Page 45 of Rescuing Aria
The dual sensation—the physical pleasure building inside me and the emotional connection in his unwavering gaze—is almost too much to bear. I dig my nails into his back, urging him on.
He responds to my silent plea, increasing his pace, his movements becoming more forceful. The control he’s maintained all night begins to fray at the edges, and there’s something thrilling about that—about knowing I can push him to the brink of his restraint.
“Jon,” I gasp, feeling myself getting close. “I need?—”
“I know what you need.” He shifts his weight to slide a hand between us. His fingers find exactly the right spot, applying perfect pressure in time with his thrusts.
The combination pushes me over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, my body arching against his, his name a cry on my lips. Through it all, he watches me, his eyes dark with satisfaction and need.
Only when the last tremor subsides does he let himself go, his rhythm faltering as he follows me into release. The vulnerability on his face in that moment—the usually controlled Jon completely undone—is perhaps the most intimate thing I’ve ever witnessed.
He collapses beside me, gathering me close in the same movement so I’m draped across his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my ear, gradually slowing as our breathing steadies.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back. I feel oddly peaceful. Complete. As if I’ve discovered a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing.
“You okay?” His voice rumbles through his chest into mine.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. The intensity of what just happened—not just physically, but emotionally—has left me raw in ways I hadn’t expected.
“Talk to me.” He tilts my face up to his.
“I’m good. Better than good. Just—processing.”
“Processing, what?” His eyes search mine.
I take a deep breath, seeking words for something I’ve never had to articulate before. “That was—different.”
“Different good or different bad?” A small frown creases his brow.
“Good. Definitely good.” I trace the line of his collarbone, gathering courage. “I’ve never… It’s never been like that before.”
“Like, what?” Understanding dawns in his eyes.
“So—present. So connected.” I hide my face against his chest, embarrassed by my own vulnerability. “The men I’ve been with before—they were never really there with me. It was always just about the act itself.”
“Their loss.” His arm tightens around me, protective.
The simple statement warms something in my chest. I press a kiss to his skin, tasting salt and something uniquely him.
“I liked how you took control,” I admit, surprising myself with the confession. “How you knew exactly what to do, what I needed.”
“I pay attention.” His hand strokes my hair, gentle but possessive.
“You certainly do.” I prop myself up on his chest, looking into his face. “How did you know I would respond to that?”
“I didn’t. Not for sure.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “But I notice how you react when I take the lead in other situations. How you relax when you don’t have to make every decision.”
His observation strikes me silent. He’s right. All my life, I’ve had to be the perfect daughter, the flawless heiress, constantly calculating and performing. The weight of expectations—my father’s, society’s, my own—has been exhausting. With Jon, I can simply be. Can let someone else take the reins for a while.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” He traces my jawline with his thumb.
“For seeing me. The real me, not just what I show the world.” I run my fingers along the strong line of his jaw. “For making me feel like a person, not a conquest or a trophy.”
Pain flashes across his features, quickly replaced by tenderness. He rolls us so I’m beneath him again, his weight a comforting pressure. He kisses me—gentle, unhurried, a contrast to the intensity of before.
“You’re not a conquest. You’re someone I want to know. All of you. Not just this part.” His eyes hold mine, serious now. “I can’t wait to show you all the things I enjoy, all the ways we can explore this. Together.”
