CHAPTER 17
ARIA
His skin was warm beneath my lips.
His chest rose and fell in the same slow way—like he was asleep. Or pretending.
My hand pressed flat against him, feeling the hard wall of muscle beneath. Solid. Real.
“You can hear me, can’t you?” I whispered, my lips grazing his skin.
He didn’t answer.
But I didn’t stop.
“I don’t know what they did to me,” I said, my voice cracking.
My fingers drifted up, tracing the center of his chest. When they reached his sternum, he flinched—barely. Just a flicker beneath my touch.
But I felt it.
My gaze shot to his face.
His eyes were still closed.
I swallowed, my voice barely more than a breath. “What did they do to you…?”
He inhaled slowly.
Deep.
Deliberate.
Like he was pulling himself back up from somewhere far away.
My cheek slid across his skin, the rough scrape of stubble on his jaw brushing my temple as I breathed him in again.
I didn’t even try to stop myself. I didn’t want to.
His scent washed over me—warm and familiar, filling my lungs, settling deep in my chest like it belonged there.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
One second I’m standing still, and the next I’m leaning closer, drawn to him by something I can’t name.
The air around him is thick with this musky, primal aroma—earthy and clean, and somehow him.
It wraps around me, pulling me in before I can even think to resist.
And I don’t want to resist.
That scares me.
My fingers hover just above his skin, trembling, and my heart is pounding like I’m standing at the edge of something dangerous—but I can’t pull away. I don’t know why his scent affects me like this.
I try to shake the feeling, to clear my head—but it’s useless. I’m too hot, too restless, my thoughts tangled and slippery.
Everything about him is pulling me in—his warmth, his breath, the way his body responds to mine even while he lies there, half-unconscious.
It’s not logical.
It’s not me.
But I can't resist
I'm drawn to him, my body moving on its own, my breath coming in eager gasps.
He lies before me, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath, his body a landscape of hard lines and defined muscles.
Each place I touched quieted the chaos inside me, even as it stoked something else—something hungrier.
My body was caught in a storm of sensation, but my mind stayed with him, tethered to the heat of his skin and the way he smelled like safety and sin.
I start at his chest, my tongue licking and tasting his salty, warm skin. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, matching the rhythm of my own desire.
"You taste so good," I murmur, my voice hoarse with need.
I lick and suck at his skin, my hands exploring the hard planes of his torso, marking him as mine.
Every touch, every lick, every suck is a claim, a possession.
I trail kisses down his stomach, my tongue dipping into the indentations of his muscles, tasting every inch of him. He lets out a low grunt, his hips bucking slightly as I taste him. "
“Do you like that?” I ask, a smirk playing on my lips before I even realize it’s there.
“You're so responsive,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.
I don’t even know why I say it.
The words just slip out—low and sultry—like they don’t belong to me at all.
I’ve never spoken like this before.
Never been so bold… so crude.
It should make me feel embarrassed.
But it doesn’t.
It makes me feel alive.
Maybe it’s the way his skin reacts beneath my fingers, twitching slightly under my touch.
Maybe it’s the subtle way his body shifts toward me, arching ever so slightly—even in this dazed, almost unconscious state—as if he’s reaching for more.
Something about it makes heat coil low in my belly.
I should stop.
I should think.
But I can’t.
I’m not in control anymore.
Not of my words, not of my hands, not of this deep, aching need to be close to him.
And somehow, that scares me more than anything.
And I—I’m losing control.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. My head feels foggy, like I’m swimming through something thick and sweet.
I remember the pink substance, just for a second.
That strange taste.
But the thought drifts away, buried beneath the need pulsing in my blood.
All I can think about is Lian.
I need to touch him.
It’s not even a choice—it’s instinct. Raw and wild and wrong, but I can’t stop.
Every inch of me aches to be near him. My hands tremble as they move over his chest, and my heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my ribs.
What is this?
I’ve never felt anything like it.
It's like my body isn’t mine anymore. Like something inside me has been switched on, and it’s hungry.
Desperate.
This isn’t you, I tell myself.
You don’t act like this.
You don’t touch like this.
You don’t want like this.
I should be afraid. I should stop.
I need to stop.
But my fingers keep moving—trailing along the sharp line of his jaw, brushing over the hollow of his throat.
He doesn’t even stir, not fully, but his body reacts. A small shiver. A soft sound from his throat.
And I feel it—like a jolt under my skin.
God, what is wrong with me?
“I should stop,” I whisper aloud, barely recognizing my own voice.
But I don’t. Again.
Instead, I lean closer. Just to breathe him in. Just to feel his heat.
His lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow—and feel this unbearable rush of power and longing.
I love how he reacts to me, even like this. I love the way I can draw a response from him with nothing more than a touch.
And I hate how much I crave more.
His hand twitched.
Just once.
Enough to make my heart stutter and race all at once.
Enough to make me dare more.
I kneel between his legs, my hands gripping his hips as I position myself. I lean in, my tongue flicking out to taste him, and he lets out a hiss of pleasure, his hands tangling in my hair as he guides my movements.
"You're so hard for me," I say, my voice a low purr.
"I love how you feel in my mouth."
I start to move, my head bobbing as I take him deeper, my hands gripping him tightly at the base.
I can feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse of his desire. It's intoxicating, and I'm drunk on it.
He grunts and bucks his hips, thrusting back and forth, meeting my movements with his own desperate need.
"That's it," I encourage, my voice muffled.
"Give it to me."
I increase my pace, my mouth and hands working in tandem as I bring him closer to the edge.
His grip on my hair tightens, and he lets out a low, guttural moan.
I can feel him pulsing in my mouth, can feel the tension in his body as he nears his release.
I suck harder, my tongue flicking and swirling, pushing him over the edge.
“Come for me,” I whisper, pulling back slightly, my voice trembling but firm.
“Let me taste you.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
God, what am I saying?
I’ve never—never—spoken like this before. Not even in my most private thoughts. Not even in dreams. And yet… it feels natural on my tongue. Like the words were waiting for this moment.
A flush creeps up my neck, but it’s not shame. It’s heat. A blistering, aching need that coils deep inside me.
With a final, shuddering cry, he releases, his body trembling as he spills into my mouth. I drink him down, my eyes never leaving his as I continue to suck gently, drawing out every last drop.
His body trembles, and I can feel the tension draining away as he comes down from his high, his chest heaving with exertion. I pull back, my lips swollen and my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I whispered his name—barely a breath—but it didn’t matter. He heard me. I knew it.
His body tensed beneath me.
Just the smallest shift. Like a flicker of recognition rippling through his muscles.
I pressed closer.