Page 31 of Inked Desires
“Exactly,” I mutter as anger takes over.“And if you tell anyone who I am or where I am, I’ll drain your fucking bank account and leave this town.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. That half-smile reappears, and amusement flickers in his eyes. His joke cuts through me like a blade, fueling my rage. He doesn’t take me seriously. He doesn’t think I’d actually do it. Clearly, he’s way too naïve.
“There’s one difference between you and William,” he says calmly.“He’s bold, but he’d never steal from me. And he’d sure as hell never admit it out loud. That’s what I like about you…”
His fingers find my forearm, gliding gently up to my shoulder. The anger evaporates instantly. His touch makes my heart stutter. I know I should stay mad, but I can’t. His fingers trace my collarbone in small circles, sending shivers through me. It feels like I’m under a tattoo gun again.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, barely audible.
“I’m done fighting,” he says, without warning.
His lips crash against mine. His free arm wraps around me, holding me tight. A tremor escapes my chest as my fingers cling to his shirt. Even if I wanted to push him away, I couldn’t. This is wrong. So wrong. And yet it feels so right. His strength steals my breath as his tongue explores mine with dizzying skill.
Caught off guard, I suck in a sharp breath—a sound that turns into a low, guttural moan when his rough hand grabs my nipples. When the hell did he get under my shirt?
“I’ve wanted you since day one,” he growls against my mouth.
His fingers pinch my nipple. Sharp, exquisite pain shoots through my chest, down to my gut, driving me even closer.
“Ares,” I whisper.
“I know,” he replies, sealing his lips to mine again.
His tongue swirls, dragging me into a fevered battle, while his fingers torment my nipple, drawing soft moans from me. My breathing turns ragged and erratic. My hands, now out of control, roam his hard, sculpted body, exploring every line. His skin is firm, and his perfectly built muscles leave no room for imperfection.
“Fuck,” we gasp at the same time, just as his palm slides into my pants. Slowly, he strokes me, brushing along the most sensitive part of me. My toes curl. The pleasure is so intense I want to scream at him to rip off my damn jeans. It’s been so long since anyone touched me like this—longer still since I felt anything close to real desire.
But deep in the back of my mind, a sharp doubt starts to grow—one I can no longer ignore. Ares doesn’t want me. He wants William. I’m nothing more than a pale copy to him. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to convince myself I can use him too. But it doesn’t work. I don’t want to just use him. I already feel safe with him, and I can’t deny there’s more than just physical desire.
I force my eyes open and pull my lips from his. His eyes open too, glazed with lust. With a sigh, I grab his wrist and try to move his hand out of my pants. A moan of frustration slips out when his fingers stop their sweet torture, leaving me unsatisfied.
“What are you doing?” he whispers, confused.
“I’m not going to play the role of your substitute husband,” I murmur, stepping back.“I can’t…”
But he closes the distance immediately, his long legs overtaking my attempt to retreat.
“You’re not a substitute,” he says, shaking his head.
I close my eyes again, breathing deeply to slow the frantic beating of my heart. I know he’s lying. He doesn’t wantme. He just wants to feel close to what he’s lost.
“I’m not stupid, Ares,” I say calmly, opening my eyes.“You don’t want me. You want him. You’re just getting off because I look like him.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn away and walk down the hallway, needing to put distance between us.
The click of the lock when I close the shop door behind me echoes heavily in my ears. It sounds like an ending. Should I leave? Would it be better to disappear and find a new place to hide? Everything feels so damn complicated. I only ever wanted one thing—a peaceful, safe life. Is that too much to ask for? Maybe I just hoped too much after getting a taste of what he could offer.
Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair. I need a drink. And a man—any man—to help clear these thoughts from my head. Maybe then my heart will finally stop torturing me.
I settle onto a barstool in a nearly empty dive bar.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“Whiskey and Coke.”
The counter sticks faintly to my arms. Clearly, upkeep isn’t a top priority here. The old, scratched wood could use a total renovation—but I don’t care. Tonight, I’m here for one reason.
A glass appears in front of me, and I toss down a ten-dollar bill.
