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“Fuck, Aria,” he breathes as I start to rock myself against him, pleasure hitting me right away. I’m already on the edge. It’s not only that I haven’t done anything sexual in over a year—since being with him—it’s the effect that he has on me. No one else ever could.
I hold on to his shoulders, letting the friction bring me closer to my orgasm. I need this so badly.
Dion moves his mouth to my neck and inhales deeply before continuing to kiss and lick my skin. I erupt in goosebumps.
“Ah, yes. Fuck,” I moan into his ear, and he grunts.
“You’re going to make me come in my fucking pants,” he grits out, sounding frustrated. But I know it’s because he’s just as drunk on this as I am.
We shouldn’t be doing this. Not now, not here, in front of my house, the guards only several feet away. But I can’t help it.
He reaches down my dress and pinches my nipple between his fingers, and I yelp. “Oh, God,” I pant. “I’m so close.”
I’m lost in the moment, lost in us.
With a few more humps against his leg, I ride the wave toward my orgasm.
Dion whispers in my ear. “I’ve missed you, astéri mou.”
And I come undone.
I cry as I reach my climax, tears flowing freely. Dion wipes the wetness off my cheeks while stifling his own grunts.
I can’t bring myself to say it, to admit that I miss him too. But I really do.
My heart weighs heavily with the knowledge that I have to go back to real life. This moment, this slip-up, cannot last, as much as I want it to.
I’m not crying because it feels good.
I’m sobbing because nothing will ever feel as good as being with him. No amount of alcohol or drugs will ever alleviate the heaviness in my chest.
So, I mourn the inevitable end, wishing for more time with Dion in this blissful bubble of ours.
33
DION
The feel of my phone incessantly buzzing in my pocket wakes me up from my slumber.
Eyes half open, my head throbs, consciousness reluctantly seeping in. The room spins.
I look at my watch. It’s four o’clock in the morning. Fuck. I must’ve passed out on the couch when I got home, too tired to take myself to bed. This seems to be a recurring habit.
A sour taste lingers in my mouth, a bitter reminder of last night’s indulgence.
When I got back after rescuing Aria, I drank my fucking weight in alcohol. It was midnight, but I was wired. The thought of her hollow eyes and the lingering scent of her on my clothes were enough to keep me far away from slumber.
When I caught sight of her on that bathroom floor, my heart stopped.
A sinking feeling settled in my chest when I wrapped my arms around her frail body to carry her out of the club. Aria looked different, changed in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Granted, my men told me she had stopped doing yoga and barely left the house as of late, but I didn’t realize she had gotten to this point.
Her eyes were dull. She looked fucked up, and I could tell it wasn’t from alcohol.
Turns out, she’s been getting high off her mind.
The phone keeps ringing. “Okay, okay, damn,” I grumble. Who would try to contact me at this godforsaken hour?
I sit up just as the buzzing finally stops.
