13. Jon
THIRTEEN
Jon
Aria follows me into the bedroom, her steps small and tentative, towel clutched in front of her like armor. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes again. But it only tightens the heat coiling in my gut. That vulnerability? It wrecks me.
In the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed and look up at her.
“Come here.”
She hesitates for just a beat before stepping between my knees. Her lips part, uncertain. Anticipation shadows every line of her posture, but she holds my gaze, brave, trembling, mine.
“First rule,” I murmur, forcing calm into my voice. “If at any point you want to stop, you stop. No questions, no explanations.”
She nods. Some of the tension slips from her spine.
“Second rule—this isn’t a performance. I don’t want perfect. I want you. Curious. Unfiltered. Real.”
A flush rises on her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Heat.
“Third rule—tell me what you’re okay with. What you’re not. That’s non-negotiable. I want your voice as much as your mouth.” I lift her hand and press a kiss to her palm, letting her feel the shake in my breath.
She swallows. “Okay.”
The quiet confidence in her voice sends heat rushing to my cock. I want to kiss her, want to lay her down and worship every inch of her skin—but this? Watching her choose this, choose me for this first? It’s its own kind of reverence. And I’ll be damned if I rush it.
“Where do I start?” she asks, that blush deepening.
“Here.” I guide her gently to her knees, cushioning them on the rug between my legs. I don’t strip the towel from her—yet. She’s still holding it like a shield. And as much as I want to see her bare, open, I want her comfortable more.
She kneels between my thighs, wide eyes flicking up to mine.
“Start with your hands,” I murmur. “Get used to the weight. The texture. How I react.”
Her fingers wrap around my cock—tentative, exploratory.
Fuck.
A harsh breath escapes me. “Jesus. Yeah. Just like that.”
“Like this?” she whispers, watching my face.
Her grip is too soft, but the look in her eyes is anything but.
“A little firmer.” I cover her hand with mine, adjusting her pressure. “That’s it. Good.”
Pleasure spears through me at the touch—imperfect and perfect all at once. The fact that she’s learning me this way, choosing to offer this piece of herself, makes it feel bigger than just lust.
It feels like trust.
And I want to earn every fucking inch of it.
She experiments slowly at first, but she’s watching me—really watching me—like she’s studying the cause and effect of every breath I take. Every twitch of my fingers in her hair. Every rough exhale that escapes me when she does something just right.
And fuck, there’s a lot she’s doing right.
The longer she explores, the more her hesitation gives way to instinct.
Her curiosity sharpens into boldness. Each stroke of her hand grows surer, more deliberate, and I can feel her confidence rising in the way her grip adjusts, the way her shoulders square.
She wants this. Wants me undone beneath her.
“What about…” She glances up, lashes fanning as she leans in.
I barely hang on. That look? It could bring me to my knees.
“Start slow,” I manage, fingers threading gently into her damp hair, anchoring me. “Just the tip. Use your tongue.”
And then she does.
One tentative lick, one swirl—hot and wet and so fucking reverent—and my world narrows to the place where her mouth touches me.
“Holy shit.” My voice is ragged, head tipping back as pleasure spikes through me. “That’s… Fuuuuck .”
Words fail. Sanity splinters. My jaw clenches with the effort not to move, not to take over. But I won’t. This is hers—her exploration, her control. And it wrecks me more than anything I’ve ever felt.
She pulls back, breath cool against my wet skin. I groan, hips twitching despite myself.
Then she takes me deeper. Too deep. Perfectly deep.
My hands fist in the sheets. My vision goes white at the edges, like a fuse has been lit low in my spine and it’s burning fast toward detonation.
“Jesus, Aria—” Her name breaks from me like a prayer. Or a plea. Maybe both.
Every part of me is trembling, holding on by a frayed thread as she learns me with her mouth, her hands, her goddamn gorgeous eyes still locked on mine.
She wants to please me.
But I’m the one unraveling.
“Christ, you’re a natural.” The words scrape out of me, half prayer, half damnation, as I fist a hand in her damp hair. She moans softly around me, and the vibration punches straight through my spine, heat coiling deep in my gut.
“You sure you haven’t done this before?” My voice is shot, barely holding.
