Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 54

Aria's POV

Oh my God. What was he doing? How could he say something so... so explicit, so casually?

Was he actually... aroused? The thought sent heat flooding through my entire body, pooling low in my belly in a way that made me press my thighs together instinctively. The memory of his hardness pressed against me in the bathroom came rushing back—the unmistakable evidence of his desire, the way his body had responded to mine.

"I... no!" I stammered, clutching the sheet tighter against my chest. "I'm not going to... I would never..."

But even as I protested, my eyes betrayed me, darting to the obvious bulge straining against his pants, the way his hand moved with deliberate slowness over his belt buckle. The sight made my mouth go dry and my pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

"Of course you wouldn't," he said, his voice carrying that infuriating combination of amusement and arrogance that always made me want to throw something at him. "Such a proper little virgin, aren't you? Even after everything we've done together."

The reminder of our previous encounters sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

"I'm going to bed," I announced firmly, turning away from him and burrowing deeper into the covers. "Alone."

His low chuckle followed me as I buried my face in the pillow, trying to block out the sound of his footsteps heading toward the bathroom. "Sweet dreams, piccola."

The sound of running water filled the quiet bedroom.

I could picture him standing under the hot spray, water cascading over those broad shoulders and down the planes of his chest. The way the steam would make his dark hair curl slightly at the edges, how droplets would trace paths down his muscled torso...

Stop it, I commanded myself, squeezing my eyes shut tighter. Don't think about him naked. Don't think about his hands touching himself. Don't think about the sounds he might make when he...

But my traitorous mind wouldn't cooperate. The steady rhythm of the water seemed to mock me, each pulse reminding me of what he was probably doing in there. Taking care of the "problem" I'd created, as he'd so crudely put it.

Was he thinking about me while he did it? The thought sent a shocking jolt of arousal through me, making me bite my lip to stifle the small sound that escaped. The idea that I could affect him that way, that even his legendary self-control had limits when it came to me...

The water continued its relentless rhythm, and despite my best efforts, my imagination painted increasingly vivid pictures. His head thrown back under the spray, eyes closed in concentration, that perfectly controlled facade finally cracking as he found release...

This is insane, I told myself, rolling over and pressing my face deeper into the pillow. You're supposed to hate him. He's controlling, arrogant, dangerous. He bought you like property.

But my body didn't seem to care about logic or self-preservation. Every nerve ending was alive with awareness, hypersensitive to every sound from the bathroom, every shift of silk sheets against my heated skin.

The shower finally stopped, leaving the bedroom in profound silence that somehow felt even more charged than the sound of running water had been. I held my breath, listening to the soft sounds of him moving around the bathroom—a cabinet opening, the whisper of a towel against skin, footsteps on marble.

When the bathroom door opened, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to regulate my breathing, feigning sleep with all the acting ability I possessed. The bedroom floor was cold marble, and I could hear his bare feet crossing it with that predatory grace that never failed to make my pulse race.

The mattress dipped slightly as he settled onto his side of the massive bed, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. He was close enough that I could smell the clean scent of expensive soap mixed with something uniquely masculine, uniquely him.

"I know you're awake," he said quietly, his voice carrying easily across the space between us.

I kept my breathing even, my eyes closed, determined not to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. After several long moments, he seemed to accept my pretense of sleep, and the room settled into silence.

But sleep, when it finally came, was elusive and restless.

I woke gradually, surfacing from dreams that left me flushed and disoriented. The bedroom was still dark, the early morning hour evident from the quality of light filtering through the heavy curtains. Something felt different, though—a warmth that hadn't been there when I'd fallen asleep.

Slowly, carefully, I became aware of my surroundings. I was no longer alone on my side of the enormous bed. Somehow, during the night, I'd migrated across the silk sheets and now found myself pressed against a solid wall of warmth.

Damian's chest.

Horror and mortification flooded through me as I realized the intimate position I'd somehow maneuvered myself into while sleeping. My head was pillowed on his shoulder, one arm draped across his bare torso, my leg thrown over his thigh like I belonged there.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

How had this happened? I was a restless sleeper, sure, but to end up practically draped over him like some kind of human blanket? The embarrassment was crushing, made worse by the way my body seemed to fit perfectly against his, like we were two pieces of a puzzle that had found their match.

I needed to move. Quickly. Before he woke up and found me plastered against him like some desperate, clingy—

I tried to shift away carefully, lifting my head and attempting to slide my arm back to my own side of the bed. But the movement brought me into contact with something that made me freeze completely.

He was hard.