Page 78 of Secret Heir

Tears glisten in her eyes, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she pulls me up for a kiss that tastes like salt and promises neither of us can quite make yet.

But I’m not done. I break the kiss and continue my path downward, kissing the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her inner thigh. She’s already wet for me. She glistens in the lamp light and I can smell it, the evidence of her arousal making my cock throb with need.

But I want to savor this. I want to make her fall apart beneath my mouth first and show her that this is about more than just my pleasure.

“Open for me,” I murmur, pressing kisses along her inner thigh. “Let me taste you.”

She does, her legs falling open, and the trust in that gesture—the vulnerability—makes my chest tight.

When I finally put my mouth on her, she cries out, her back arching off the bed. I start with slow, gentle licks that make her whimper. Her hands fist in the sheets and her hips rise, seeking more pressure.

“Patience,” I murmur against her, the vibration making her cry out. “Let me learn you like this. You’re more sensitive now and I want to know exactly what you need.”

I take my time, tracing every fold with my tongue and finding the rhythm that makes her moan, the pressure that makes her thighs tremble. She tastes sweet with something uniquely her. I’m addicted to the taste of her, the sounds she’s making, and to the way she’s coming apart under my mouth.

Her hands move from the sheets to my hair, and she grips tightly, like she needs the anchor. I hum in approval and increase the pressure, circling her clit with focused attention.

“Oh god.” Her voice breaks. “Maksim, I can’t—I’m going to⁠—”

“Then let go,” I murmur against her, sliding two fingers inside while my mouth continues its work. “Let me watch you come apart. Let me have this.”

She explodes on my tongue, her whole body going taut as the orgasm crashes through her. I feel her clench around my fingers, and I work her through it, lapping at her until she becomes too sensitive and she’s pulling at my hair.

“Too much,” she gasps, her thighs trembling. “Maksim—holy shit, you have to stop. It’s too much.”

I press one last kiss to her then kiss my way back up her body, savoring the aftershocks that make her shiver beneath me. When I reach her mouth, she kisses me desperately, tasting herself on my lips. She moans against my lips, her hands tangling in my hair.

Then she surprises me by pushing at my shoulders. “Your turn.”

My sex addled brain can’t comprehend what she’s saying, but when it does my eyes widen. “Aria, you don’t have to—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“I want to.” She sits up, and she looks determined, her cheeks flushed and body rosy. “Let me. Please. Let me show you—” She stops, seeming unable to finish the sentence.

But I understand what she’s trying to say. Let me show you that this means something to me too. You’re not the only one who feels this.

How can I deny her anything when she looks at me like that?

I lie back against the pillows, my heart pounding, and watch as she moves over me. Her dark hair falls forward, creating a curtain around us. Her hands start at my chest, tracing the scars she knows so well—the smaller ones across my ribs from knife fights, the bullet graze on my left side.

“I used to love this,” she whispers, her fingers gentle on old wounds. “Tracing these scars and wondering where each one came from. Making up stories in my head about how you got them.”

“You can ask,” I manage, my voice rough as her hands explore. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. No more secrets. Not from me.”

“Later.” She leans down and presses a kiss to the scar on my shoulder. “Right now I just want to touch you.”

Her mouth follows the path her hands made, pressing kisses to each scar, her hair falling like silk across my skin. When she reaches my stomach, my abs contract involuntarily at the sensation. She smiles against my skin, and I feel it more than see it.

“Ticklish?” she asks in amusement.

“Sensitive,” I correct, my hands finding her hair, threading through the dark strands. “When it’s you touching me, everything is sensitive.”

She hums in response and continues her exploration, her hands sliding down to my hips and my thighs. She’s deliberately avoiding where I’m hard and aching for her.

“Aria.” Her name is half warning, half plea.

“Patience,” she echoes my earlier words, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You made me wait. Now it’s your turn.”

Her hand finally wraps around me, and I groan, my hips jerking at the contact. God, it’s been so long since she touched me like this and I’m afraid I’m going to come right here.