Page 23 of Inked Desires
My stomach twists. I took the ring off, but the mark remains — like an invisible scar. I’m really bad at hiding my damn past.
“That’s ancient history,” I sigh, looking away.
“Jace, I suppose,” he guesses.
I could deny it. But what’s the point? They’ve seen my tattoo. Arès has seen my scars, the marks on my back. So a ring mark changes nothing.
“Right,” I confirm in a low voice.
“You’re divorced?”
My fingers brush my forehead. A headache is coming on, a direct consequence of this sneaky interrogation.
“You could say that,” I evade.
Arès tightens his grip on my wrist. His eyes darken. His jaw clenches.
“This just got interesting,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
“Who fucked up? You or him?”
I close my eyes briefly, exhausted.
Anger rises in me, burning and suffocating. I feel exposed. Kiran digs through my life, and I don’t like it one bit. I didn’t come here to make friends. I want to be left alone. The fewer contacts I have, the less chance there is someone will find out where I’m hiding.
“None of your business,” I snap.
“Okay, so you’re the fuck-up,” he snickers.
“Kiran, back off,” Arès intervenes, soothing my rage a little.
I look away, preferring to watch the commotion around us. The bar’s filling up, and a group of young people has turned the back room into an impromptu dance floor.
A strange urge overwhelms me — a desire to move, to lose myself in the music to release the tension. I gently free my wrist from Arès’s grip.
“I’m getting another drink,” I murmur before he can try to stop me.
I weave through the crowd to the bar and catch the attention of the bartender, whose shaved head gleams under the dim light.
“What’ll it be, handsome?”
“A whiskey and coke.”
In moments, my glass is ready. I slide a bill across the counter, grab my drink, and turn. Arès and Kiran talk, but Arès doesn’t take his eyes off me. His gaze pierces me, intense, voracious. A shiver runs down my spine.
The music shifts; the beat calls to me. I finally look away and head for the dance floor. The bass vibrates beneath my skin as I weave between dancers, taking a sip before letting my body move. Every motion lightens me, every beat frees me a little more.
I drain my glass in one gulp, set it on a high table, and raise my arms, eyes half-closed. I can’t remember the last time I danced like this, letting myself go without thinking.
A familiar presence presses against my back, freezing me. I feel him before I see him. His body burns against mine, commanding. A violent shiver runs through me. My mind disconnects.
I keep swaying despite the tension electrifying the air between us. Arès’s warmth wraps around me, trapping me in a bubble where everything turns unreal. His hands glide over my hips, and an uncontrollable tremor shakes my body.
“Tell me to let go,” he murmurs near my ear, his husky voice brushing my skin.
I should. But instead, my arms clutch his neck, pulling him closer. My hips mold to his, drawing a muffled moan. My breath quickens, my skin ignites.
I need to see him. To understand what he feels. Is it desire or just a habit ingrained in my flesh, a well-oiled routine?
