Page 11 of Inked Desires

AReS

The sun shines through my eyelids, chasing away the last traces of sleep from my mind. I reach out across the bed, feeling around. If I’m not mistaken, I should land on Andrew’s bare ass. My fingers stretch a little further, but all they meet is cold emptiness.

I open my eyes and look around the room. I’m alone. Suddenly, I sit up straight. Where has he gone? I throw off the covers and hastily pull on my sweatpants before rushing down the hall.

A clicking sound catches my attention. I stride toward the kitchen and stop, relieved.

Andrew is there, standing by the stove, wearing my T-shirt. The smell tells me he’s frying bacon.

I finally exhale. Only then do I notice how fast my heart is pounding. I search inside myself for the reason behind this reaction. But it’s just a leftover from the past. When William disappeared, I looked for him like a madman. My brain is playing tricks, dredging up memories that have nothing to do with my current life. I clench my fists and focus on my breathing to chase away the heavy weight in my chest.

A few seconds are enough to regain control. When I’m sure of myself, I enter the room and approach Andrew, half-naked. Living with someone in this apartment still feels strange.

My arms naturally wrap around his waist. A surprised gasp echoes against the kitchen walls. I ignore his protest and bury my nose in his neck. I take a deep breath. His scent reminds me of summer rain. It soothes the last tensions in my muscles as I feel his body vibrate beneath my hands. Every time I touch him, an irresistible urge to possess him floods me. It’s not just desire—it’s a visceral need. I want him to belong to me, to depend on me, to have no reason to ever leave this place.

“Good morning,” he says softly.

I growl lightly against his neck, rubbing myself gently against him. Yeah, I could get used to this.

A sizzling sound interrupts our moment. Andrew jumps suddenly. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. He rubs his arm.

“Bacon’s cruel to me,” he jokes, pointing to the grease splatters.

I sigh and loosen my grip. I grab a fork and gently push him toward the free chair.

“Let me do it before you burn yourself completely,” I say, taking his place by the stove.

“But I wanted to make you breakfast, not the other way around,” he protests softly.

“It’s already done,” I reply, pointing to the set table.

The eggs simmer gently, but I fear they’re already overcooked. He doesn’t seem used to cooking.

“Do you like cooking?” I ask, curious to learn more.

“I used to like it,” he says.

I think about his answer. Andrew never says things lightly. That means before Jace, he enjoyed it.

“He didn’t want you to cook for him?”

Silence falls behind me. I know he doesn’t like talking about that. Maybe I should stop pushing. But I need to understand what he went through to protect him. How can I defend someone if I don’t know what threatens them?

“We had a cleaning lady. I just had to look good, not be competent,” he finally admits.

That bastard might as well have bought a blow-up doll. They don’t talk, don’t make mistakes, don’t complain when you use them, and don’t require any effort. Just regular cleaning so they don’t start to stink or fall apart.

My phone rings, breaking our conversation. I take the bacon out of the pan.

“I have to answer,” I say and dash into the bedroom.

“Kiran.”

“I have intel on Jace Benton,” my best friend announces right away.

That’s what I hoped for. Yesterday I asked him to dig into that guy after being alone with him. The little fight between Andrew and me gave me an opening.

“Go ahead, tell me everything.”

“Bad dude. Owns a fight club called the Benton Hawks. When he was younger, he fought himself to manage his aggression problems. It was a court-ordered condition for minors after he nearly beat someone to death in a bar fight at a place called the Desirium. Now, no one gets into Thunder Hawk without going through him. I’ll check it out, maybe he’s just a violent guy and the stories aren’t true.”

“Be careful. No trails leading to us. He doesn’t know where Andrew is, and it has to stay that way.”

“Got it.”

I stare at the bedroom’s white wall. Kiran is the type to take initiatives.

“I’m serious. No solo moves,” I growl.

He exhales loudly. I’m sure he’s rolling his eyes. Can’t blame him—I’m like a father to him.

“Alright, I’ll just gather info.”

“Thanks. Be careful, Kiran,” I say before hanging up and tossing my phone on the bed.

So Jace Benton doesn’t just hit his husband, he’s also made fists his livelihood. At least when it comes time to break his jaw, he’ll know how to defend himself. Maybe it’ll last more than five minutes after all.

I take a moment for myself. Andrew is observant; he might sense something’s wrong. Once I’m sure my face betrays nothing, I go back to the kitchen.

The eggs and bacon are already plated, set on the table. Andrew sits, waiting for me.

“That was Kiran. He just wanted to know if we’d killed each other.”

