10. Aria
TEN
Aria
Moonlight spills across the hardwood floor like silver ink, calm and luminous. Jon’s hands don’t leave me—not right away. They linger at my waist, fingers splayed, thumbs circling in a way that makes it hard to think.
Harder to breathe.
Even through the denim of my jeans, my skin burns where he touches me.
Because he touches me.
He watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every flicker of need I’m too proud to name aloud. His eyes have gone dark in the low light, pupils dilated, irises almost swallowed whole. There’s heat in them—yes—but something steadier, too. Something that makes me feel seen, not just wanted.
I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the night air.
“We can take this as slow as you want.” His voice is low and rough, scraped raw at the edges. Like, restraint costs him something.
I don’t want slow.
I want to drown in him.
I want to forget every version of myself that ever felt the need to be perfect, polite, or polished.
“I don’t want slow.” I reach for him, fingers finding the sharp line of his jaw, the faint rasp of stubble.
“Too bad.” His smile flickers—wolfish, wicked—and my stomach flips in response.
The words shouldn’t make me ache, but they do. They shouldn’t turn me inside out, but they’re a fuse in my bloodstream, lit and hissing.
Before I can argue, his mouth is on mine again—this time controlled. Purposeful. Not rushed or ravenous like before, but deliberate in a way that makes every nerve stand up and beg. His hands stay at my waist, not roaming. His thumbs keep circling those maddening, tender patterns.
It’s maddening. It’s everything.
I fumble at his belt, urgency clawing up my spine. I want him, now. Need the drag of skin on skin, the sharp gasp of connection, but he catches my wrists before I get anywhere.
Gently. Firmly.
My breath stutters. Not from fear, but from the way my body listens to him.
“No.” Just one word. Quiet. Certain.
My pulse trips. My hands go still.
He lifts them between us, pressing a kiss to one palm. Then the other. My chest squeezes.
“My way,” he murmurs. “Tonight is about you.”
The words splinter something open inside me. Not just arousal—though that pulses hot and thick in my core—but something more dangerous. Something terrifying.
Trust.
“What if I want it to be about us?” I tilt my chin up.
“It will be.” His calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair from my face with impossible gentleness. “But first, I want to learn you.”
No one has ever spoken to me like this—like I’m a landscape to be explored, a text to be studied.
The men I’ve been with before treated sex like a transaction, a race to completion.
Quick, efficient, focused on their pleasure.
Even those who made token efforts to satisfy me approached it like a task to be checked off a list.
Jon holds himself back, every motion careful, restrained, like he’s walking a tightrope between control and surrender.
His touch adjusts with each breath I take, as if my body’s reactions are commands he’s wired to obey.
The air between us thickens, charged with something I don’t have words for, only instinct.
He’s not just touching me. He’s studying me.
Memorizing me.
His words settle over me like velvet and steel.
My way.
It’s not a threat. He makes it a promise.
Something inside me softens—and tightens.
My pulse thrums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, desperate and unsteady.
I should protest. Push for control. That’s what I’ve always done—take the lead, set the terms, never surrender.
But right now, with Jon standing before me, gaze steady, hands reverent… I don’t want control.
I want to be unraveled.
I fight the instinct to cover myself, to hide the way my breath hitches, the way my nipples harden under his gaze, but Jon doesn’t leer. Doesn’t smirk.
He looks at me like I’m art.
“Perfect,” he murmurs—not to flatter, not to seduce. Just truth. Plain and undoing.
He bends his head, lips brushing just beneath my collarbone. Every nerve in my body wires to that single point of contact. He maps me with his mouth, kissing me along my jaw, neck, and shoulder. Each kiss is slow. Intentional.
Claiming.
I arch into him, greedy for more, but his hands settle at my hips, holding me steady. Not pushing. Just anchoring.
“You’re shaking.” His voice, low and warm against my throat.
Of course I am. How do I explain this isn’t just lust? That no one’s ever touched me like this—seen me like this. I’ve been naked before, sure, but never stripped like this.
Never laid bare in the quiet between heartbeats.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, but it’s shaky. Real.
“Tell me if that changes.” He kisses the corner of my mouth like a reward.
