Page 21 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Miley

I wake to the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, pulsing with the kind of anxiety that turns dreams to dust and sets your entire body on edge before your brain even catches up.

My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but the light filtering in through the sheer curtains is brighter than normal. A little too bright…

I roll over and smack at the phone on my nightstand, blinking at the screen to read the time. When my eyes focus on the numbers, a surge of pure terror jolts me upright.

I overslept.

I never sleep through my alarm, never forget to set it when I go to bed, but apparently hell has frozen over today because the numbers on the clock don’t lie.

Throwing the covers aside, I launch myself out of bed like it’s on fire, my silk pajamas half-twisted around my body as I make a mad dash toward the bathroom. If I’m quick in the shower, I can still make it to class on time. I can still salvage this temporary lapse in sanity.

I dash across the bedroom in a half-blind frenzy, nearly face-planting into the bathroom door.

My fingers fumble with the handle before I wrench it open and barrel through, a wall of steam hitting me.

I squint through the haze, the shower glass clearing just enough for my bleary eyes to register a naked Ares behind it.

My brain short-circuits.

There he is, in all his six-foot-something glory, framed in glass and dripping with condensation like a living, breathing porn ad. He’s got one big hand braced against the tile wall, head bowed, copper hair plastered to his forehead, while the other hand is… oh god .

He’s jacking off.

Not subtly, either.

The rhythm is steady, practiced, as if he’s done this a hundred times before– which, let’s face it, he probably has.

His jaw is locked, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut.

I can’t even process the rest of it– his broad back, the muscles rippling under tan skin, the tattoo inked along his ribs. Holy fuck.

My first instinct is to scream, though dying on the spot comes at a close second. My mouth falls open, but the only sound that manages to escape is a strangled yelp.

Ares’ head snaps up, our gazes colliding through the blurry glass. There’s a split second where neither of us moves. Then his mouth curves into a feral, lazy grin, as if he’s just been caught doing something adorable instead of beating his meat.

His hand starts moving again, and that’s all it takes to shatter my paralysis.

“Jesus– what the fuck!” I gasp, hurling myself out of the bathroom and slamming the door so hard behind me that I swear the walls shake.

I collapse back against it, squeezing my eyes shut and panting like I just ran a marathon. My heart’s in my throat, my stomach’s in my ass, and there’s a heat pulsing between my thighs that I refuse to acknowledge.

Deep breaths, Miley.

In, out.

I can handle this. I’ve survived growing up in the Tower, multiple perusals, and having a literal sociopath for a father. One mortifying run-in with a naked man isn’t going to kill me.

My legs are wobbly as I push away from the door and stagger toward the closet, mind churning a mile a minute.

Once I’m inside the massive walk-in, I yank my pajamas off with jerky movements and hurl them onto the floor, trying to distract myself with picking an outfit.

What’s the appropriate attire after walking in on your fake mate with a boner?

I settle on a high-waisted denim skirt, a fitted black tee, and a lightweight houndstooth cardigan that makes me look responsible and put-together, which is the exact energy I’d like to project to literally everyone in my orbit today .

I feel marginally better when I emerge from the closet and sit down at my vanity, picking up my hairbrush and combing it through my tangled strands.

My hands are still shaking, though, and every time I close my eyes, I see that look on Ares’ face.

Completely unashamed, not even a flicker of embarrassment.

Like he thought I’d enjoy the sight of him jacking off.

The guy’s self-confidence borders on delusional.

I’ve just finished my hair and makeup when the bathroom door swings open behind me with a dramatic whoosh of steam.

My spine goes rigid as Ares strides out and I take in his reflection in my vanity mirror.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel, low-slung and clinging to his hips in a way that should be illegal.

His red hair is damp and slicked back, water droplets running down the hard planes of his chest. He looks like a statue come to life; the living embodiment of the Greek god he was named after.

I quickly avert my gaze and try to focus on my own reflection.