She pulls back just enough to smirk, lips slick and eyes gleaming. “Maybe I just have excellent instincts.”
Then she takes me again—deeper, slower, with intent that feels like worship—and I swear I nearly come right then.
The velvet slide of her tongue along the underside is pure sin, her suction so sharp and focused I groan out loud, head falling back as the edge rushes closer. My grip tightens, knuckles white, legs locked to keep from thrusting.
She finds a rhythm—perfect, practiced chaos—and flashes me a look that lands like a gut punch. Gone is the shy, uncertain heiress. In her place? A woman awakening to her power. Discovering how completely she can undo me.
“Use your hand too,” I rasp, reaching down to guide her fingers to the base of my cock. “Tight, but not too tight.”
She follows my lead, her touch curious, responsive. Intent.
“Twist slightly, like this…” I wrap my hand over hers, guiding her through the motion. “Yeah—fuck—that’s it.”
She catches on fast. Learns me faster. Every shift, every stroke perfectly synced to the sounds dragging out of me like confessions I never meant to give voice to.
“Squeeze harder at the base,” I pant. “Lighter at the top. Just like that—yes.”
My hand falls away, useless now, because I can’t not let her take over. Because she’s driving this now, and I’m barely keeping it together.
When my hips jerk forward, instinct overpowering control, I grit out, “Sorry.”
She pulls off me, just enough to say, “Don’t be.” And fuck me, that tone—confident, commanding—is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Your other hand,” I choke out. “Cup my balls. Gentle, firm.”
She obeys instantly, and the moment she does—mouth, hand, both hands—my body loses the plot.
A broken sound tears from my throat. Raw. Animalistic. My head drops forward, eyes locked on the impossible sight of her on her knees, wrapped around me like she was made for this.
“Aria,” I growl, voice shredded. “Fuck, baby, you keep going like that…”
I don’t finish the warning. Can’t. Because I’m too close. Too far gone.
And she knows it.
“Fucking perfect,” I groan, head thudding back against the wall as the orgasm rips through me—raw, unrelenting, electric. It detonates in waves, my entire body locking tight before shuddering loose under her mouth, her hands, her unwavering focus.
And goddamn, she stays with me through it. Every twitch. Every tremble. Never looking away.
By the time I come back to myself, she’s easing off me, sitting back on her heels with a flushed face, lips swollen and slick. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand, hesitating as if she’s not sure if she did it right.
And all I can do is stare.
Aria Holbrook. The elegant, guarded woman who walked into my life with diamond armor and fire in her eyes—on her knees, mouth-wrecked, looking up at me with tentative pride and the barest hint of vulnerability.
The image brands itself behind my eyes. Permanent. Fucking sacred.
“Was that okay?” she asks softly, as if the answer isn’t already written all over my fucked-out expression, in every shuddering breath still dragging through my lungs.
I haul her up into my arms before she can second-guess herself again, crushing my mouth to hers in a kiss that’s all teeth and gratitude, messy and consuming. I don’t give a damn where her mouth just was. It’s mine, and I want it again and again.
When I finally pull back, I’m grinning like a lunatic. Still dazed. Still shaking.
“Holy shit. That was easily the best fucking head I’ve ever had.” My voice comes out hoarse, reverent. “And you said you’ve never done that before? Christ.”
She laughs, and it’s that unguarded, startled kind of joy that punches straight through my chest. Pure. Beautiful.
“You, my darling,” I murmur, brushing damp hair back from her face, “are a fucking natural.” I keep my arm around her, holding her against my chest like I can’t stand the idea of space between us. “We’re definitely going to do that again. Often.”
Her eyes spark at the praise, heat, and satisfaction glowing where hesitation used to live. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“Damn right you did.” I kiss her again—gentler this time. A promise, not a demand.
We linger in the afterglow, trading soft kisses, idle touches, both of us reluctant to move from the cocoon of warmth between us. But eventually, her stomach growls, loud enough to make her laugh again.
“Okay,” I chuckle, finally dragging myself upright, still a little unsteady. “Time to feed the beast.” I head for the kitchen, pausing with the fridge open, bare-assed and unapologetic. “Pancakes?”
She leans in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, hair mussed and face flushed, looking every bit like temptation incarnate.
“Only if you make them shirtless.”
