Page 72 of Untamed

Her moans grow louder, more desperate, and I can see the tension coiling in her body as she teeters on the edge of release. Her hips buck against the toy, chasing that sweet, sweet climax.

“Oh God, uhh, yes, yes, Ares…” she whimpers again, and it’s my undoing.

Get out, Ares.Now.

I spin on my heel and tear down the hallway like I’m being chased by the fucking devil. My boots slam the marble steps two at a time. My fists are clenched, blood roaring in my ears. I hit the front door, shoulder slamming into it harder than I meant to. I stumble into the night air and stop just short of the manor’s front wall.

I brace one hand against it.

The other? I sink my teeth into the side of it, biting hard into the curve of my knuckle to muffle a guttural sound that tears through my throat.

It’s either that or go back and claim what doesn’t belong to me.

I breathe through my nose, harsh and fast, my eyes squeezed shut. I punch the wall once, knuckles splitting on impact. The pain helps. Not enough to tame the beast shaking in his chains, waiting and taunting me to be unleashed.

I picture her lips. Her body. The way she said my name.

Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.

Another punch. The stone doesn’t move. But something inside me breaks wide open.

I push off the wall, chest heaving. My pulse is a drum in my ears. Every step toward the driveway feels like a sentence passed down from God himself.

I straddle the Ducati, twist the key, and fire the engine to life. The sound is violent and feral. Exactly how I feel right now.

I don’t look back.

I tear down the drive and hit the street like I’m escaping hell.

Because if I stayed, I wouldn’t be a man much longer.

I’d be a monster.

And I’d make her mine.

It’s becoming a problem.

My obsession with Ares Russo.

It’s not subtle anymore, not something I can ignore or rationalise as a fleeting attraction. It’s everywhere. In the air I breathe. In the way my skin prickles when I sense he’s near, in the way I ache when he’s not. He’s in my thoughts when I wake up, in my bloodstream when I sleep. There’s no escape from him, no hiding from the gravity that keeps pulling me deeper.

It’s a sickness, delicious and all-consuming.

I know how he looks at me. Cold and disapproving. Always watching. But there’s something under that ice-cold exterior,something that burns if I stare long enough. And maybe I’m losing my mind, but sometimes… sometimes I sense that he wants to touch me just as badly as I want him to.

Our exchange in my bedroom the other night has left me on edge. I can’t seem to erase it from my mind. The way he was looking at me, the warmth and firmness of his body pressed against mine, the feel of his breath on my face, against my lips.

Every time he speaks my name, every time he calls me Bambina in that low, rough voice of his, my knees weaken, and my thoughts scatter like ash in the wind. He has no idea what he does to me. Or maybe he does, and that’s the worst part. Maybe he gets off on torturing me.

Because I can’t stop.

Not thinking about him. Not craving the sound of his boots in the hallway. Not replaying the way his eyes drag over me like I’m both a sin and a salvation.

And last night...God, last night I broke my own rules.

The ones I swore I wouldn’t cross.

I was aching. Desperate. His voice reverberating in my head. “...I would’ve had you down on your knees. My cock so deep in your throat, you’d lose the ability to speak for a fucking week.”

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