“Aria…” It’s a warning and a plea.
I ignore both.
I press my lips to his—soft at first, exploratory. His answer is immediate. Fire. Control slipping like silk through fingers. He grips my waist, dragging me into him. Our mouths clash, tongues tasting urgency, the metallic tang of restraint snapping.
His hands slide under my shirt. Slow. Reverent.
He palms my breasts through my bra, thumbs flicking over nipples already straining against the lace. I gasp into his mouth as his fingers tug the straps down my shoulders.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I want this,” I reply, voice ragged. “I want you.”
He growls, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his hips, heat already pooling between my thighs. My pussy aches—wet and pulsing against the hardness pressing through his pants.
He carries me to the bed, laying me down like I’m made of secrets.
The shirt is gone in seconds. My bra next. His eyes devour me, red and molten.
“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent. “You’re… perfect.”
My nipples harden under the weight of his gaze. He bends, mouth capturing one, sucking hard, tongue circling until I moan. Then he switches, biting lightly.
My hips buck, grinding against him.
“More,” I beg.
His fingers slip between us, find the wet heat of my slit. One thick digit slides along the seam, pausing at my clit. He teases, slow, lazy circles that make my vision blur.
“You’re soaked,” he growls. “So fucking ready for me.”
“I have been,” I gasp. “Since that godsdamn elevator.”
He chuckles darkly, then plunges two fingers inside me.
My back arches. I cry out.
He pumps slow, curling just right. I clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping over bone ridges. His thumb finds my clit again, rubbing while he fucks me with fingers thick enough to stretch me deliciously.
“Come for me, Aria,” he commands.
And I do.
My body seizes, walls clenching around his fingers. My scream is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses me hard, devouring the sound.
But he’s not done.
He pulls away only to shed his pants, revealing the thick, curved length of his cock. Black like obsidian, ridged near the base, veins pulsing with desire. He strokes it once, slowly.
“Tell me you want it,” he rasps.
“I want it,” I whisper. “I want all of you.”
He lines up, the head pressing against my slick entrance. Then he pushes.
I gasp—stretching, filling, breaking in the best way.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, inching deeper. “Gods, Aria…”
