Chapter 9 Past #4
“You want to,” I say, giving him a hard stare, sure of that at least with how he keeps very purposefully not looking at my mouth.
“Yes,” Aaron is confident in his honesty, maybe because he knows it doesn’t matter.
He can want to kiss me, to fuck me right here on this sofa, but it only matters if he actually goes through with it, which he thinks he won’t.
There’s an arrogance there that I want to take a knife to, cut it open to see what might bleed out.
I can feel the warmth of him this close, a steady, human heat, like a flame inside a lantern, something you can reach out and touch, holding the glow between your hands.
Aaron grabs my wrist when I reach for him, his hold strong but not bruising.
“Stop,” he says again, but his body betrays him.
He’s angled himself toward me, open and inviting rather than closed off and guarded like he should be.
His brows pull together in a strained frown even as his thumb runs over the pulse point on my wrist, eliciting a shiver from me that throws us both off from the shock of it.
I’m not usually so reactive, but there’s something in the odd duality of Aaron’s softness and rough edges that has all of my attention.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for here,” Aaron murmurs, eyes locked raptly on mine, “I won’t be able to give it to you.”
I lean in just that little bit closer, bringing my other hand up with a pretense at palming Aaron’s hard jaw, forcing him to capture that hand as well. Both hands successfully restrained, I smile at him, slow and sharp, edging on malevolent.
Aaron watches me like a man trying to figure out how best to defuse a bomb when the timer is already at T minus five seconds.
That’s another one of his hero tendencies coming into play; he doesn’t have the good sense to know when a battle is lost, when it’s better to save himself so he has the chance to maybe fight another day.
Director Snow would get it. She seems like a big-picture bitch to me.
To emphasis the point I wish I didn’t have to make, I tilt my head slightly to the left and look up at Aaron from under my eyelashes, a purposeful provocation, and tell him straight out, “Don’t need a dad, don’t need a babysitter, don’t need a motherfucking boyfriend.”
That seems to twist an imaginary knife in Aaron’s gut, a vicious wrenching, the shock giving him some clarity. “What do you want from me, Rohan?” he asks, but he knows. Asking is just part of the game.
If there’s one thing that being my dad’s son has taught me, it’s that when you’re challenged, you accept it. You play, and you win, whatever it takes.
“A mistake worth making,” I say.
It’s not a proper answer, but Aaron seems to understand, which is the only thing that matters in the end. All of this bullshit coaxing and equally boring seduction is for his benefit, not mine. I’ve got no taste for any of it, never have.
“Is that what this would be?” he asks, the golden shade of his irises pitching darker, his pupils dilating with an explosion of want.
I’m staring right at him, unwavering, eyes locked on his like the muzzle of a gun perfectly trained on a stationary target, when I answer simply, “Only one way to find out.”
Aaron doesn’t come at me like I expected him to. I was braced for an attack of harsh, gun-hardened hands and an even rougher mouth, but that’s not what I get.
I sit, momentarily stunned, thrown off-balance like I very rarely allow myself to be as Aaron uses one hand to hold onto my wrists, keeping them safely secured down in the space that still remains between us and moves in to press an achingly soft kiss to the juncture between my neck and jaw.
I tilt my head to the side, further exposing that patch of skin to him.
Air catches in my throat, escalating to a strange little gasp.
There’s a vulnerability to the intimate noise that I’m not sure I like, but that has Aaron smiling, obviously pleased, as he drags his mouth across the expanse of skin set between my jawline and cheek until he can press another gentle—bordering on chaste—kiss to my lips.
His mouth is warm and dry although tinged with the rich taste of whiskey. I swipe my tongue out to wet his lower lip, and Aaron squeezes my wrists in warning as if to say no, not until I tell you.
Control issues. Right. I can work with that. I don’t need to have my way in this as long as I wind up getting exactly what I want.
Aaron kisses me again and again, pulling away by a scant few inches and then pressing forward to take my mouth each time, hungry for more but resolved to make whatever this is last. I let him get away with it, becoming malleable under his tender kisses and bruising grip.
I find myself enjoying the dichotomy of it, the softness and the roughness sewn together to create an exhilarating contrast.