My cheeks are visibly flaming in a way that can’t be passed off as makeup, but I try to cover it anyways, swiping at them with a blush brush while Ares saunters over to the dresser.

He opens it and starts digging around, an easy grin tugging at his lips like this is just another Monday and not the aftermath of a disaster.

“Maybe knock next time?” he remarks, catching my gaze in the mirror and cocking a brow.

I drop the brush and glare back at him. “Maybe lock the damn door if you’re gonna…” I trail off, making a vague, circular gesture with my hand, refusing to say it out loud.

He shrugs a thick shoulder. “Didn’t think I needed to in my own home.”

“You’re the worst,” I huff.

“No, I’m a man,” he retorts, grinning wider. “What do you expect me to do when you’re walking around here looking like that ?” He sweeps an arm in my direction, hungry eyes raking over my form.

I nearly choke on my own saliva. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he chuckles, not missing a beat. Then he pulls a pair of black boxer briefs out of the drawer and lets the towel drop.

Jesus.

He’s even bigger than I remembered, and not just in height. I only catch a glimpse before he tugs on his underwear, but that glimpse is enough to haunt my dreams for at least the next ten years.

“You could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, stretching his arms over his head and making all his muscles flex in an obnoxious display of athletic superiority.

I snort a laugh, shoving it down as fast as it escapes. “Yeah right.”

“Why not?” he asks, sauntering over to loom behind me.

I tilt my chin up to hold his eye contact in the mirror, refusing to back down. “Because we’ve already established that I’m not interested.”

He grins, white teeth flashing. “Liar.”

The word hangs in the air like a dare, our eyes still locked, tension ratcheting up until I swear I can feel it tightening around us like a noose. Neither of us blinks. I barely even breathe.

Then I suddenly remember why I’m in such a fucking hurry, twisting around on the vanity stool so he can feel the full force of my glare. “Why didn’t you wake me?” I demand.

He blinks, caught off guard for the first time all morning. “What?”

“I’m gonna be late for class,” I snap. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He swipes a hand over his chin, then shrugs. “Didn’t know you had class today.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t memorize my schedule.”

“Okay, guilty,” he admits, chuckling to himself. “But in my defense, you looked peaceful. Figured you could use the extra sleep.”

I narrow my eyes on him, fighting the urge to pick up my hairbrush and launch it at his head. He just smirks back at me, completely unbothered.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“Stop,” I say, voice cracking under the weight of everything I’m fighting to keep contained. “Just… stop .”

But my eyes are already betraying me, wandering down his sculpted body. I drink in the hard lines of his abs, the ink on his ribs and right pec. The muscles in his forearms, the veins that stand out when he clenches his fists…

He notices, of course. He annoyingly notices everything.

“See something you like?” he taunts, damp hair falling in his eyes as he tilts his head.

I shoot to my feet, shoving past him with as much force as I can muster.

My shoulder catches him in the ribs, but the big lug barely budges as I stomp past him, retreating into the bathroom and slamming the door.

My chest heaves as I lean over the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror and willing myself to calm down.

This isn’t me. I pride myself on my ability to keep my emotions locked down and maintain a level head, but living with Ares is testing my limits like never before. There’s just something about him that pushes every one of my buttons; strips away every shred of my self-control.

There’s nothing I hate more than feeling out of control.

After a few more deep breaths, I brush my teeth and use the toilet, then check my reflection again in the mirror.

My cheeks are still red, but at least I don’t look like I’m about to faint anymore.

My makeup is on point. My hair looks nice, the top tied back in my signature style with a black satin ribbon.

On the outside, I’m polished. Now I just need the inside to match.

When I cautiously open the door, I half expect to be met with another ambush, but the bedroom is empty.

So, I go about gathering my things to head to class.

I slip my textbooks and laptop into my messenger bag, snatch my phone off the charger, and steel myself for whatever fresh humiliation may await me on my way out the door.

