14

Talia

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here..." I blurted out, already spinning on my heel. My movements were clumsy as I tried to retreat back into the house.

I needed to put enough distance between us before his presence consumed every rational thought I had.

"D-don't go."

The sound was a dry, splintered rasp that felt like it had been dragged through gravel.

Did Ares just speak?

Again?

I turned back slowly, my breath hitching as I searched for the source of the sound. Ares hadn't moved his body, but his head was angled toward me, his features half-swallowed by the dark.

"You spoke," I said breathlessly.

His brows drew together, a deep furrow etching itself into his forehead. He looked at me with raw, disbelieving intensity, as though his voice had escaped from him against his own will… and now he didn’t know how to take it back. The realization sent a strange, aching thrill through me.

Driven by a sudden, reckless courage, I moved closer, stepping into the heat of his space until I was barely inches away from him. My head tilted back to meet his gaze.

"Say something else." I pleaded, desperate to hear him again, to memorize the timbre of his voice so it would never slip away. Beneath that craving, a darker, more dangerous thought stirred: I needed proof that this wasn’t a two-time anomaly… that the silence he wore so carefully didn’t hold when it came to me.

His jaw twitched twice, the cords of muscle in his neck straining against his collar. I could sense he was trying to pull back, but I wasn't going to let him.

“Speak to me, Ares. I want to hear your voice.” My palm reached out to his cheek, cupping it gently. “Please.” I didn't care about the danger of initiating physical touch with this man. I just needed to hear that perfect, broken voice again.

A low, half-stifled groan rumbled from his chest, and he leaned in, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I gasped, my head falling back as the world narrowed down to the overwhelming, intoxicating scent of him: expensive leather, dark sandalwood, and a deep, raw woody musk that smelled forbidden.

The friction of his unshaven jaw against my sensitive skin sent a lightning bolt of pure, liquid fire straight to my core, causing the strength to vanish from my legs. Ares caught me before I could fall. He wedged his muscular thigh deep between my legs, lifting me flush against his body.

I was shamelessly aware of the length of his cock pressing into my thigh, and the slight, deliberate movement of his leg added an unbearable pressure against my core, right through my dress.

Goosebumps erupted across my skin despite the New York chill, and it took every shred of my willpower not to groan aloud or grind against him like a creature in heat. My breath came in shallow, erratic gasps that misted in the air between our faces. I was beginning to realize that my attraction to this man was a force I could neither resist nor understand. It pulled at me with the weight of gravity itself, twisting my thoughts and drowning every rational impulse.

Ares shifted, pressing his knees upward, and a white-hot jolt of electricity shot straight to my core, lighting up my nerves until I was trembling from the inside out.

My fingers clawed into the dark wool of his coat, anchoring me as my hips began to move on their own, seeking out that brutal, grounding pressure. I was starving for more than just the friction of his leg. I wanted his hands on me; I wanted his fingers to tear through the lace and find the aching, slick center of me. I wanted him to fill the emptiness that was currently screaming for him, to stretch me and ruin me until I couldn't remember the lie I was living.

Ares lowered his head, his usual mask of detachment gone, replaced with a hunger so dark it was terrifying, as he watched me, tracking the way I rubbed shamelessly against his thigh as my last bit of restraint crumbled into nothing.

The tension built into a screaming throb, climbing higher and higher until the world blurred. I was on the very edge of a precipice, when his lips brushed the shell of my ear.

“Psychí mou,” he rasped. The words were a melodic vibration that hummed through my bones, turning me on more than I thought possible.

“Say it again.” I moaned softly.

His hot breath ghosted over my skin as he obeyed, repeating the phrase with a deep, possessive rasp. It wasn't Italian, and it certainly wasn't Irish. I couldn’t translate the words, but they sounded like a secret and a confession all wrapped into one.

The first wave of a crashing, heavy orgasm began to roll through my hips, my eyes rolling back as the world prepared to dissolve until—

A voice penetrated my haze.

“Am I interrupting anything?”