Chapter 44: Chapter 44 Crossing the Line
Aria’s POV
My consciousness swam back slowly, dragged up from the depths of sleep by an overwhelming warmth pressed against my palms.
Solid. Hard. Warm.
My fingers moved without my permission, tracing over ridges and valleys that felt nothing like blankets or pillows.
The heat radiating from beneath my touch made my skin tingle, and I found myself pressing closer, seeking more of that delicious warmth.
"Aria."
Damian’s voice cut through the fog in my brain like a blade.
Oh God.
My eyes flew open, and reality crashed down on me all at once.
I was touching him. My hands were splayed across his bare chest, feeling every defined muscle, every line of his abs, the heat of his skin burning into my palms.
One of my hands had somehow wandered lower, fingers brushing against the edge of his waistband.
"Damian?" The word came out strangled.
I tried to jerk away, panic flooding through me, but my body was still weak from the medication. I lost my balance immediately, tilting backward toward the edge of the bed.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my upper arm to steady me.
But the momentum was already carrying us both down.
We fell together—me on my back, him braced above me, his other hand planted beside my head to keep from crushing me with his weight.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I couldn’t breathe.
He was so close. Close enough that I could see every detail of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in those gray eyes, the way his wet hair fell forward to frame his features.
And God, his body.
I’d felt it under my hands, but seeing it was something else entirely. His chest was a work of art—broad and sculpted, every muscle clearly defined.
Water droplets still clung to his skin, trailing down the grooves of his abs.
My gaze followed one drop as it slid lower, past his navel, to where his pants hung dangerously low on his hips.
The belt was undone. The button open. The zipper halfway down.
I could see the sharp V of his hip bones, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants, and—
Oh God.
Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck and chest. My whole body felt like it was on fire, and I didn’t know if it was leftover fever or something else entirely.
Something much more dangerous.
"Stop looking at me like that." His voice was rough, almost a growl. "Aria."
I tore my gaze away, but the damage was done.
The image was burned into my brain now, and my heart was racing so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest.
He pushed himself up abruptly, turning his back to me as he refastened his pants with sharp, jerky movements.
"I’m sorry," I stammered, scrambling to the far side of the bed. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—"
"I was soaked from the rain." He grabbed his discarded shirt from the chair, pulling it on but leaving it unbuttoned. "I was about to take a shower when you woke up."
His tone was clipped, controlled. Like he was working very hard to keep his composure.
I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks, trying to get my breathing under control. "I understand. Thank you for... for everything. Again."
But even as I said it, I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting back to him.
The shirt hung open on his frame, revealing that perfect chest again. And as he moved to button it, I caught sight of something that made my breath hitch.
He was hard.
The evidence was unmistakable—a prominent bulge straining against the front of his pants, impossible to miss even with his back partially turned.
My mouth went dry.
Had I done that? Just from touching him?
The thought sent a bolt of heat straight through me, pooling low in my belly. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, trying to ease the sudden ache building there.
And then, unbidden, a memory surfaced.
His hands on my body. His mouth on my skin. The way he’d pushed me against my bed and fucked me until I couldn’t remember my own name.
The way he’d made me come so hard I’d seen stars.
The way he’d looked at me after—possessive and satisfied and something else I hadn’t been able to name.
I was getting wet.I pressed my thighs together harder, trying to ignore the ache building between them.
This was insane. This was dangerous. This was—
"Don’t push yourself so hard next time." Damian’s voice was quieter now, steadier. "Your body is yours. You need to take care of it."
"Okay." The word came out barely above a whisper.
I reached for the pills and water on the nightstand, swallowing them without question. My throat was dry, and the cool water felt good going down.
But it did nothing to quench the heat building inside me.
When I set the glass down, my gaze inevitably drifted back to him.
The unbuttoned shirt hung open, giving me a perfect view of his chest and abs. The pants were refastened now, but they still sat low enough that I could see the V of his hips.
And I could still see the outline of his erection.
Still hard. Still straining against the fabric.
Because of me.
The realization sent another wave of heat through my body, and suddenly I was acutely aware of the dampness between my thighs.
God, what was wrong with me?
I was sick. I should be focused on rest and recovery, not on how badly I wanted him to turn around and—
Stop it, Aria.
But my body wasn’t listening.
It remembered too clearly how good he’d felt inside me. How perfectly we’d fit together. How he’d made me feel things I’d never felt with Ethan—things I hadn’t even known were possible.
"The medication should help you sleep," Damian said, his voice carefully neutral. "You need rest."
"What about you?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "You must be exhausted too."
"I’ll be fine."
Of course he would. He was always fine. Always in control.
Except for that moment in his office when his control had shattered completely and he’d taken me with a desperation that had left us both breathless.
Except for right now, when I could see the tension thrumming through his entire body.
"Try to sleep." His voice was softer now, almost gentle. "I’ll be in the next room if you need anything."
He moved toward the door, and something in my chest twisted painfully.
Don’t go.
The thought rose unbidden, fierce and urgent.
I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to turn around and climb into this bed with me and—
"Wait."
The word left my lips before I’d consciously decided to speak.
He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, but didn’t turn around.
My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear my own thoughts over the rush of blood in my ears.
This was insane. This was reckless.
But my body was burning. My skin felt too tight.
And the memory of how he’d made me feel—how he’d touched me, kissed me, fucked me—was overwhelming every rational thought in my head.
When I opened my mouth again, the words that came out weren’t the ones I’d planned.
"Stay."
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