Page 67 of Rescuing Aria
“What kind of chatter?” Ember asks, her voice suddenly tight.
The bell chimes once more.
This time it’s Jon.
His tall frame fills the doorway like he owns it—like he owns me. His broad shoulders, stormy eyes, and lethal calm are barely reined in. His gaze locks with mine the second he steps inside, and the noise of the shop fades to static.
Everything else disappears. The shop. The people. The air.
It’s just him. And me.
Something inside me loosens, unclenches, breathes. Then tightens all over again at the look he gives me—dark, searching, and a little too intense.
He crosses the room in long, purposeful strides, no wasted movement. That quiet intensity that turns my blood to wildfire. His hand comes to rest at the small of my back—hot, firm, possessive.
But it’s not just the way he touches me. It’s the weight of memory behind it. That mouth on my thighs, my breasts, my name rasped against my skin as he shattered me, slow and unrelenting. The way he held me open with nothing but his voice, whispering filth and worship in equal measure.
The way he took his time.
The way he didn’t.
I suck in a sharp breath, my body already reacting—spine straightening, thighs clenching, heat unfurling low in my belly.
“Hey.” His voice is pitched for me alone, low and rough with something he doesn’t bother to name. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move his hand. If anything, his fingers curl a little tighter against my back, like he doesn’t want to let go.
“Good.” His mouth finds mine, slow and molten—nothing frantic, nothing rushed. Just a kiss that owns. That seals thepromise in his words with the heat of his mouth and the sure grip of his hand.
When he pulls away, I’m flushed, breathless, my whole body humming.
“Will you be okay here?” I turn to Ember, struggling to sound normal, to remember the world beyond Jon’s kiss.
“We’ll be fine.” She gestures to Storm and Razor. “Apparently, we have our own security detail now.”
“Just until closing,” Razor clarifies.
Ember rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She’s been through enough to recognize when protection is necessary, even if she chafes at the constraint.
“Call me if anything happens,” I tell her, gathering my purse. “Anything at all.”
“You too.” She meets my eyes directly. “And, Aria? Don’t let your father bulldoze you about the business. We’ll figure it out our way, whatever happens.”
“Our way. Not his.” I nod, drawing strength from her confidence.
Jon’s hand settles at the small of my back as we exit the shop, the warm weight both reassuring and thrilling.
Whatever my father has planned, I’m not the same woman who was kidnapped months ago. I’ve changed—found my voice, my strength, my place.
And I’ve made my choice. Now I have to stand by it.
EIGHTEEN
Jon
Mastro’s gleamslike a polished gem in the evening light, all sleek lines and understated luxury. The kind of restaurant where the menu has no prices because if you need to ask, you can’t afford it. The kind of place where Marcus Holbrook is undoubtedly a regular.
