Page 46 of Rescuing Aria
“What does that mean?” My pulse quickens at his words.
“The very way you have to ask tells me everything I need to know.” He smiles, a knowing look crossing his face. His fingers trail down my side, raising goosebumps. “You’re a blank canvas, and I can’t wait to educate you in all things about sex…” His voice drops lower, “…especially the things I want you to do to me.”
“I’d like that.” Heat floods my face, but curiosity and desire follow close behind.
“Good.” He brushes a strand of hair from my face. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”
We stay like that, talking in the darkness, learning each other in new ways. He tells me about his first deployment, about the terror and the camaraderie. I tell him about the loneliness of boarding school, about finding ways to rebel within the strict confines of privilege.
As the night deepens, we come together again—slower this time, more tender but no less intense. Afterward, wrapped in his arms, I drift toward sleep with the realization that for the first time in my life, I’m not playing a role. Not the perfect daughter, not the polished socialite, not even the rebellious heiress.
With Jon, I’m just me. And somehow, that’s enough.
TWELVE
Aria
Aria breatheslike she trusts me. Slow, steady. One hand curled against my chest, her bare leg tangled with mine, her skin still carrying the heat of the night we didn’t stop touching.
I haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Not because I’m asleep. Because I don’t want to break this moment.
Don’t want to wake her.
Don’t want to lose the feel of her against me.
She’s different like this. Unmasked. Vulnerable in a way she never lets the world see. The sharp edges smoothed, the steel in her spine softened. She’s not the cool, calculating heiress. She’s mine. And fuck if that doesn’t hit somewhere I didn’t know was empty.
A soft strand of hair clings to her cheek, and I brush it back. She murmurs something against my chest, too soft to catch, and shifts closer. Her body fits against mine like it was always meant to be here.
Last night wasn’t just sex. It was something deeper. The way she let go, gave in—gave herself—it wrecked me. The way she listened, obeyed, surrendered. I didn’t expect that. But now that I’ve seen it… Now that I’ve felt it…
My hand traces the curve of her waist, over the slope of her hip, and up the length of her back. She shivers. Still mostly asleep, but her body reacts like it remembers me.
Like it wants more.
“Mmm.” She makes that soft, satisfied sound, barely lifting her head. “What time is it?”
“Early.” I press a kiss to the place where her neck meets her shoulder, tasting sleep and skin and something unmistakably hers. “Go back to sleep.”
She stretches with that feline elegance that drives me crazy. And then her ass nestles against my cock, already half hard from just existing next to her. She pauses. Smiles. That small, knowing sound escapes her throat—a low hum of discovery—and the tension in my body coils tight.
“Doesn’t feel that early to me.” Her voice—rough with sleep, rich with promise—slides through me like warm whiskey.
“Smartass.” I nip her shoulder, just enough pressure to make her gasp, to remind her who she gave herself to last night.
She rolls toward me, lashes fluttering open, sleepy mischief dancing in those impossibly blue eyes. “Good morning to you too.”
I don’t bother answering. Just catch her mouth with mine, not caring about morning breath or anything else that isn’t the taste of her, the feel of her melting into me like she’s already forgotten where she ends and I begin. Her hand finds its way up my chest, fingers curling at my neck like she needs the contact as much as I do.
When we pull apart, she’s smiling. That soft, sleepy kind of smile that punches straight through every defense I’ve built.
“I could get used to waking up like this.” Her lashes flutter, voice husky.
Something shifts. Sharp and unexpected. Dangerous. Like my chest can’t decide if it’s aching or expanding.
“Like, what?” I let my fingers drift down her side, slow enough to draw goosebumps, controlled enough to keep from losing myself in how perfect she feels under my touch. “Tired? Sore?”
“Happy.” One word. Soft. Uncomplicated. But it lands with the weight of a goddamn bomb.
