Page 92 of Inked Desires

And that smile means everything to me.

“Okay, roommate. I can live with that,” he says at last.

“I’m not just your roommate,” I growl, grabbing the back of his head.

“Roommate with benefits?” he teases, eyes twinkling with mischief.

The little shit is mocking me.

I press my nose to his. His gaze drops to my lips. I stay like that, keeping him close but out of reach—letting him ache for it.

“Lover?” he tries again.

“Call me whatever you want. As long as you’re mine,” I murmur before capturing his mouth in a slow, consuming kiss.

CHAPTER 21

ANDREW

My gaze drifts once again to the drawing in front of me. It's beautiful. Unable to resist, I reach for the sheet and examine it more closely.

"Do you want it?"

The deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up.

Arès is leaning against the desk, his hands flat on the wood, his weight slightly shifted forward. His dark gaze pierces right through me, and the taut lines of his muscles stir something primal inside me—the need to trace the inked patterns on his skin with my fingers.

"The drawing or the tattoo?" I ask.

A playful smile curves his lips, and the pull between us becomes impossible to ignore. When he looks at me like that, it's hard to deny him anything. Everything about him calls to be touched.

"I don’t give away my drawings," he murmurs. "I mark my clients’skin."

I raise an eyebrow. A tattoo? Am I even ready for that? I don’t really remember if it hurts. My gaze returns to the sketch. I like the roses on my neck. He’s already proven his talent. My fingers graze the rough texture of the ink. I run them across the raised area.

"What’s beneath the roses?"

He’s never answered that question. This time, his smile vanishes instantly. His jaw tightens. All mischief drains from his eyes. The desk creaks under the pressure of his fingers.

I hit a nerve. Great. His mood swings are completely beyond me.

"Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked," I breathe, trying to defuse the tension.

He exhales harshly, then, in a sudden movement, pushes off from the desk and circles the table. Behind me, his long fingers wrap around my hand and guide it toward my neck. My index finger brushes over the scar.

"J..." he forces out through clenched teeth.

He doesn’t stop.

"A."

A shiver twists in my gut. Acid burns the back of my throat.

Arès keeps going, relentless.

"C."

"Jace," I whisper, breathless.