CHAPTER 202: THE ART OF DISTRACTION

"You, peacock." My head was spinning from the kiss, my thoughts a chaotic mess of tomatoes and want. I tried—and failed—to steady my breathing, my fingers gripping his shirt. "You’re enjoying this. Teasing me until I’m a flustered mess while we are trying to cook."

Adrien leaned down, bringing his mouth right next to my ear. His breath was warm against my skin when he responded, his voice a low rumble. "I told you I am. Is seeing you all flustered and frustrated not a pleasing sight?"

I couldn’t find words to respond. Not with him this close, his body pressing against me, his breath against my ear, turning every coherent thought into a muddled mess of want.

Adrien’s lips traced a slow path down the curve of my neck, his kisses light, teasing. "I enjoy watching you try to concentrate..." He murmured between kisses. "I love seeing the way you bite your lip. The way you furrow your brow when you’re trying to remember what you want to do next..."

His hands were still holding my wrists captive, pinning me against his body.

"And the way you gasp when I do this..." His teeth sank gently into the sensitive skin of my neck.

My gasp was automatic, my body arching against his despite my best efforts to stay still. Heat curled low in my abdomen, need coiling tighter with each touch and kiss.

Adrien hummed, a low sound in the back of his throat, clearly pleased with how just that small action could get me on edge. "There it is."

His hands finally released my wrists—only to slide down, cupping my hips and pulling me flush against him. The hard line of his arousal pressed into my stomach, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

"See how you react?" he murmured, voice like velvet over steel. "Every little touch... and you’re already trembling."

Then he turned me back, his hands still cupping my hips, guiding me until I was facing the cutting board once more. The knife glinted innocently beside the half-sliced tomatoes, but nothing felt innocent anymore. His body remained pressed against my back, a solid, warm anchor, the imprint of his arousal still searing into my stomach through the fabric of our clothes.

My breath hitched. My entire body hummed, a low, frantic vibration that had nothing to do with the clatter of pots and pans from Aria and Cameron’s side of the kitchen.

"Now," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. His lips brushed the shell of my ear again, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. "Let’s see you chop those tomatoes."

I tried to focus on the task, to ignore the insistent pressure of his body against mine, the intoxicating scent of him, the way his breath still ghosted my ear. But my hands felt clumsy, my mind a battlefield of desire and indignation.

"Are you going to let me?" I managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper.

He chuckled, a low, pleased sound. His hands slid higher, resting lightly on my shoulders as if to steady me. His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, sending another jolt through me. "I’m merely observing, my bunny. Encouraging you."

"You’re doing the opposite of encouraging," I retorted, my voice still shaky. I tried to focus on the plump red orb beneath my knife, but all I could feel was the way his head dipped, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder, his gaze following my every move.

"Am I?" he purred, his breath warm against my cheek. "Because you seem incredibly... focused. Or perhaps, incredibly distracted, or perhaps. It’s also about the simple, undeniable fact that you enjoy the attention." He paused. "And I enjoy giving it."

My breath hitched. The tomatoes suddenly seemed very far away, and the only thing that mattered was the heat radiating from him, the intoxicating closeness. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain some semblance of control, some sliver of sanity.

"Adrien, please," I whispered, the plea surprisingly effective.

"Please what, my love? Please stop? Or please... continue?"

I stared into space, torn between the insistent urge to push him away and the even more insistent, shameful desire to pull him closer. My gaze flickered from aria and Cameron few distance away from us to the knife on the table. My brain screamed for a reprieve, for focus, for anything but this delicious torment. But my lips, stubbornly, refused to form the word "stop."

His thumb, which had been resting lightly on my shoulder, shifted. It traced the delicate curve of my collarbone, then dipped lower, brushing the sensitive hollow of my throat.

Heat burned up my throat. "Adrien..."

"Tell me," he murmured. "And I’ll stop." His hand slid from my throat, down the line of my jaw, and then angled to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over the pulse point just beneath my ear. His touch was firm, possessive, yet exquisitely gentle. "But if you don’t..." His voice dropped, "...then you’re mine. Right here."