His lips twitch but no smile comes. Instead, his eyebrows knit together. I sit down.

“He worries about you, doesn’t he?”

I crack my egg and think about what to say.

“Probably. He was there when William left. He doesn’t want a supernova explosion all over again.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“You don’t give me any details either,” I reply on reflex.

He says nothing. For a moment, we eat in silence, and I was right: the eggs are dry.

The silence grows heavier between us. We both have secrets, and neither of us wants to share a single one.

“After my service in Iraq, I was a stranger in my own skin. What I saw, what I did… it changed me. I came home—well, my body came home—but I was still there, back there. PTSD. I tried to manage that… darkness. Alcohol seemed the answer. One bottle to calm the sleepless nights, another to forget the nightmares. But it only got worse. William… he was there, trying. And me? I said horrible things, things I didn’t mean. Words I still regret. Then one day, Kiran came. You know, the kind of friend who doesn’t sugarcoat but knows exactly where to hit. He gave me a serious kick in the ass, and I stopped drinking. Just like that. But quitting’s easy when you replace one addiction with another. I’d always loved drawing, so I started tattooing. It wasn’t just a hobby. It became an obsession. Every line, every shadow had to be perfect. My work became my new drug. It kept my mind on a leash, like a rabid dog held by a chain. But William… he was alone. I saw nothing but my business. And he dreamed of a family. He wanted us to adopt a child. But for me, that was impossible. No time, no headspace, and especially not the endless paperwork. So we fought. A real fight—the kind that breaks something inside you. The next morning, he was gone. No word, no explanation. Just that emptiness… And guess what? Alcohol came back, like an old toxic friend we let in anyway. Then Kiran had to come back, shake me up a second time to make me look up. I got back to work. Not because I was better, but because it was all I had.”

Damn, Andrew already has too much power over me.

“He should’ve been more understanding.”

I put down my fork and stare out the window. William was happy I was still alive. He’d been incredibly patient and understanding while I was on mission. Not everyone would’ve accepted that. He could’ve ended up a widower.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes. Back then, I wasn’t an easy guy.”

“What happened in Iraq?”

I stand up and grab my plate.

“Enough stories for today,” I say, louder than intended. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

I clear the table and leave him alone. Reopening old wounds is painful, but it’s more than that. I don’t want to admit to him that I was a coward. I can barely admit it to myself.

The hot water on my neck relaxes me a little. I hate talking about the past—it’s neither beautiful nor heroic.

The door opens. Of course, this man never leaves me alone in the shower. In just a few days, we’ve become inseparable. Everything’s moving too fast, I know. I can feel it coming—the inevitable crash—but I can’t slow down. There’s this voice, deep inside, begging me to think, like it already knows how the story ends.

“The scar on my back…” he begins, leaning on the sink.

His hands tremble slightly, enough for me to notice. He doesn’t look at me. His eyes get lost in the mirror, as if seeing another version of himself—one he’d rather forget.

“It was one night,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “A man touched me there.”

He absentmindedly brushes his shoulder blade.

“He didn’t mean harm, just… he hadn’t seen the tattoo on my neck. After that, his arm ended up broken, and I kept this,” he says, pointing to the scar.

Silent tears gather at the corners of his eyes. His beautiful eyes, so often filled with determination, are elsewhere—trapped in a memory he doesn’t fully share. I watch him, helpless. Seeing a man as strong as Andrew broken like this leaves me speechless. All I feel is a dull rage building inside me. That bastard… I want to rip his balls off. Nobody deserves that. Nobody.

I open the shower door and step out quietly. Without hesitation, I place my hands on his bare arms, hoping to offer some comfort. His skin is icy beneath my fingers, despite the steam filling the bathroom. He stays frozen, staring into the mirror, until finally his gaze shifts to me.

“Now you know another one of my miserable secrets,” he murmurs, voice broken.

His words hit me straight in the heart. I can’t bear the pain he carries. I gently turn him toward me. His brows furrow, eyes fixed on my chest, as if refusing to look me in the eye. My fingers softly stroke his cheek, brushing away tears.

“You’re a fighter, Andrew,” I say, letting my thoughts slip out. “None of this is miserable. I want to know all your secrets.”

His forehead rests against my chest, and I feel his breath on my skin.

“I can’t, Ares. I can’t tell you everything,” he whispers, lips brushing my skin.

“Why not?”

He falls silent. The steam thickens around us until we can no longer see our reflections in the mirror.

“I don’t trust you,” he finally admits, voice barely audible.

“Why should you?”

He looks up, surprised. His eyes lock on mine, searching for an answer, a reason. But he finds nothing—or at least not what he hoped for.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks, wary.

