Chapter 280 Who could be visiting at this hour?
Aria’s POV
We had maybe fifteen minutes before dinner would be ready. Damian had been separated from me all day, and apparently that was fourteen hours too long. Even with his entire family in the penthouse, he couldn’t wait another second.
The moment our bedroom door closed, Damian pulled me into his arms and kissed me—my forehead, my cheeks, my jaw, my lips—like he was trying to make up for lost time all at once.
He kissed me until we were both breathless, until the desperate edge in his movements finally started to ease.
Finally, he pressed his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
"I missed you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "God, I missed you so much, Aria."
"I’m right here," I said softly, lying back on the bed and tracing the line of his cheekbone with my fingertips. His eyes caught the fading afternoon light, deep and endless even before nightfall. "I’m right in front of you."
"I know. But even when you’re here, I still miss you."
His voice dropped lower, tinged with something that sounded almost like grief. "And knowing I have to go days without seeing you again soon... I’m already dreading it."
No matter how sweet and intense our connection was, there was always this undercurrent of sorrow in Damian.
Like he was afraid this happiness couldn’t last. Like he was waiting for something to tear us apart.
It made my own heart ache with uncertainty.
"Hey," I whispered, cupping his face in both hands. "We have a long road ahead of us. A lifetime, remember? I’m not going anywhere."
My words seemed to ground him. The shadow in his eyes cleared slightly, and he nodded, rubbing his nose gently against mine in that affectionate gesture I’d come to love.
Then his mouth found mine again, slower this time—less desperate, more deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the shape of it.
His tongue slid against mine, deep and claiming. His hand dragged from my jaw down the line of my throat, thumb pressing lightly over my pulse, and my breath hitched hard under his palm.
"Damian, dinner’s almost—"
"I know." He didn’t stop. His lips trailed down to the curve of my neck; teeth grazed just below my ear, then bit gently enough to make me gasp.
His hand shoved beneath the hem of my top, palm hot and flat against my bare stomach, fingers spreading wide before sliding higher to cup my breast, thumb dragging roughly over my nipple until it tightened under his touch.
"We don’t have long," I breathed, even as my hands fisted in the front of his shirt and pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.
"Then I’ll be quick." His voice was low, rough, mouth still open against my skin.
He pinched my nipple between his fingers, rolled it, and I arched into his hand with a helpless sound I couldn’t swallow down.
His other hand dropped to my hip, yanking me flush against him so I could feel how hard he already was, thick and insistent through his clothes.
His head lifted just enough to look at me—eyes dark, hungry, unhurried despite the clock. "Or not."
I laughed breathlessly, dragging him back down by the collar. "Fifteen minutes, Damian."
"Then you’d better be quiet," he murmured against my lips, and kissed me filthy—tongue deep, hand shoving under my waistband, fingers sliding straight between my legs.
He groaned when he found me already wet, two fingers pushing into me without preamble, curling, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit as he fucked them into me in short, greedy strokes.
I was two seconds from losing whatever composure I had left, hips rocking onto his hand, when a brisk knock rapped against the door.
"Alpha Blackwood? Dinner is ready to be served whenever you’re ready."
Damian went utterly still above me, forehead dropping to my shoulder with a long, pained exhale. His fingers were still inside me.
He withdrew them slowly, deliberately, and I felt the loss like a slap.
"Of course," he muttered against my skin, voice strained raw with restraint. "Of course it is."
I bit back a shaky laugh, pressing my hand flat against his chest to nudge him upright. My legs felt unsteady. "We should go."
"This isn’t over." He sucked his fingers clean without breaking eye contact, then tugged his shirt back into place, the line of his cock still obvious. His eyes stayed dark.
"I’m finishing what I started. Later I’m going to bend you over and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name."
"Later," I promised, voice rough, smoothing my hair down in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, mouth swollen, the ache between my thighs sharp and unfinished.
Then, together—composed only on the surface—we headed down for dinner.
Dinner was a beautiful chaos of laughter and compliments. Everyone kept raving about the dishes I’d made, and honestly, I was glowing from all the praise.
If I spent every day with the Blackwoods like this, I’d probably develop an ego the size of Manhattan.
Just as the atmosphere reached its peak warmth, the doorbell rang.
I’d barely started to rise when one of the staff members beat me to it. Who could be visiting at this hour?