Jon moves with a patience I didn’t know men like him possessed. Each kiss is a tether. Each touch peeling away another layer I’ve hidden behind for years. The silk-and-champagne heiress. The polished socialite. The perfect daughter.
None of that matters here.
Here, I’m just Aria.
And I’m his.
His lips brush the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and my thoughts scatter. His mouth trails upward, finding a spot behind my ear that makes me shudder. One strong arm wraps around my waist, supporting me, while his other hand slides into my hair, angling my head to give him better access.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs against my skin. “About all the ways I want to touch you. All the sounds I want to hear you make.”
Heat pools low in my belly at his words. I’ve never been one for talking during sex—it always felt forced, performative. But Jon’s low voice sends electricity racing along my nerves.
“Show me,” I whisper.
The hunger in his eyes makes my breath catch. He’s waiting for something. Waiting for me to yield, to acknowledge he’s in charge of this dance.
A lifetime of rebellion makes me hesitate, if only for a moment. I’ve spent years fighting against control, resisting the paths laid out for me. But this is different. This isn’t my father’s suffocating control or society’s rigid expectations. This is Jon asking me to trust him, to let go.
I sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back, my hair fanning across his sheets. A wordless surrender.
His smile is worth it—approving, appreciative, with a hint of something primal that makes my pulse quicken.
He stands over me, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, creating his own eclipse. The power in his stance should be intimidating, but instead, it feels like shelter. Protection.
“You are so beautiful.” His eyes travel slowly down my body.
I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide from the intensity of his gaze. I’m used to being looked at—I’ve been on display my entire life—but never like this. Never with such focus, such intent.
He kneels on the bed, one knee between my legs, and leans down to kiss me again.
This kiss consumes me completely. His tongue explores my mouth with the same deliberate attention I imagine he’ll give to the rest of my body.
One large hand cups my face, tilting it for better access, while the other slides beneath me to cradle the back of my neck.
The position is subtly controlling—I can’t move my head, can’t escape the onslaught of sensation. Not that I want to. The way he holds me, possesses me, sends heat spiraling through my core.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine for a moment, eyes closed, and I realize he’s fighting for control. The knowledge that I affect him this strongly is intoxicating.
“May I?” His fingers trace the edge of my bra, where lace meets skin.
“Please.” The request, so formal and courteous, makes me smile despite the tension humming between us.
Rather than removing the bra immediately, he slides the straps down my shoulders slowly, maintaining eye contact as he peels the lace away.
The cool air on my exposed skin makes me shiver, or maybe it’s the heat in his gaze as he looks at me. I resist the impulse to cover myself. Instead, I arch my back slightly, offering myself to his view.
A muscle ticks in his jaw—sharp, barely restrained. Heat pools low in my belly.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Show me.” My fingertip traces the taut line of his jaw, drawn to the tension coiled beneath his skin.
“Patience.” His hands curve around my waist, thumbs brushing just under the swell of my breasts.
That word again. Patience. I’ve never had much use for it—always sprinting toward the next thing, the next high, the next win. But with him, everything slows. Every second stretches like it matters.
He lowers his mouth to the center of my chest, lips brushing the frantic rhythm beneath my skin. Then he shifts, trailing kisses to the side—closer, closer—until the heat of his mouth closes over my nipple.
The shock of it pulls a gasp from deep inside me. My spine bows off the bed before I realize I’m moving.
“Stay still.” His palm presses flat to my stomach, a grounding weight that stills everything but the pounding of my pulse.
The command slices through me like lightning—clean and hot and electric. I should bristle at it. Should rebel. But instead, something in me stills. Anchors me. There’s power in surrender.
In choosing it.
His mouth returns with slow, agonizing intent—lips, tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth making my skin hypersensitive, my breath stutter. His hands move with purpose, skimming every inch of me, coaxing sounds I’ve never made, and never thought I would make.
Not from sex.
Not from this aching tenderness that feels like worship.
I reach for him, instinct over thought, desperate to feel the muscles that make up his torso, to ground myself in him.
But he catches my wrists, easing them above my head and holding them there with a gentle, unyielding grip.
“Not yet.” His breath ghosts across my breast, and I nearly come apart at the contrast. “Let me take care of you.”
And God help me, I will.