Page 38 of Rescuing Aria
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…” She sets her glass down, eyes finding mine. “Sometimes, I was more afraid of disappointing my father than I was of actual danger. How messed up is that?”
“Not messed up. Just human.” I close the dishwasher and straighten, wiping my hands on a towel.
“What about you?” Her voice softens. “What scares Jon when he’s not on a mission?”
The question catches me off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because the answer rises so immediately I can taste it. I move closer, drawn by something I can’t name.
“This,” I say simply, the word hanging between us.
“Define ‘this.’” She doesn’t back away.
“This thing between us. How it feels different.” My eyes hold hers, the kitchen suddenly too warm, too small.
“Different how?” Her breath catches slightly.
I search for words that won’t sound ridiculous coming from a man who’s faced down armed hostiles without blinking. “More—consequential.”
“That’s a cautious word.” Her lips curve in a small smile.
“I’m being careful.” I toss the towel onto the counter. “Maybe too careful.”
“Maybe.” She steps closer, eliminating the last bit of distance between us. Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, light but deliberate. “I’ve never seen you hesitate before. Not in anything.”
“The stakes were different before.” The weight of her palm against my heartbeat anchors me.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, and something else—vulnerability mixed with desire. I lean down, resting my forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her—floral and warm with undertones of wine.
“Your father would definitely not approve of this,” I murmur.
“That just makes it better.” A small laugh escapes her.
“Rebellious streak.” I smile against her skin.
“You have no idea.” She tilts her face up, lips a breath away from mine.
Her boldness ignites something raw in me. No more holding back, no more careful distance. We’ve already laid our cards on the table at the beach—her fears about not being enough, my assurances that what we have is whole and complete. Now there’s nothing left but action.
I slide my hand into her hair, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains.
With deliberate slowness, I cup the back of her neck, my other hand settling at her waist, drawing her in until our bodies press together.
Her breath quickens as she rises on tiptoes. My restraint snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
The first touch of her lips is tentative, questioning. The second is not. I kiss her deeply, thoroughly, pouring months of restraint and longing into the contact. Her mouth opens under mine, a small sound of pleasure escaping her as my tongue sweeps inside.
I back her up against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on the edge. Her legs part, allowing me to step between them, bringing us closer still. The new position puts us eye to eye, her thighs warm against my hips. I cup her face, my thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone as I break the kiss to study her flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes dark with desire.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” I murmur, my voice rough even to my own ears.
Her answer is to draw me back in, her kiss hungrier now, more demanding. Her hands slide under my shirt, exploring the planes of my back, nails dragging lightly along my spine. The sensation sends heat flooding through me.
I trail my lips along the line of her jaw, tasting the softness of her skin. Her head falls back, offering her throat to me. I accept the invitation, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips. She tastes like salt and wine, and something uniquely her own.
Her fingers thread through my hair, guiding me, urging me on. When I find a particularly sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder, she gasps, her body arching against mine.
“More,” she whispers, the single word both command and plea.