I arch a brow. “That a kink I should know about?”
“Only if you flip them with those sexy forearms.” Her smile is smug, playful, and God help me, I want to take her right there against the counter.
“Hope you’re hungry, baby. Because after breakfast, I’m returning the favor.”
“Is there anything you’re not good at?” She settles onto the barstool, towel still clutched like she’s forgotten to let go.
I snort, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “Plenty. Dancing, for one. Two left feet. Charlie tried to teach me once, an undercover op where we had to blend in. Nearly broke her toes.”
Her smile falters. Just for a second. Not jealousy. Something quieter. Uncertainty, maybe. The way her fingers tighten around the edge of the stool betrays the thought behind the look.
“You miss them?” she asks, voice low. “Working with them, I mean.”
“In some ways.” I stir the eggs, let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary. “We had rhythm. Trusted each other without needing to speak.”
She doesn’t press, but the weight of her gaze lingers.
“Things change. Teams evolve.” I add milk, whisking until the mixture froths. “They’ve got their life now. I’m building mine, with you, I hope.”
She nods. Some of the tension in her posture loosens.
“What’s on your agenda today?”
“Training drill at HQ.” I pour batter onto the griddle, the sizzle cutting through the quiet. “Jenny’s been running us hard since Charlie and Brett stepped down. Making sure we still operate like a single mind.”
“What kind of training?”
I flip the first pancake. Golden, perfect.
“Everything. Endurance, weapons, and tactical response. But the real test is in the cohesion—how fast we adapt. Read each other. Move like one unit.”
“Sounds intense.”
“It is.” I slide a stack onto a plate and nudge it toward her. “Anyone can learn to shoot. But knowing when not to—when to wait, to cover, to trust your team—that’s where it matters.”
She drizzles syrup, biting in with a moan that nearly derails all my good intentions.
“These are obscene,” she mumbles through a mouthful. “I might love you for these.”
“My mom’s recipe.” I smirk. “Sunday mornings smelled like butter and vanilla and a million arguments over who got the last one.”
We eat in a silence that doesn’t feel empty. It feels earned. Warm. Lived-in. Her leg brushes mine under the counter, and neither of us pull away.
When I finally glance at the clock, I curse under my breath. “Shit. If I’m late, Jenny’ll skin me alive. Last guy to show up ten minutes late, ran laps until he puked. Then mopped the whole gym.”
Aria’s eyes widen. “Jenny sounds terrifying.”
“She’s brilliant, brutal, and has zero tolerance for bullshit.” I rinse our plates, setting them in the drying rack. “Once, she made Charlie do burpees for an hour straight because Charlie answered a text during a briefing.”
“Oof. Okay, yeah. Terrifying.” Aria winces in solidarity. She stands, stretching with a soft sound that draws my attention straight to the exposed line of her throat. “I should check in at the shop. Ember’s been texting.”
“What’d you tell her?” I dry my hands.
“That I was engaged in high-level business negotiations.” Her mouth curves with mischief.
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I close the distance, one hand finding her waist, the other tilting her chin. She rises onto her toes, pressing her body against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Very important negotiations,” she murmurs. “Highly satisfactory outcome for all parties involved.”
“Glad to hear it.” I kiss her—slow, deep, a promise tucked into every pass of my lips over hers.
We move around each other with a rhythm that feels older than it is—passing shirts, brushing shoulders, sharing the mirror.
I hand her one of my shirts to replace the one we destroyed last night, and she slips it on without hesitation.
It hangs loose on her frame, swallowing her in cotton and the scent of me. Something primal stirs in my gut.
At the door, I tug her close again. One last kiss. One last brush of lips against skin before the day starts pulling us apart.
“Dinner?” I ask. “My place again?”
“I’d like that.” She smooths the front of my shirt, fingers lingering at the collar like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
“Good luck at training.” She lifts on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.
“Stay out of trouble,” I warn, opening the door for her.
“Where’s the fun in that?” She glances back over her shoulder with a wink that hits like a match to dry kindling.
I watch her walk to her car, the early sunlight turning her hair to gold, and stand there until she pulls away, my heart thudding, and my pulse still echoing her name.
Only when she’s gone do I head to my truck, already calculating how fast I can get through the day and back to her.