My pulse slammed against my throat. "We—we can’t. Aria—Cameron—"

"Then don’t make a sound. They’re distracted."

The words sank like molten iron through my veins, and before I could process, his hand slid lower from my neck, skating down from there to my waist, my hip, until his palm cupped between my thighs over the thin barrier of my skirt. My breath caught, and my fingers curled hard around the edge of the counter.

"Adrien," I hissed, panic and need warring in my tone.

"Shh." His lips grazed the shell of my ear, his voice a ribbon of silk laced with steel. "Non farti sentire."

I froze. My mind scrambled. "What... what does that mean?"

His lips curved against my skin. "Don’t let them hear you,"

Oh God. I’d forgotten—Adrien wasn’t just fluent in English. He spoke at least eight languages fluently.

And then, almost lazily, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of my skiryt, seeking heat with devastating precision.

I bit down hard on my lip, my knees trembling. Aria’s laugh carried across the kitchen as she scolded Cameron, completely oblivious. My entire world shrank to the steady glide of Adrien’s hand, the impossible restraint in his touch as though every move was calculated to undo me slowly.

He tested, teased, brushing along the slick ache of me without pushing further, and it was torture. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his voice soft but edged, demanding honesty.

I shook my head, too breathless to trust my voice.

"Say it, Isabella."

God. My throat worked. "...don’t stop."

The approval in his low chuckle made me shiver. My thighs tensed instantly as two fingers brushed over soaked lace—the heat there unmistakable even through material—and then dipped under it with no hesitation at all.

"Adrien!" My voice came out too loud—I clapped a hand over my mouth just in time—but it was useless; Aria and Cameron were still bickering about onion sizes seven feet away.

He didn’t pull back—not even an inch. Instead, his palm covered mine on top of the cutting board behind us like we were leaning together innocently while one hand worked under cover between us.

"Shhh," he hushed me softly—one thumb pressing against skin slick with need—as if silence was part of the game now too—which made everything so much worse (so much better). "You said yes," he reminded me gently into my ear hair tickling across sensitive lobe as lips followed after words: "Now don’t make any noise."

I nodded desperately beneath that command because speaking felt impossible anyway—he added another long stroke from above before slipping lower suddenly—with two fingers pushing gently inside where everything clenched tight around him immediately—and God—he didn’t move right away after entering except letting them stay there deep filling space making pressure build fast—

Then his fingers curled, slow and perfect, hitting the spot that made my leg shake.

He chuckled low when noticing the tremble spread through my body —dark amusement vibrating through his chest as he pressed firm behind my back acting as support, which is the only thing keeping me upright while sensation spiraled toward edge faster than allowed by rational mind’s control.

"Not yet..." He teased removing his finger briefly making a whimper burst silent since my teeth buried my lip drawing blood taste metallic sweet pain pleasure blurred beyond meaning.

And re-entered deeper this time. His fingers moved with devastating control, circling, pressing, retreating before I could shatter, building unbearable pressure just to draw it back again.

My knuckles whitened around the knife handle, the absurdity of it grounding me. Adrien’s fingers pressed deep, curling in just the right place, and I swore my legs would give out if not for his body pinning me upright.

"Keep chopping," he breathed, low against my ear.

"What?" My voice cracked.

His lips brushed my hairline, his voice velvet over steel. "Keep. Chopping. Or I’ll stop."

Oh, God.

I fumbled the knife back to the board, my movements jerky, unsteady. The blade clinked against the counter as I forced my trembling hands to steady enough to slice through a tomato.

I squeezed my eyes shut, biting my lip so hard it almost broke skin. The tomato slipped beneath my knife, juice spilling over the board like my sanity spilling from my body.

I was going to lose it—here, now, in this gleaming cathedral of a kitchen, with Aria humming few feet away and Cameron groaning about garlic—Adrien’s hand inside me, teasing me to the brink of ruin.

And all I could do was struggle not to make a sound.