CONTAINS EXPLICIT SCENE-đ
I once read somewhere:
A man who takes his time with your body is the most dangerous one.
I'm not new to intimacy. I've had three boyfriends, and two or three hookups along the way.
But none. Absolutely none. Ever took their time the way Aaron Erikson does.
His touches are electric. Intentional. Careful. Restrained with a patience that feels more dangerous than hunger. His mouth on my skin is warm, deliberate, present.
It's nothing like the lustful touches I'm used to.
He places an open-mouthed kiss right under my ear, sending shivers down my spine. I inhale sharply.
His fingers trail over my ribs, moving slowly down to the dip of my waist as his lips wander lower.
"You have two moles on your shoulders," he murmurs, voice deep and rough with desire, threaded with restraint.
He leaves a hickey on my right shoulder mole, then another on the left.
A gasp escapes me. My legs part when he presses his knees between them, his bulge pressed firmly against my stomach, making me gulp instinctively.
He hasn't even taken off his clothes, but I can already tell. This is the largest I've ever felt pressed against my skin.
His hand squeezes my left breast, first slow, then rough, before his mouth captures my right nipple.
"AhâAaron." A moan breaks free as his tongue flicks against the sensitive peak. He smirks against my skin and suckles harder.
I never knew I could be this sensitive. He hasn't touched me below the waist, hasn't even removed my panties, and yet my wetness betrays me.
"You're sensitive, Princess," he teases, releasing my nipple with a pop before giving my left the same treatment.
I'm embarrassed at how easily he's unraveling me, leaving me a moaning mess.
My thoughts scatter, all replaced by the sharp pull of pleasure as he pinches my swollen bud like some mischievous boy. I shiver, bucking my hips, desperate for friction against his hardness.
But his hand presses firmly on my lower abdomen, holding me down, denying me.
"Shh, not yet, Princess." His grin makes me roll my eyes, annoyed.
"You surely know how to torture a woman, Aaron."
I glance down, his cheeks pressed between my breasts as he pushes them together, inhaling my scent. My stomach flips violently.
"It's wrong to be such a naughty girl," he chides softly, "after you gave me permission to take my time."
A sharp slap lands on my breast. I yelp.
My throat dries, desire burning through me as his hand smacks the other side, making it jiggle.
"Oh⊠you like being smacked." His smirk is pure mischief, his eyes locking with mine.
My eyes widen, horrified. "Th-that's notâ"
He chuckles. The sound makes my heart stumble. One hand spreads over my stomach, possessive. The other squeezes my breast.
"You're full of surprises. I like seeing you like this."
His voice drips with amusement, with that maddening confidence that makes my knees weak. His hair falls across his brows, softening him, making him look younger, almost relaxed.
Without thinking, I reach for his jaw and pull him down into a kiss.
He answers instantly, his tongue moving with mine in a familiar rhythm. I taste sweet wine laced with bitterness. His grip on my waist tightens before he pulls away.
His jaw clenches. His arctic eyes darken with desire. And something else I can't name.
"I'm trying to treat you like a princess, and you're pushing me to my edge," he growls roughly.
I gulp, licking my lips.
"Why do you look like you're scared of hurting me?" I whisper. I don't know why I asked. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's something that's been lodged in my mind since last nightâwhen he hugged me after showing me the mirror.
His lashes flutter. His Adam's apple bobs, like he's holding words he doesn't want to say.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he presses more kisses, leaving fresh marks.
A sharp bite lands on my rib. I bite my lip to hold back a cry. His tongue soothes the sting, his nose brushing against my stomach.
"Another mole," he murmurs, lips against my skin. "On your stomach."
There's something unbearably intimate in the way he traces my moles like they're holy. It makes me want to smile through the ache in my chest.
His tongue circles my navel. My eyes widen at the sudden, unfamiliar sensation. Where is he finding all these sensitive places hidden in me?
And then finally, he goes further.
Hooking his teeth into my thong, he lifts his gaze to mine.
I inhale sharply, goosebumps racing across my skin as he pulls it down, slow, deliberate, torturous. He never breaks eye contact, not even as he slides it down to my ankles and tosses it away.
My grip on the sheets tightens.
He still hasn't looked down.
He kneels back between my legs.
This time, I'm nervous. Not of his touch. But of him seeing the scars on my thighs.
Instinctively, I try to close my legs. I know how men look when they see them.
Ugly. Disgusting.
He stills me with his hands on my knees. His gaze drops to my right thigh.
Long scars from belts mar the skin.
His eyes widen. Tears well in mine before I can stop them.
Maybe because he's been so gentle. Maybe because I expected him toâ
But his eyes move to the other thigh, the one even uglier, even more visible.
His hand rests on the scarred flesh. I gasp. His thumb rubs over the roughness. His fingers tremble. A tear slips down my cheek.
"How?" His voice is barely above a whisper, as though the question itself wounds him.
I try to smile through the quiver in my lips. "I wasn't an obedient daughter. So⊠my father tried to make me obedient." My voice cracks. "Through his belt."
His hand tightens on my thigh, trembling. His eyes grow heavy, his expression unbearably tender for my cold heart to bear.
And then, he strips off his shirt.
For a moment, everything in my head goes silent.
The white fabric falls to the floor with a soft thud. The dim lamp light catches on his body.
Scars. Everywhere.
From his collarbone to his abdomen. Old cuts carved across his chest, as though someone tried to dig something out of him with a knife. Thick stitch marks down the middle. Burn scars spreading across his right ribs. Whip marks wrapping his abdomen and hips.
A trembling breath leaves me. I sit up.
"Scary?" he asks, voice unsteady, braced for my recoil.
Instead, I press my hand against his chest. Pain pierces through me so sharp it aches.
"How old?" I whisper, my voice breaking.
"Three to eight years old." He smiles faintly, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I wasn't exactly my mother's favorite child."
My heart sinks. A strangled sound escapes me, my stomach twisting.
Three to eight.
Before I can speak, his arms wrap around me. Strong. Protective. Holding me like no one ever has.
I imagine the little boy who couldn't even form words yet, enduring monstrous pain simply for being born.
My arms curl around his backâand my breath halts. My fingers trace his skin. I know this texture. Old wounds that heal but never fade.
"This was my birthday gift when I turned eight," he says, voice breaking under the calm mask.
I close my eyes. Rage and grief crash inside me. Hatred for the woman who had the audacity to give birth to him, yet never the heart to be a mother.
My hand presses firmly against his back.
"It was never your fault for being born," I whisper, steady.
He stiffens. Pulls back until our eyes meet. His hand grips my hip, his other strokes my hair. His smile is soft, almost relieved.
"Nor was it your fault for wanting to be your own person."
And something inside me shifts.
You know those moments when you look at someone and realize.
Oh. This is what I was looking for all my life.
Oh. This is what I've been praying for.
For me, it was this moment.