Lighter at the top. Just like that—yes.”

My hand falls away, useless now, because I can’t not let her take over. Because she’s driving this now, and I’m barely keeping it together.

When my hips jerk forward, instinct overpowering control, I grit out, “Sorry.”

She pulls off me, just enough to say, “Don’t be.” And fuck me, that tone—confident, commanding—is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

“Your other hand,” I choke out. “Cup my balls. Gentle, firm.”

She obeys instantly, and the moment she does—mouth, hand, both hands—my body loses the plot.

A broken sound tears from my throat. Raw. Animalistic. My head drops forward, eyes locked on the impossible sight of her on her knees, wrapped around me like she was made for this.

“Aria,” I growl, voice shredded. “Fuck, baby, you keep going like that…”

I don’t finish the warning. Can’t. Because I’m too close. Too far gone.

And she knows it.

“Fucking perfect,” I groan, head thudding back against the wall as the orgasm rips through me—raw, unrelenting, electric. It detonates in waves, my entire body locking tight before shuddering loose under her mouth, her hands, her unwavering focus.

And goddamn, she stays with me through it. Every twitch. Every tremble. Never looking away.

By the time I come back to myself, she’s easing off me, sitting back on her heels with a flushed face, lips swollen and slick. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, hesitating as if she’s not sure if she did it right.

And all I can do is stare.

Aria Holbrook. The elegant, guarded woman who walked into my life with diamond armor and fire in her eyes—on herknees, mouth-wrecked, looking up at me with tentative pride and the barest hint of vulnerability.

The image brands itself behind my eyes. Permanent. Fucking sacred.

“Was that okay?” she asks softly, as if the answer isn’t already written all over my fucked-out expression, in every shuddering breath still dragging through my lungs.

I haul her up into my arms before she can second-guess herself again, crushing my mouth to hers in a kiss that’s all teeth and gratitude, messy and consuming. I don’t give a damn where her mouth just was. It’s mine, and I want it again and again.

When I finally pull back, I’m grinning like a lunatic. Still dazed. Still shaking.

“Holy shit. That was easily the best fucking head I’ve ever had.” My voice comes out hoarse, reverent. “And you said you’ve never done that before? Christ.”

She laughs, and it’s that unguarded, startled kind of joy that punches straight through my chest. Pure. Beautiful.

“You, my darling,” I murmur, brushing damp hair back from her face, “are a fucking natural.” I keep my arm around her, holding her against my chest like I can’t stand the idea of space between us. “We’re definitely going to do that again. Often.”

Her eyes spark at the praise, heat, and satisfaction glowing where hesitation used to live. “I had an excellent teacher.”

“Damn right you did.” I kiss her again—gentler this time. A promise, not a demand.

We linger in the afterglow, trading soft kisses, idle touches, both of us reluctant to move from the cocoon of warmth between us. But eventually, her stomach growls, loud enough to make her laugh again.

“Okay,” I chuckle, finally dragging myself upright, still a little unsteady. “Time to feed the beast.” I head for the kitchen,pausing with the fridge open, bare-assed and unapologetic. “Pancakes?”

She leans in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, hair mussed and face flushed, looking every bit like temptation incarnate.

“Only if you make them shirtless.”

I arch a brow. “That a kink I should know about?”