The rhythm of their bodies, the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the padded table—it all vanishes in a single, suspended heartbeat. Arya freezes mid-thrust, her muscles locking tight around him, her body turning to stone above Aru. The grinding motion that was driving them both toward the edge stops dead, leaving only the ragged sound of their breathing and the insistent, ignored buzz of the phone vibrating against the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.

Arya’s hands, which were braced against his chest, dig in suddenly, her fingernails biting into his pectorals. "Roll over," she commands, her voice stripped of its previous sultry purr and laced with sharp, urgent authority. "Now."