Chapter 275
Aria’s POV
The words sent a flush of humiliation and arousal through me. I hesitated, then slid my hand inside his boxers. My fingers wrapped around heated flesh, hard and thick. I felt him pulse in my grip, heard the sharp breath he took.
I pulled him free of the confining fabric. His cock stood erect, the head flushed dark, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. I'd seen him naked before, of course, but never like this—never with him fully clothed while I knelt before him, exposed and vulnerable.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Start with your hand." His voice had gone rough, strained. "Wrap your fingers around me. Tighter than that."
I adjusted my grip, and he groaned. "That's it. Now move. Up and down, slowly at first."
I obeyed, sliding my hand along his length. The skin was velvety soft over steel-hard flesh. He was hot in my palm, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Another bead of moisture appeared at the tip, and without thinking, I brushed my thumb over it, spreading the slickness.
"Fuck." The word was torn from him. His hips jerked slightly, pushing into my hand. "Do that again."
I repeated the motion, then found a rhythm—up and down, twisting slightly at the top like I thought he might enjoy. His breathing grew heavier, his eyes half-closing as he watched me work.
"Use both hands," he instructed. "One at the base, one stroking."
I did as he said, wrapping one hand around the thick base while the other continued its motion. He was so hard, so responsive to my touch. I could feel every pulse, every throb. It gave me a strange sense of power—seeing him like this, knowing I was causing these reactions.
"Faster," he breathed. "And tighter."
I increased my pace, my hands sliding along his shaft with growing confidence. His head fell back against the headboard, his eyes closing, jaw clenching. The muscles in his abdomen contracted with each stroke of my hands. He was beautiful like this—usually so controlled, now coming undone under my touch.
"Aria." My name was a groan. His hand shot out, wrapping around both of mine, guiding me, showing me the exact pressure and speed he needed. "Just like that. Don't stop."
I kept going, my arms starting to ache but I didn't care. He was close—I could tell by the way his breathing had gone ragged, by the tension in every line of his body. His cock throbbed in my hands, growing even harder.
"Look at me," he commanded again.
I raised my eyes to his face. His gray eyes were nearly black with desire, fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch. We stared at each other, connected by this intimate act, and I saw something in his expression that went beyond lust—something vulnerable and almost desperate.
"Devon," I whispered.
He groaned, his hips thrusting up into my hands. "Don't stop. I'm—"
His words cut off as his body went rigid. I felt him pulse in my grip, felt the hot rush of his release coating my hands. He came with a low, guttural sound, his eyes still locked on mine, his hand tightening almost painfully around my wrists.
For several long moments, neither of us moved. I could feel his heartbeat through my palms, could see his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Then he released my wrists and slumped back against the headboard, his eyes closing.
"Bathroom," he said, his voice hoarse. "Clean up."
I stood on shaky legs, my hands sticky and trembling. As I turned toward the ensuite, I heard him say quietly, "Come back when you're done."
The bathroom was all marble and chrome, cold and sterile. I stood at the sink, washing my hands under hot water, watching Devon's release swirl down the drain. My face in the mirror was flushed, my eyes too bright. I looked like a stranger—someone I didn't quite recognize.
When I returned to the bedroom, Devon had tucked himself back into his trousers but hadn't bothered to button his shirt. He was standing by the window, staring out at the city lights.
"So," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Tomorrow. Can I go to the office?"
He turned to look at me, and his expression was unreadable. "No."
The word hit me like a slap. "But you said—"
"I said maybe I'd consider it." He crossed the room toward me. "I've considered it. The answer is no."
"You liar." Anger surged through me, hot and sharp. "You used me."
"No, little bird." He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "You tried to use me. This was a lesson in what happens when you do."
I wanted to slap him. Wanted to scream. But before I could do either, his phone rang—the sharp, insistent tone he'd set for Marcus.
Devon released me and grabbed the phone from the nightstand. "What?"
I couldn't hear Marcus's response, but I saw Devon's expression change—shuttering, going cold and hard.
"When?" A pause. "Where?"
He was already moving, grabbing a fresh shirt from the closet, shrugging into it with economical movements. He picked up his gun from the safe—a weapon I'd learned not to question—and checked the magazine before sliding it into his shoulder holster.
"Don't leave this apartment," he said to me, not quite looking at me as he headed for the door. "Marcus and Lucas are outside. They won't let anyone in."
"Devon—"
He paused at the doorway, his hand on the frame. For just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe, or concern. But then it was gone, replaced by that familiar icy control.
"We'll talk when I get back."
The door closed behind him with a soft click. I heard his footsteps receding, heard the elevator chime. Then silence.
I stood in the middle of his bedroom—our bedroom now, apparently—and felt the full weight of my situation crash over me. The taste of humiliation was bitter in my mouth. My hands still remembered the heat and hardness of him, still felt sticky despite the washing.
I'd tried to manipulate him, and he'd turned it against me. Worse, some sick part of me had enjoyed it—had felt powerful watching him come apart under my hands, even as I'd been on my knees before him.
The diamond necklace he'd given me sat on the dresser, glittering coldly in the lamplight. A different cage, just as confining.
I crawled into his bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The sheets smelled like him—sandalwood and leather and that indefinable scent that was purely Devon. Despite everything, despite the anger and humiliation, I found myself burrowing deeper into that scent.
My hand drifted to my stomach, pressing gently against the life growing there. "I'm sorry, baby," I whispered into the darkness. "I'm so sorry you're going to have a mother who doesn't know how to be anything but weak."