Eventually, he encourages me to open my mouth, which I do—too eager, much too eager—and his kisses become harder and deeper, lingering long enough to leave me gasping for breath, my heart quickening with excitement and a twinge of fear.
I like the fear almost as much as I like how good his lips feel against mine.
Even with the more aggressive, and repeated, claims of my mouth, Aaron still doesn’t rush anything.
He seems content to drive me out of my mind with anticipation.
I’m not entirely sure what’s coming, and that within itself is a thrill I haven’t experienced in a while.
For all the trouble of my past, it was hardly ever unpredictable.
Before my mum’s death, my life was a study in routine and structure; the heavy hand and ironclad control of Ian Stone left little space for spontaneity. Unless he, of course, initiated it.
Perhaps Aaron senses the unpleasant direction of my thoughts because he changes things up by letting go of my wrists only to shift that strong grip to my thighs instead.
He lifts me up and settles me on his lap, knees spread and digging into the sofa on either side of him with an ease that isn’t unexpected but still manages to ignite a bonfire in the pit of my stomach.
Smoke rises to envelope my thudding heart and choke out my lungs when his large hands grab my hips, and he grinds me down on his hard cock.
My own erection jerks at the contact, pulsing with the need to answer the call and grind down against him again, then over and over until we both come in our underwear like fucking teenagers in the backseat of a car.
Aaron grunts out his pleasure at the feel of our cocks rubbing together, even with far too much fabric in the way, the friction, at least, a welcome benefit.
He gives me another voracious kiss, this time pushing his tongue into my mouth and swiping along the back of my teeth to steal a taste.
It’s a wild, wet thing, hot and lurid, and I’m immediately craving a repeat the second he pulls away.
“Look at me, Rohan,” Aaron orders, and it is an order, forcing me to drag myself further from him so I can do as I’m told.
I brace my hands on his broad shoulders and look down at him, trying not to scowl, to show my impatience to him so easily.
Something tells me that any sign of subordination will earn me nothing but further torment, punishment in whatever form Aaron deems fit.
I’d be fucked off by it if I wasn’t so busy being turned on by it instead.
Aaron gazes back at me with razor-sharp focus, all his attention undeniably fixated on me, on my flushed neck and face, on the rapid rise and fall of my chest. His eyes are hot and dark, filled with a predatory gleam that speaks to his enjoyment, like a hunter, a wolf, stalking prey through the shadows of a wood he was born and bred in.
“If we do this,” he warns, serious despite his obvious desire to tear into me, to wreck me with that perfectly controlled brand of passion, “there’s no going back. Do you get what that means? I need you to understand the consequences, Rohan.”
He seems happy to wait, to be patient, to give me time to really think about it, but it’s all bullshit anyway.
I scoff at him, spite, acidic and ruinous, leaking into my voice.
“Tell me to get off your lap and get to bed, and I fucking will. Don’t make this my fault, you prick.
” My eyes narrow, wrinkling my nose at him in mild distaste, mocking.
“Is this how you treat your son? Give him options that you know he won’t take and then blame him for it?
’Cause, gotta say, Senior Agent North, that’s some real cunty behaviour right there. ”
Aaron’s fingers bite into my sides, anger sparking to life all over his face, in the tick of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils. I don’t care, though. He deserves to be called out for that crap. He gives me this pissed-off look, and I just glare back at him, waiting for his next move.
“That is one hell of a mouth you’ve got there, kid.”
And we’re back to him calling me “kid.” Interesting.
“I know, it’s the only good thing my dad ever gave me. Probably why he kept breaking it.”
Aaron, to his credit, does not wince at that, which pushes him up in my estimation, recovering some of the ground he lost before.
Rather than spewing more manipulation at me, he trails one hand up my back until he reaches my nape.
His fingers grip me hard there, like he’s picking up a naughty kitten by the scruff of their neck.
He tugs me down into another rough kiss, this one holding an edge of promise that I’m annoyingly relieved by.
There’s an easy confidence in Aaron that skirts close enough to arrogance for me to find it attractive rather than off-putting.