Page 47 of Rescuing Aria
I kiss her again—because I need to. Because I can’t look at her and not want to claim her all over again. This kiss is different. Hungrier. Deeper. Her leg hooks over my hip, grinding her slick heat against my cock, and I don’t need a single word to know she wants more.
“Hands above your head.” My voice is low. Measured. I watch her closely, reading every flicker of emotion on her face.
No hesitation. No nerves. Just a slow, sensual stretch as she obeys, wrists crossing above her like she was made to be restrained. Like she trusts me with the power she never gives away.
Fuck.
“Good girl.” The praise slips out on instinct, and the flush that blooms across her cheeks is better than anything I’ve ever seen.
I wrap one hand around both wrists, pressing them into the pillow. Not rough, but firm. A reminder. A promise. My other hand trails from the base of her throat, over the rise of her breasts, down to her navel, watching every twitch, every tremble as sensation unfurls across her skin.
“Keep these here,” I murmur, releasing her wrists with a final press. “Don’t move them unless I say so.”
She draws in a sharp breath. Eyes wide. Chest rising in anticipation.
And she nods. Slow. Certain.
Trusting me to lead.
Trusting me to own her pleasure.
I take my time.
Not to tease her, but to learn her. Every gasp. Every catch of breath. Every place my mouth grazes that makes her body arch off the mattress like she’s offering herself up to me.
Her nipple tightens against my tongue, and she shudders. Hands still pinned obediently above her head, knuckles white from the effort not to move.
Her hips roll, searching for friction, heat, me.
“Jon…” A low sound. Need wrapped in surrender.
“Patience.” I move lower, mouth trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. “We’ve got all morning.”
She spreads her thighs without hesitation. No shame. No modesty. Just an open invitation. One I’d die before refusing.
My mouth finds her.
She cries out, body jerking. Slick heat and her taste hit me like a punch to the chest, like I’ve been starving for this without realizing it.
I drag my tongue through her folds, slow at first, savoring. Then I focus—learn the rhythm that makes her tremble, the pressure that makes her curse, the soft suck against her clit that makes her breath stutter.
She’s falling apart. Voice going high, hips chasing every movement. She’s right there.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling forward until I feel the exact spot that?—
“Fuck!” She bucks violently, hands flying down, clutching at my shoulders like she needs an anchor.
I stop. Immediately.
Lift my head. Lock eyes.
“What did I say about your hands?”
Her eyes are huge. Lips parted, cheeks flushed. Still drunk on the edge of pleasure but desperate to obey.
“I’m sorry…” Her voice is barely a whisper. She lifts her arms, returning them to the pillow. Exposed again. Vulnerable. Trusting.
“Better.”
