Chapter 99 That’s what you do to me, sweetheart
Aria’s POV
Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden.
I woke slowly, awareness creeping in before I even opened my eyes. There was warmth beside me—solid, reassuring warmth that hadn’t been there when I’d fallen asleep on the couch.
My eyes fluttered open.
Damian.
He was right there, lying next to me in my bed, still asleep. His chest rose and fell in that steady, measured rhythm that told me he was deeply under.
The harsh lines of his face had softened in sleep, making him look almost... peaceful. Vulnerable, even.
I didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe too loudly.
He must have carried me here last night after I’d passed out during the movie. The thought sent warmth flooding through my chest—he’d stayed.
He hadn’t just tucked me in and left. He’d stayed the entire night.
My gaze traced over his features, lingering on details I’d never had the chance to study before. The sharp cut of his jaw.
The slight furrow between his brows that never quite disappeared, even in sleep. And his eyelashes—God, they were so long, casting delicate shadows across his cheekbones.
Before I could stop myself, my hand lifted. My fingertips brushed feather-light across those lashes, barely making contact.
His eyes opened.
I froze, hand still suspended in mid-air like a kid caught stealing cookies.
For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, hazy with sleep. Then it sharpened, locking onto mine with an intensity that stole my breath.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just looked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was real or if he was still dreaming.
"Watching me sleep?" His voice was rough, gravelly in a way that did absolutely sinful things to my insides. There was amusement threading through the words, not accusation.
Heat crept up my neck. I tried to pull my hand back, but he was faster.
His fingers wrapped around my wrist—gentle but firm, keeping me in place.
"Where do you think you’re going?" His eyes glinted with something dark and playful. "You were so focused a second ago."
"I wasn’t—I mean, I was just—" God, why couldn’t I form a coherent sentence?
"Just what?" He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow while still holding my wrist.
The blanket slipped down, revealing the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. "Just admiring the view?"
My face was on fire. "You’re impossible."
"And you’re adorable when you’re flustered." His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point. Could he feel how fast my heart was racing?
I needed to change the subject before I completely combusted. "Why didn’t you wake me last night?"
His expression softened. "You were exhausted. I didn’t have the heart to disturb you."
Something in my chest squeezed tight. He’d watched me fall asleep on him, carried me to bed, and then stayed the whole night just to make sure I was okay.
When had anyone ever done that for me?
"Thank you," I whispered. "For staying."
"Always." He released my wrist and sat up fully, the blanket pooling around his waist. The movement revealed more of that sculpted torso, and I had to actively force myself to look away.
His hand caught my chin, fingers firm as he turned my face back toward him.
"If you want to look," he said, voice low and rough, "then look. Don’t hide from me."
Heat flooded through me—part embarrassment, part something far more dangerous. "I should... I need to wash up."
I tried to pull away, but his arm snaked around my waist, hauling me back down onto the bed.
I landed against his chest with a soft gasp, suddenly hyper-aware of every point where our bodies touched. The hard muscle beneath me.
The heat radiating from his skin. And—oh God—the unmistakable hardness pressing against my hip.
"Damian—"
"You feel that?" His voice was darker now, edged with something primal. "That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. Every fucking time you’re near me."
My breath caught. I could feel myself getting wet, my body responding to him in ways I couldn’t control.
His hand slid up my spine, tangling in my hair. "Tell me to stop and I will."
I should. I should tell him to stop, tell him we needed to wait, tell him—
But His mouth crashed down on mine.
The kiss was nothing like the gentle ones we’d shared before.
This was raw, hungry, demanding. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me completely, and I melted against him with a whimper.
His hands were everywhere—sliding under my sleep shirt, mapping the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine.
When his palm cupped my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I arched into him with a gasp.
"Fuck, you’re perfect." He pulled back just enough to yank my shirt over my head, then made quick work of my bra. "So fucking perfect."
His mouth closed over my nipple and I cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
The sensation was overwhelming—pleasure bordering on pain as he sucked and teased, his tongue doing things that made my toes curl.
"Please," I gasped, not even sure what I was begging for.
He switched to my other breast, giving it the same torturous attention while his hand slid down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my sleep shorts.
"Can I?" He looked up at me, eyes blazing but voice steady. Controlled. Waiting for my consent even when I could feel how badly he wanted this.
"Yes. God, yes."