“You don’t really know me. Why should you trust me?” I say, shrugging with a half-smile.

I grab the bottom of his T-shirt.

“Should I not? I’m still sleeping with you.”

“I can sleep with someone and hold a grudge without it having anything to do with trust,” I clarify.

“I’m living at your place,” he insists, almost exasperated, which makes me smile.

“I pretty much forced you to move in with me, didn’t I?”

He sighs, resigned. I’ve won this round, and he knows it. I pull his shirt over his head without protest.

“What are you gonna do now?” he asks, a bit wary.

“Push you into the shower,” I answer simply.

He helps by removing his pants, and I guide him under the hot water. He closes his eyes and lets the water wash over his face, soothing his expression.

“Feeling better?” I ask softly.

“Mhmm,” he replies with a sigh.

I grab the shampoo bottle, waiting until his hair is fully wet. Then gently, I pull him against me and start washing. My fingers glide over his scalp, applying just the right pressure. A sigh of relief escapes his lips, and a strange satisfaction fills me. Sometimes, life can be that simple.

“Were you a hairdresser before?” he jokes.

“Why do you ask?” I laugh softly.

He leans against my chest, seeking support I give willingly.

“Because you’re really good at this,” he murmurs dreamily.

“Maybe I’ve just had a lot of men under this shower,” I reply with a smile.

“Asshole,” he grumbles, making me burst out laughing.

I’m almost scared by the sound.

“I never claimed to be anything else,” I say.

“Your laugh is beautiful,” he whispers so softly I almost miss it.

For his confession, I press a quick kiss to his neck.

“You’re gorgeous, little bunny.”

I give him a playful smack on the ass and hand him the shower gel. I take care of the rest of my body. Andrew’s already out of the shower, drying off. Soon after, I follow.

The yellow marks on his back are healing well.

I find him in the bedroom, half-dressed on the bed, staring out the window.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

I hold back a smile seeing him run his fingers over his forehead. That habit, he never seems to shake it.

“Isn’t all this moving too fast?” he answers with a question.

“What exactly?”

“This. All this. Why am I living at your place?”

My mind blanks. I search for an answer, but everything seems wiped away. I can barely concentrate.

“Why not?” I finally say, dodging the question.

He presses harder with his fingers on the thin skin of his forehead. He frowns, clearly disappointed with my answer.

“Do you think that’s normal?”

I sigh. Before answering, I sit next to him and take his free hand:

“What’s normal? What feels good to us must be normal. Do you feel good near me?”

He nods cautiously.

“Good. I feel good near you, too. Couldn’t that be normal for us?”

He lets his hand fall and lifts his head. Doubt shines in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“You’re scared. I get it. But don’t let it win.”

He says nothing. We stay there, sitting, silent. I tried to reassure him and somehow managed to calm myself, too. There’s no answer to his question.

I just love Andrew. I want to protect him because no one did before. I want to hide him from the world, not to share him. But I have no logical explanation for this behavior. At least, none I’m ready to think about right now.

I shove that thought into a corner of my mind and stand up.

“We have to go to the studio. Work won’t do itself,” I bring the conversation back to reality.

I dress quickly in jeans and a dark T-shirt. Meanwhile, Andrew manages to get fully dressed. Our outfits are pretty similar—the only difference is his clothes fit tighter and look amazing on him. He’s simply stunning.

It’s the first time I don’t go to the diner in the morning. It feels strange and unsettling.

I head to the desk as he goes toward the kitchen.

“Do I have any consultations today?”

“No,” he answers immediately.

Good. Today, a regular client is coming for a pretty big tattoo, which will take most of the day.

Andrew reappears. He hands me a cup, which I take gratefully. Next to this man, I sleep better—but without coffee, I still can’t get going. Another addiction to add to my long list.

“Looking for something?”

“No, just checking the calendar. I still have some drawings to finish. This job isn’t just about tattooing. Sometimes my days are longer because I have projects to wrap up, and then there’s the accounting,” I complain while cracking my neck.

“I get it. But you like it, right?” he asks sincerely. “And I think you hired me for the accounting part. So you already have less to manage. Plus, we can be in the same room doing our own thing—it’s not forbidden.”

I look at him. He asks seriously.

“Sure. So, you don’t mind?”

He shakes his head, and a strange sense of relief floods me.

“It’s your job, and I work here too,” he says. “It’s part of you.”

I detect no lie in his words, which relaxes me even more.

I don’t want to think any further about why it matters so much to me what he thinks about my studio and work hours.