I’m not sure what I expect when I emerge from the hall, but finding Ares standing in front of the fridge in nothing but his underwear isn’t it.

His hair’s still damp, little rivulets of water tracing down his spine as he bends to reach for something inside.

Probably beer– because even though it’s barely eight in the morning, the man has the palate of a frat boy on spring break.

I try to ghost past him on my way to the door, clutching the strap of my messenger bag and praying that if I move quickly enough, he’ll be too busy to notice me. No such luck.

“Hold up,” Ares calls, his voice echoing through the open space.

I slow, but don’t stop. “Some of us have places to be, you know,” I toss over my shoulder.

Ares shuts the fridge with an elbow and turns to face me, arms folded. His black boxer briefs are the only barrier between him and total indecency, and he’s wearing them with the cocky pride of someone who knows exactly how good he looks half-naked.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

I grind to a halt, folding my arms to mirror his stance. “Like what, a lifelong supply of therapy?”

He grins, beckoning me with a lift of his chin. “Come rub up on me, babe.”

I snort a laugh, pivoting toward the door. “Nice try.”

“Miley,” he growls, the low timbre of his voice having the obnoxious effect of snapping me back toward him like a rubber band.

Dammit.

“You’re not meeting with Alpha again today, are you?” I challenge.

“No, but you can’t go running around without my scent on you if you want people to believe we’re really mates. You and I both know your father has eyes everywhere.”

I open my mouth to protest, then snap it shut, hating that he’s right. Still, I hesitate, grinding my molars as I stare him down.

“Can you at least put some clothes on first?” I mutter, exasperated.

He tilts his head, that relentless smirk tipping his lips. “What, afraid to touch me now?”

“No,” I bite out, refusing to rise to the bait.

The tension in the air between us thickens, humming with electricity. He doesn’t budge– doesn’t even pretend to make a move to put on clothes– and if I push, he’ll know he’s getting to me. He’ll see exactly how much this messes with my head.

So, I force myself to move toward him.

“Atta girl,” he croons, spreading his arms wide in invitation. “Better coverage this way.”

My skin prickles as I close the distance, his scent hitting me like a wall, but I don’t flinch. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

I step into his arms, spine straight, every nerve on edge.

His body is impossibly warm, all solid muscle and masculine heat.

It feels good. Too good. He circles his arms around my waist, palms settling on my low back, then leans down to nuzzle his face in the crook of my neck.

The stubble on his jaw rasps against my skin, a shiver rippling through me in spite of myself.

“Relax,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear .

My breath hitches, my heart thumping so hard there’s no way he doesn’t hear it.

He drags his nose up my throat, jaw working in that predatory way that makes me want to both punch him and pull him closer.

Then he spins me around, pressing his chest to my back, wrapping an arm around my waist so I’m flush against him.

His other hand glides up my belly, slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

He’s scenting me , I remind myself. That’s all this is.

Except it’s not. I can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this, the hard line of his cock pressing against my lower back, and my traitorous body responds with a hot jolt of want that makes my knees go weak.

“That’s enough,” I gasp, pulling free of his grip and stepping away before I embarrass myself any further.

Ares lets me go, but not before dropping his hands slowly down my sides, like he’s reluctant to lose contact. I spin around to face him and he cocks a brow, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes as his nostrils flare. “You sure?”

I square my shoulders, desperate to regain some semblance of control. “You have a lot of confidence for someone who keeps getting rejected.”

“What can I say?” he replies with a shrug, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I know what I want.”

The sheer intensity of his gaze nearly knocks me over, and for a split second I imagine what it would feel like to just let go and give into the reckless desire that’s been simmering between us since the day we met.

But then reality snaps back into focus, sharp and cold.

“I have to get to class,” I breathe, voice barely steady.

“Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart,” he replies with a wink.

I bolt for the door, not daring to look back. I just keep moving, legs shaky, head spinning, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.